#(i mean that’s like half of all new star wars at this point let’s be real but. whatever)

[steviewashere]

I want to write something sort of meta, hear me out on it. Sorry, if this hits too close to home. The idea came to me and I needed to get it out of my system. And...would you look at that, another half-written fic.

Steve ends up getting really into Star Wars after Dustin shows him to it. Like, so much that he gets himself involved with conventions, cosplay, collecting anything and everything he can. He's involved in a fandom space. Learns the world of fan fiction. And let's say that maybe, during his time figuring out where he wants to go with life, he picks up writing fanfic as a hobby.

It encourages him to get an English degree. Encourages him to lean more into that hobby, but then expanding upon it to write original short stories and small novels that go published. But he holds strong to Star Wars and fandom and finding his spot cemented in it. He's been a fan for...nearly forty years at this point (set in 2024, ugh I know).

And maybe he dabbles in online spaces here and there. He ignores the insufferable adults in the Star Wars fandom (the "um, actually..." guys, btw). Indulges the effort of typing out his handwritten fan fiction, ones he used to bring and pass around at conventions, ones he'd let Eddie read with a shy look in his eyes. And he posts them online, has a Tumblr account, maybe does a few short things on Twitter, definitely is on AO3 (albeit newer, having never attempted online fan work before).

But then...then he gets his first little bit of hate. Vicious, gross comments on his work. Sometimes in private messages. Even publicly, once, on Twitter. It irks him. He holds strong, he does. But then it gets worse and worse and somehow, worse. Younger people claiming he's too old, others claiming that he can't write for certain characters because they're out of his age range, that he can't ship certain people, he can't say that a character would do this or that, that Star Wars is media for a younger audience (despite being somebody who saw it "back in the day"). But that he...That he's not supposed to be there.

And that last little comment sticks with him for a long time. It makes his effort and his attention and his love for writing fanworks falter. He stops. Thinks about the characters he loves, of Leia and Han or even Luke and Han or Lando and Han (listen he loves writing Han). But then he wonders if it's even worth it, to indulge this interest anymore. Yeah, maybe he's older than the source material. Sure, maybe he was introduced to it a little later than most, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love it. Yet, his attention towards Star Wars completely falls away.

He stops watching it. His DVDs going dusty and unused. Starts putting away all his action figures, because what if he posts a photo one day and somebody sees them and claims that that's not for him and—

Then, he goes completely offline from fandom. Even if he still gets the emails from users who actually enjoy his stuff, ignoring them completely. Focuses on using the internet for work. For his novels, for the little stories he actually gets paid to write. But his work just isn't the same. The passion, despite being an original story and original source material, is completely dwindled.

His hobby has been stripped from him. His interest has been knocked straight out of his hands. And he just...moves on.

Even if it hurts to go down into the basement of he and Eddie's home, eyes catching on the see-through bins of original action figures, Lego sets, comic books. Even if it makes something strangle in his chest when he opens up the browser on his phone and it immediately opens to a new ship he'd been getting into: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker—because he finally picked up The Mandalorian, because he was finally talked into watching it when he had the free time.

And then it all bursts over when Eddie finally approaches him about it, when they're enjoying a night-in, sitting around lazily on their sofa.

"There's a convention coming into town," he comments, "supposedly, Hayden Christensen is going to be there. We should go, try and meet him."

Steve just grunts in response.

"Oh-kay...or we could just stay home and watch the movie?" Eddie suggests. "Been a while since I've seen Darth on screen, telling Luke about"—

"I don't want to," Steve cuts in quietly, "isn't really my thing anymore."

Silence then follows. For a beat. Then two. A third.

"Not your thing?" Eddie asks him incredulously. "Not too long ago you were raving all about that new show that's coming out! That you saw they were doing lightsaber whips and you were excited to see how they worked! What do you mean it's 'not your thing'?"

Steve shrugs. "Grew out of it or whatever. Got more important things to focus on now." He sniffs, trying to keep himself held together, grumpy and firm in his decision.

Eddie's stare drills into the side of his face. Scalding, just like that lava was in Revenge of The Sith. "Baby," he speaks softly, "did something happen? You haven't even...you don't read your beautiful little stories to me anymore. In fact, now that I think about it, I haven't even seen your lightsabers around here. What's goin' on?"

He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. A ratty plain white t-shirt that he wears now when he's lounging around the house. It used to be one with the Millennium Falcon on it, but that's tucked down far in his dresser. Not for him anymore.

"Steve," Eddie presses, "did something happen?"

His stare stays down at his lap, still fiddling with his shirt. Fingers flexing unfamiliarly in the strings, unlike the loose ones on his Star Wars shirts. "I just"—Steve heaves a deep sigh—"it's time I grow up. It's...not for me anymore. Too old for it now, I guess."

"You guess or you know? Because nobody's too old for anything. Unless, y'know, you're like eighty-nine and in terrible health and trying to hike Everest, then..."

Despite everything, Steve finds himself chuckling. A giddy little sound here and gone in a breath. He shrugs again, albeit smaller this time. Crumbling within himself. Quietly, honestly, he admits, "People were being mean to me about it online. About my writing. That I'm doing it wrong, that I—that I'm too old for it. That I don't belong because of my age." He finally brings himself to look at Eddie, blearily because his eyes are aching and wet. "I got to thinking and I...maybe I've just been too caught up in my own bliss to realize that those people are right. They're right and I shouldn't be into kids stuff anymore."

Eddie makes a soft, sad cooing noise in the back of his throat. "Oh, baby," he breathes. "Baby, those people don't know a single damn thing about your love. But...but I do. I know that you've seen every single Star Wars movie more times than I've probably eaten in my entire life. And what about all those Halloween costumes over the years? I didn't dress up like Leia for nothing, Mr. Solo."

Steve scoffs wetly. Goes to protest, but—

"And...and that handshake! The one with Dustin? You guys have had that for nearly forty fucking years! So, why bother indulging any of these...these hardasses on the internet? Did they sit next to you on the sofa as you fucking curled yourself like a shrimp and wrote every little intricate detail of a kiss between Luke and Han? Have they read your work while you blushed all shy, while you tucked your hair behind your ear and asked for the most earnest of feedback, to make sure you spelt things correctly or put a comma in the right place? These people, did they get to see you blossom and grow like a fucking bushel of roses over your hobby?

"Because I know I did. And even though you were nervous about your words on the paper, you still came to me. You still wrote and wrote and wrote until I had to bully you into breaks, just so you wouldn't ruin your poor wrists. If they had even an ounce of the passion that you do, they could write their own stories. They can make their own endings and make the characters the way they imagine them.

"They choose, instead, to—what—make fun of you because you have a space to express yourself? Because you found passion and turned it into something so beautiful, even I—a dungeon master, someone supposed to be amazing at storytelling—can't put into words? You found a way to do that, Steve. And you do that with kindness. You do it for free, mind you. If their only passion sits within sending you vitriol over people who aren't even remotely close to real, then they're the ones who don't belong.

"If I've learned anything, fandom is a space to share and bounce off each other's words. It's community and it's belonging and it's sharing what you love because you just love it. Fandom isn't bullying. Bullying is just bullying, Steve.

"And everything you've ever done in your life, in regards to fandom and outside of it, is so much better than hate. You may be a nerd or...or a little bit overzealous or whatever, but at least you aren't hateful. I think being hateful, that's worse—don't you think?"

Steve can only stare in response, fast tears down his cheeks, hands shaking in his shirt. Mind reeling. Because, yes, Eddie's right. And he maybe should've talked about it initially, but the hurt festered and festered and tangled and grew until he was nothing but an unhealed scab. And Eddie, he's the antiseptic to his uncovered cuts—the ones deep on his heart, where all his love is—even for things considered mundane, like movies, like TV shows.

"Steve," Eddie carefully murmurs, wrapping Steve's hands with his own, "you don't have to do something right to love it. You don't have to be a certain way to be happy. If Star Wars made you happy, then why give it up?"

He sniffles and chokes back on a sob. Because, again—damnit—Eddie's right. "I miss it," he admits quietly, "all I've done is miss it."

Eddie gives him a small smile. Something achingly soft that reaches deep within Steve. "Then open your arms and welcome it back, baby," he whispers, "even if you can't be online anymore, do it for yourself."

"I...I want to try it again, I'm just...scared. What if people hate it all over again? What if they're just nasty to me and shut me down and push me to the side and"—

"But what if they love it? What if your readers have missed you just as much?"

"You think?" he meekly asks.

Eddie's eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "I know, actually. Your emails keep coming in on the computer's desktop because I keep forgetting to log you out. And, baby, you would not believe how many people have been eager for updates, for your return." His thumbs work into the backs of Steve's hands, warm and sure. "And, if it helps, maybe I can moderate your comments before you look at 'em? I'll read them to myself and if they're mean, I'll delete them."

Steve blows out a breathy little chuckle. "You'll just get mad at them," he gently teases. "But that doesn't sound too bad. Maybe I should try again. Not yet, though. I'm not ready."

"That's okay," Eddie assures, "take things slow. Maybe we start with watching the movies again? Getting your lightsabers back on display?"

"Can we go to the convention, too?"

"We can do whatever you want, Stevie."

For the first time in a long while, Steve finds himself smiling. "I love you," he whispers.

"I know."

[lostyesterday]

I made the following graph because I was interested in which words show up most often in the titles of Star Trek episodes and movies:

I included episode titles from all twelve canon TV shows and all thirteen movies. I only counted nouns for the graph to avoid including boring words like “the” or “and”. I also counted plurals of a word as the same word (“stars” counts as “star”) and compound words where the singular word still carried the same meaning (“starship” counts as “star”). A complete list of episode/movie titles for each word listed in the graph is below the cut.

Time:

Amok Time (TOS)

The Time Trap (TAS)

The Naked Time (TNG)

Time Squared (TNG)

A Matter of Time (TNG)

Time’s Arrow (TNG)

Timescape (TNG)

Hard Time (DS9)

Children of Time (DS9)

A Time to Stand (DS9)

Time’s Orphan (DS9)

Time and Again (VOY)

Once Upon a Time (VOY)

Timeless (VOY)

Time Amok (PRO)

The Time Devouring Scavengers (PRO)

Star

Beyond the Furthest Star (TAS)

Starship Mine (TNG)

Starship Down (DS9)

Far Beyond the Stars (DS9)

North Star (ENT)

Battle at the Binary Stars (DIS)

The Brightest Star (Short Treks)

The Girl Who Made the Stars (Short Treks)

The Star Gazer (PIC)

The Stars at Night (Lower Decks)

Starstruck (PRO)

A Moral Star (PRO)

Man

The Man Trap (TOS)

Where No Man Has Gone Before (TOS)

The Schizoid Man (TNG)

The Measure of a Man (TNG)

Manhunt (TNG)

Tin Man (TNG)

Man of the People (TNG)

A Man Alone (DS9)

Our Man Bashir (DS9)

Inside Man (VOY)

Renaissance Man (VOY)

Magic to Make the Sanest Man Go Mad (DIS)

Home

The Voyage Home (movie)

Home Soil (TNG)

Homeward (TNG)

Move Along Home (DS9)

The Homecoming (DS9)

Homefront (DS9)

Homestead (VOY)

Home (ENT)

Far From Home (DIS)

Coming Home (DIS)

Child

Friday’s Child (TOS)

And the Children Shall Lead (TOS)

Plato’s Stepchildren (TOS)

The Child (TNG)

Galaxy’s Child (TNG)

Children of Time (DS9)

Child’s Play (VOY)

Children of the Comet (SNW)

Children of Mars (Short Treks)

Life

Half a Life (TNG)

The Quality of Life (TNG)

Life Support (DS9)

Lifesigns (VOY)

Real Life (VOY)

Life Line (VOY)

Life, Itself (DIS)

Eye

Wink of an Eye (TOS)

The Eye of the Beholder (TAS)

The Mind’s Eye (TNG)

Eye of the Beholder (TNG)

Eye of the Needle (VOY)

Blink of an Eye (VOY)

Kayshon, His Eyes Open (Lower Decks)

Light

The Lights of Zetar (TOS)

The Inner Light (TNG)

The Darkness and the Light (DS9)

By Inferno’s Light (DS9)

In the Pale Moonlight (DS9)

Point of Light (DIS)

Light and Shadows (DIS)

War

A Private Little War (TOS)

The Dogs of War (DS9)

Warlord (VOY)

Warhead (VOY)

The War Within, the War Without (DIS)

Under the Cloak of War (SNW)

Night

Night Terrors (TNG)

Wrongs Darker than Death or Night (DS9)

Night (VOY)

Two Days and Two Nights (ENT)

A Night in Sickbay (ENT)

The Stars at Night (Lower Decks)

Game

The Gamesters of Triskelion (TOS)

The Game (TNG)

Armageddon Game (DS9)

The Killing Game (VOY)

Endgame (VOY)

The Least Dangerous Game (Lower Decks)

Shadow

Shadowplay (DS9)

In Purgatory’s Shadow (DS9)

Shadows and Symbols (DS9)

Shadows of P’Jem (ENT)

Light and Shadows (DIS)

Through the Valley of Shadows (DIS)

Mirror

Mirror Mirror (TOS)

Shattered Mirror (DS9)

In the Mirror, Darkly (ENT)

Mirrors (DIS)

The Mirror Universe (PRO)

Enemy

The Enemy Within (TOS)

The Enemy (TNG)

Face of the Enemy (TNG)

Silent Enemy (ENT)

Behind Enemy Lines (PRO)

Battle

Let that Be Your Last Battlefield (TOS)

The Battle (TNG)

Battle Lines (DS9)

Nor the Battle to the Strong (DS9)

Battle at the Binary Stars (DIS)

Mind

Dagger of the Mind (TOS)

The Mind’s Eye (TNG)

Frame of Mind (TNG)

Mining the Mind’s Mines (Lower Decks)

Mindwalk (PRO)

Blood

Bloodlines (TNG)

Blood Oath (DS9)

Ties of Blood and Water (DS9)

Blood Fever (VOY)

Flesh and Blood (VOY)

World

For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky (TOS)

The Best of Both Worlds (TNG)

Strange New World (ENT)

All the World’s a Stage (PRO)

Strange New Worlds (SNW)

Ship

Ship in a Bottle (TNG)

Starship Mine (TNG)

Starship Down (DS9)

The Ship (DS9)

One Little Ship (DS9)

Day

Day of the Dove (TOS)

Data’s Day (TNG)

Day of Honor (VOY)

Thirty Days (VOY)

Two Days and Two Nights (ENT)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 3: Hermes, God Of Thieves]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 4.5k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji @sunnysideaeggs

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

They say it’s the most dangerous job in Vietnam. That’s why I wanted to do it.

Chinooks transport men and equipment, Cobras are gunships, Jolly Green Giants are used in search-and-rescue missions. But the Loach—Light Observation Helicopter—is a scout. We have to fly low enough to spot fresh footprints in mud, glints of sunlit metal, blooms of firelight from smoldering cigarettes in the primordial maze of the jungle. And when you go looking for the enemy, sometimes that’s exactly who you find. U.S. Army regulations decree that each Loach must be inspected after 300 hours of flight time, but they rarely make it that long. I’ve been shot down twice already. You roll out of the wreckage, grab your buddies, and book it out of the area before the Vietcong kill you, or worse: drag you back to the Hanoi Hilton so you can die slow.

Currently we’re just north of Pleiku, coasting close enough to the treetops that I could reach out and touch them. I’m in the back seat with my M16, no door between me and the outside world, my hair tied back with a green bandana, the wind hot and sticky. It’s so fucking humid here. Why can’t the communists be trying to take over Malta or Sweden or Monterey Bay, California?

It was the old men who suggested I might be of greatest service to the family by enlisting. I was 25, newly graduated from Columbia Law—a family tradition—and dreading the desk job that awaited me at the Department of Justice. Some people are born to type their lives away in some leather-upholstered office with a view of Pennsylvania Avenue, but not me, and I know this like I know the sun or the stars, ancient truths that can never be changed. And so when Otto and Viserys sat me down—my father had only had one stroke by that point, and was still relatively involved in the day-to-day minutia of putting a Targaryen in the White House—and said Aemond having a brother in Vietnam would make him more relatable, more sympathetic, more noble, not an observer to the carnage of the war but a fellow victim of it…I told them I’d go.

Everyone needs a project. If you don’t have something to distract you from the futility of human existence, it’ll break you in half. I have the Loach. Otto and Viserys, both immigrants ineligible to serve as president of the United States, have their shared ambition of getting their bloodlines in the Oval Office. Aemond has his legacy. My mother has her children, and Criston has my mother. Helaena has her gardens, her bugs, quiet gentle things that she tends with her own thorn-pricked hands. Aegon doesn’t have a project, he never really has, and it’s driven him to the cliff’s edge of insanity. See what I mean?

Anyway, let me tell you something about Vietnam. The Army gives us all the steak, beer, and cigarettes we can handle, but I’d kill for a lemon-lime Mr. Misty—

“Daeron, get down!” the guy to my left screams over the noise of the rotors. His name is Richie Swindell, and he’s from Omaha, Nebraska, and now he’s plummeting out of the helicopter as bullets riddle his chest. I duck low and cover my head as we spiral sideways into the trees, snapping branches, shredding leaves like confetti. I can hear the pilot yelling something, but I can’t tell what. When we hit the earth, the lightweight aluminum skin of the Loach does exactly what it’s supposed to, crumpling to absorb the shock of the collision and reduce trauma to us mortals inside. I scramble out of the rubble on my hands and knees and go to check on the pilot, but it’s too late. He’s already being hauled out by the Vietcong and gets a bullet to the brain. I reach back into the ruins of the Loach to grab my M16, but there are hands around my ankles yanking me out. And now I’m next, and there’s nowhere left to run, and I’m hoping Criston will be there to hold my mother when she gets the Western Union telegram.

One of the soldiers shouts and stops the others, shoving them aside to get a better look at me. With the barrel of his AK-47, supplied by either China or the Russians, he prods at the patch displaying my last name: Targaryen. His compatriots don’t seem impressed. Again, he batters my nametag, speaking to them in Vietnamese.

He knows who I am, I realize. He knows Aemond is running for president.

Now there is a hell of a lot of excitement. The men are talking rapidly amongst themselves, marveling at me, poking and examining me. Then two of them grab me by the arms. I look to the soldier who knows English, at least enough of it to read those nine fated letters. He smiles at me, not like a friend. Like a wolf baring its teeth.

He says: “It is okay, Targaryen boy. We just have some questions for you.”

Guess I’ll be checking into the Hanoi Hilton after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up to Aegon strumming an acoustic guitar and singing Johnny Cash. The guitar must be new. The one he left at Asteria is plain maple wood and covered in stickers; this unfamiliar instrument is a vivid, Caribbean blue and has Gibson written across the headstock.

“I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ‘round the bend

And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when

I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps draggin’ on…”

“Let me die. I’m ready to go.”

Aegon laughs, setting his new guitar aside.

“Is Ari okay?”

“Yeah, he’s doing great. And I got the stuff you asked for.”

Sure enough, there are three roomy sundresses hanging from the coatrack—you wanted to have options in case you had trouble finding one that fit correctly, though you gave Aegon a general neighborhood for sizes—as well as an array of cosmetics on the nightstand, including a bottle of shimmering champagne-colored nail polish. “I’m really impressed. You barely forgot anything. Though I will look odd with blush but no foundation.”

“Ohhhhh. Fuck.”

“And this isn’t human shampoo. It’s for dogs. That’s why it has a mastiff on the label.”

“I thought it looked like you,” Aegon says, smirking mischievously.

“Well, thanks for trying.”

“And I found this at the gift shop.” He tosses a card at you like a frisbee. You open the envelope to see a cartoon cow on the front, black and white and wearing a huge copper bell and a party hat. Inside is printed: May your graduation be legenDAIRY! Aegon has crossed it out and written instead I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf! followed by his illegible scribble of a signature.

“A cow,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Because I’m Io.”

“You’ve got about a million of those pouring in from all over the country. Congratulations cards, get well soon cards, we really hope your husband gets elected so we aren’t consumed by nuclear Armageddon cards. And then Richard Nixon sent a pipe bomb.”

You set Aegon’s card on your nightstand, half-open so it will stay standing upright. Then you drink the apple juice from the tray the nurses left for you. “Aemond’s not here yet?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” Aegon says vaguely, kicking his feet up on the ottoman. He’s been shopping for himself too. He’s wearing a denim jacket over a black The Kinks t-shirt, ripped jeans, moccasins. He uses the remote to turn on the television: The Dating Game. “So, what did you study in college? You went to Manhattanville, right?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You really don’t listen when I talk, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“Yes, I went to Manhattanville. And I studied math.”

“No way. You didn’t major in math.”

“Women can’t do math?” you tease. “That’s sexist.”

“I didn’t say women can’t do math. I’m saying there’s no way your parents sent you to a housewife factory like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart to get a math degree.”

“They didn’t, which is why my bachelor’s is in math education. So half-math, half-kid stuff. Makes it a little more…domestic.”

“Cool. Teach me math.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah. Really.” He digs around in the pockets of his jeans until he finds a receipt, then locates a pen in the nightstand drawer. He hands both to you and then stands so he can watch over your shoulder as you work. You can smell him: cigarette smoke, rum, the cool grey rain that is falling outside. It drips off his hair, carelessly slicked back from his face.

“What’s something you don’t know how to do?” you ask, expecting to get an answer like exponents or calculating the volume of a pyramid.

“Uh. Long division.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Going all the way back to 4th grade. Alright then.” You begin writing. “So let’s take a large number—this year, 1968—and divide it by…hm…how many kids you have. So five.”

Aegon whistles. “Five kids. Goddamn.”

“Yes, and you probably couldn’t name them, but there are indeed five. Trust me, I’ve counted.”

“Okay, this is the part I don’t get. Five goes into 19 almost four times. But there’s no way to say almost four.”

“There certainly is not. Five goes into 19 three times, so we put a three up top and then subtract 15 from 19. We get four, drop down the six from 1968, and now we’re dividing 46 by five.”

“Nine.”

“Right. Five times nine is 45. So the nine goes up top and we subtract 45 from 46.”

“45 is basically 46. Let’s call it a day. Close enough.”

“No,” you insist. “We get one, then drop down the eight from 1968, which makes 18.”

“And five goes into 18 three times.”

“Where’s the three go?”

“Up top,” Aegon says, observing fixedly.

“And then we subtract…”

“15 from 18, which is three. So the answer is 393.3.”

“Wrong. Loser.”

“What! How am I wrong?!”

“You don’t just put the three after the decimal,” you say. “You drop down a zero—”

“A zero?! Where the fuck did a zero come from?”

“From the fact that 1968 is a whole number, so it’s actually 1968.0.”

“Oh.” Aegon blinks a few times. “Gotcha.”

“Add the zero after the three to get 30—”

“And 30 divided by five is six. So the answer is 393.6.”

“I am so proud. You are officially as smart as an average nine-year-old.”

He takes the receipt from you and studies it. “This was super enlightening.”

“You want to try calculus now?”

He cackles and sinks back into his plush salmon pink armchair, his miniature dominion in your hospital room kingdom. “You like teaching?”

“I love it,” you admit. “I had to do a semester of student teaching the spring before I graduated, and at first I was kind of petrified. But the kids are so hilarious and interesting and full of excitement about everything, and they’re sweet in totally unexpected ways. They’d chatter all through a lesson and make me want to jump out a five-story window, and then bring me some of their Easter candy. That’s when I realized they weren’t trying to torture me. They’re just kids.”

Aegon is meditative. “Yeah, kids are fun.”

“I wasn’t aware you had much interest in them.”

“No, I do.” And something about the way he says it makes you feel bad for taking the shot. He runs his fingers through his hair, perhaps debating how much he wants to share. “You know Viserys made us all do these little missions after college so we could learn about the real world, right?”

“Right.” Daeron spent his on lobster boats up in Maine, Helaena learned horticulture in France, Aemond helped register voters in Mississippi and Alabama. You can’t recall ever hearing about Aegon’s.

“I got sent to Yuma, Arizona to teach on the reservation there. When I stepped off the bus, I thought it was hell on earth. And then when my time was up I didn’t want to leave.”

“What did you teach?” And then you add: “Hopefully not math.”

“No, definitely not math,” he says, smiling but distant, remembering. “English. Books, poems, all that. But my favorite thing to do was take a song and break it down line by line, really get them curious about what the author was thinking. And then of course we’d all sing it together. I’d play guitar, they’d run around jumping on the furniture, it was a good time.”

“But you couldn’t stay.”

“No,” he sighs. “I had to come back here so I could get dragged kicking and screaming through law school and then married off.”

“And elected mayor of Trenton,” you say, trying to make him laugh. It works.

“Oh God, we are not talking about that. Most miserable two years of my life.”

“So far.”

“Yeah. If Aemond wins and makes me the attorney general, that might be worse.”

“Knock knock!” comes a cheerful trill from the doorway, and then Alicent and Mimi rush in. They descend upon your hospital bed, cooing and soothing, squeezing your hands and trying to smooth your untamed hair.

“What did it feel like?” Mimi is morbidly fascinated, swaying a little, eyes bleary with gin. “When they were digging around in there?”

“Well, obviously she was sedated, hon,” Aegon says, a bit impatiently. He and Mimi share a nod in greeting, no warmth, no depth. You wonder what it must be like for someone you spent so much time tangled up with to become a stranger.

“Oh, darling, I barely recognize you!” Alicent says. “You poor thing, you must be in such awful pain. I’ve never seen you like this before. Your face, your hair…”

Aegon gives her a quick, disapproving look and then lights a cigarette of the traditional variety. He puffs on it as he gazes at the window, like he’s counting the raindrops on the glass.

“I’m feeling a lot better now,” you assure Alicent.

Her eyes flick down to your belly, still swollen beneath your blankets. “Will it scar terribly, do you think?”

You shrug; you haven’t thought much about that part yet. “It’s a battle scar. Aemond gets them in the real world, I get them in here. Same war, different arenas.” You peek out into the hallway. “Is Aemond…is he with you…?”

“He wanted to be,” Alicent says, like it’s a consolation. “But, Washington, you know…the primary there is so close. So, so close. He kept saying that he and Humphrey were neck and neck, and they still are, I believe. Every vote counts, and he’s campaigning all over the Puget Sound.”

“He’s still in Washington?” Your voice is flat with disbelief, with disapproval.

“He wishes he could be here with you and the baby,” Alicent insists, stroking your hair. “I’m sure he’ll fly back as soon as he’s able. But he’s thinking of you so, so much. That’s why he let me and Mimi leave this morning.”

“Right,” you reply numbly. And then you remember what you’re supposed to say. “The election is important. It affects everyone, our son included. For the greater good, personal sacrifices are necessary.”

“We saw him,” Alicent tells you, radiant with joy. “Aristos Apollo.”

“So precious,” Mimi says. “But so small! And trapped in that hideous machine! We could only see him through those little round windows.”

Aegon casts her a violent glare. You are alarmed. “He’s not in an incubator?”

“They have him in a…what was it called, Mimi?” Alicent asks. Mimi has nothing useful to contribute. “A hyperbaric chamber, I think. To help him get more oxygen.”

“But he’s fine,” Aegon says firmly, giving his wife and mother a warning. “Didn’t the doctor say it was a precaution?”

“He did, he did,” Alicent promises you. “Yes, just a precaution, that’s what we were told. The doctor has been trying to reach Aemond, apparently, but since he landed in Washington, he’s never in one place for long…”

“We should buy gifts for the baby,” Mimi says excitedly. “Adorable hats and shirts and trousers. Although even the tiniest clothes might be too big for him right now.”

“Yes, gifts! We must shop for gifts. Oh, it’s all been such a whirlwind. We hurried off the plane to come straight here, love,” Alicent tells you. “Can Mimi and I get you something for dinner?”

“Sure, sure.” You are distracted, still thinking of Ari. “Anything is fine. Wherever you end up.”

“Would you like me to bring a priest to pray with you? Saint Nicholas Church is right around the corner.”

You smile. “That’s very kind, but I think I’d prefer some books.”

“Baby clothes, dinner, and books. We can do that. Can’t we, Mimi?”

“We absolutely can,” Mimi agrees with tipsy, girlish enthusiasm.

As an afterthought, Alicent says: “Aegon, have you been here all this time? You must be exhausted. We’re going to book a suite at the Plaza, there will be plenty of room for you too. We can drop you off there on our way to go shopping, if you’d like.”

“I’ll stay,” he says softly, watching the rain again.

Alicent’s brow furrows; her dark doe-like eyes are puzzled. “Alright, dear.” Then she and Mimi disappear into the hall.

“Is he really okay?” you ask Aegon when they’re gone.

“Yes. That’s exactly what the doctor told me, just a precaution. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Aegon,” you say, and don’t continue until he meets your eyes. “Why are you still here?”

He lights a fresh cigarette. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I’m not alone anymore. Alicent visits me, Mimi visits me.”

“Yeah, but you feel like you have to put on a show for them. Play the perfect Targaryen wife with all that stoic, dignified, unshakable faith. You hate me, so there isn’t as much pressure.”

“I don’t hate you, Aegon.”

“Yes you do. You always have. You don’t have to be polite about it.”

“Well…I have valid reasons to hate you.”

He smiles, exhaling smoke. “Right.”

“And you hate me too.”

Now he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Everybody worships you, everybody thinks I’m a waste of chromosomes, is it really that hard to psychoanalyze?”

“No one worships me. They worship Aemond.”

“But you’re a package deal. Jack and Jackie, Franklin and Eleanor.”

You trace the lines in your palm with a fingertip, not knowing what to say. You’re so close to Aemond, so inseparable, and yet so vastly far. “Will you wheel me downstairs to see Ari after dinner?” It’s best to go at night when there are less staff around to try to stop you.

“Sure. You want a Mr. Misty?”

“Yeah. Lemon-lime.” That’s what he brought you last time, and it wasn’t bad for a cardboard cup of florescent green sugar water.

“Got it,” Aegon says, and leaves you alone.

You look at the phone on your nightstand. You’ve tried to call Aemond to no avail, though you spoke to Criston twice; on both occasions he said Aemond was in the middle of an interview. It’s understandable that you would have difficulty getting ahold of your husband while he’s off campaigning, leaping from town to town like an electric current. There’s nothing unusual about it at all. But Aemond could call you anytime he likes. You haven’t moved; he knows exactly where you are.

You keep staring at the phone. It doesn’t ring.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night again, and you swim up from morphine-soft dreams into your hospital room, dark except for the flashing color of the television, low volume, NBC news. Aegon is curled up in the chair he’s claimed, snoring and half-covered with a cheap, pale blue hospital blanket. And it’s a strange feeling—a foreign language, a new religion—to realize that you’re relieved to see he’s still here, that there’s a comfort in it, a safety.

Suddenly, Aemond is on the television screen. You sit up in bed as gingerly as you can, leaning in, listening close. He’s rarely looked better: blue suit, prosthetic eye, rested and measured and sharp. He’s giving a speech at the Hotel Sorrento in Seattle, three hours behind the time you’re living in on the East Coast. Flanking him on the stage are Criston, Otto, Helaena, Fosco, the eight charming children. Five-year-old Cosmo keeps waving at the camera.

“Right now, my wife and newborn son are at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City,” Aemond says, beaming, and the audience whistles and cheers. You should smile, but you can’t. He’s not supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be on his way home. “But tonight I’m here with all of you, fighting with everything I’m made of to win the great state of Washington. And I won’t leave until the job is done, because I know the greatest act of devotion that any of us can show our children is to ensure they grow up in a better America than the one we find ourselves in today…”

You look over at Aegon and see that his glassy eyes are open, watching the television just like you are. You don’t know how long he’s been awake. The two of you exchange a glance, and there is a silent, shared recognition of what won’t be said. You can’t criticize your husband. Aegon isn’t going to kick you while you’re down. You are grateful for this. It is a conviction he has only recently acquired.

Aegon pulls his blanket up to his chin and rolls over, turning away from you. You close your eyes and dream of being a child back in Tarpon Springs, mesmerized as you watch Greek sponge divers emerge from the bubbling depths in their suits of rubber armor.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the afternoon of the 13th. The Washington State Democratic Convention is being held tonight, and so win or lose Aemond will be walking into Mount Sinai Hospital tomorrow. He has to, he doesn’t have a choice. He’ll have no excuse to be anywhere else, and journalists will be swarming at the entranceway like bull sharks in the Gulf of Mexico.

It’s raining again. You’re reading one of the books that Alicent brought you, Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. You had been meaning to get a copy before you were consumed by Aemond’s campaign and then his near-assassination, his maiming, his fleeting brush with oblivion. Aegon is cross-legged in the salmon pink armchair and plucking lazily at his guitar, singing so low no one outside the room would be able to hear him. It’s a Rolling Stones song, slow and mournful.

“You don’t know what’s going on

You’ve been away for far too long

You can’t come back and think you are still mine.”

As you flip a page and raindrops patter gently against the window, you find yourself thinking how easy this is, your hair undone and your feet bare, no photos to take or lines to remember, no practiced smiles, no overwrought itineraries, only compassion that is quiet and small and real.

“Well, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time

I said, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time…”

Aegon abruptly stops playing, cutting off with a twang. You look up at him. He’s gazing back with eyes that are filling up his face, glistening with horror. You turn to find out what he’s seen. There’s a doctor standing in the doorway, but he’s not alone. There’s a Greek Orthodox priest with him.

“Mrs. Targaryen,” the doctor begins, then glances to the priest. The holy man—black robes, gold chains, clasping a komboskini like the one Aemond keeps in a box on his writing desk at Asteria, stained with his own blood—gives an encouraging nod. “We’ve tried to reach your husband. We’ve called his hotel in Tacoma several times, but the senator must be out campaigning, and…” Again, he looks to the priest. Aegon is setting his guitar on the floor, covering his mouth with his hands.

Ari. Too early, too fragile, too defenseless in a world full of wolves.

Your words come out in a whisper. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“We must remember, child,” the priest tells you, vague patronizing pity. “That the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but what is lost to us in this life is never truly gone. Those we love wait for us on the other side in paradise—”

“Please leave. I don’t want to talk to a priest. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

I just gave birth to him. I just started to believe he was mine.

The doctor begins: “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to deliver this news—”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone, I want to be alone. So please leave,” you beg, your voice breaking. “I want to be alone. Please leave me alone.”

The doctor looks to Aegon. A man’s permission is sought. “Go,” Aegon manages, raspy and strangled, and the doctor obeys.

“God bless you and your husband, Mrs. Targaryen,” the priest says as he departs with a swift bow. You can’t reply. You’re biting back sobs as the tears begin to slither down your cheeks, scalding and furious, not just grief but the bottomless rage of Nemesis.

Aegon is watching you, not knowing what to do, not knowing what you need.

Aemond would want you to be stoic. Aemond would want you to have faith, forbearance, grace. “It is God’s will.”

“Hey.” Aegon reaches across the space between you, grabs your hand, holds it so tightly your bones ache. Still, you wouldn’t want him to let go. “You’re allowed to be fucked up about this. I am too.”

When your eyes drift to him, they are glaring and heartsick and poisonous. “Where’s Aemond?” Why isn’t he here?

Aegon sighs deeply and picks up the phone with his free hand. He spins the rotary dial with his index finger and then holds the handset to his ear. He waits as it rings. “Pantages Theater, Tacoma, Washington,” he tells the operator. A minute or more crawls by. “I need to speak to Senator Targaryen immediately. Yes, I know there’s a convention underway there, that’s why I’m calling you. Go get him.” More minutes, eternal, terrible beyond description. “What do you mean you can’t find him?!” Aegon snaps. “Okay, give me someone else. Anyone travelling with him. Criston Cole, Fosco Viviani, Otto Hightower, Helaena Targaryen. Hurry up. Let’s go.”

Outside the rain grows heavy and loud; it falls in sheets against the misty windows. In the distance, thunder growls.

“Hi, Criston, it’s me. He needs to come home now. Right now.”

Aegon closes his eyes. Criston must be arguing with him.

“No, you don’t understand,” Aegon says, forcing the words to leave his lips and ride the wires to the West Coast, to where the sun sets, to where the future is dawning. He’s still holding your hand. “Aemond doesn’t have a son anymore.”

[toska-writes]

“Where the stars can shine”

Summary: the fighting never stops, and it never will so it’s in everyone’s best interest to find the calm moments when you can.

Pairing: The Bad Batch x padawan!reader (OF COURSE THIS IS PLATONIC)

Warning: none just so much fluff!

Word count: 1261 (not proof read but what did you expect)

Notes: IM WATCHING THE NEW BAD BATCH SEASON AFTER THIS! So this is my way of manifesting everyone being alright to end the show 🥲

The war never ended, nor would it for anyone who has endured it and its intensity.

One fight always rolled into another and nothing could be done to stop it. The only way to get through it was to find the little cracks in all the bad. The place where the sun could shine and the flowers could grow.

Or in this case, the stars could twinkle.

"This is already too high for me." Wrecker stated loudly hauling himself up the side of the Marauder.

Crosshair, who was currently under Wreck scoffed to himself before clambering up the side like it was nothing. "You never seem to have that problem when we're in the air." He quipped.

"Well I'm inside then." He whined finally being assisted by Hunter who had the small hands of Omega making sure he didn't fall.

You could only laugh at the scene, leaning back on Echo you could feel him laugh too.

"Who do you think's falling off first?" You ask with a smile that was masked by the moonlight.

"The real question is," Echo leaned forward, surprised a little bit that the top of the marauders could fit 5 fully grown clones plus omega and the Jedi padawan. "Who's going to be pushed off first."

You looked back towards him and in an instant you spoke the same word together. "Tech."

Speaking of the devil, Tech's voice rang out as you looked over to where he had an arm pointing something out beyond the horizon.

"-and if you look there you'll be able to see Endor"

Omega's eyes lit up brighter than they have been in the past few days, nothing seemed to be going right for that bad batch no matter how much they tried.

"Have you guys been there?" Omegas eyes scanned the rest of her family that sat gazing with her. The sky on this backwater planet was surprisingly clear, clearer than you thought it would be.

"Eh once or twice." Hunter shrugged it off with a smile as all that Omega could do was gawk up at her big brother.

"Thats an understatement." Crosshair added quietly from beside you. With a nudge to your shoulder he added. "That meat-head over there blew up more than half the forest and got us kicked out. For life."

"Hey!" Wrecker let go of his strong grip of the Marauder with one hand to wave it at the sniper.

Omega giggled giving you a glance as you could help but laugh at the exchange. "Have you?"

You could only smile at the found memories the question brought you. Landing with your Master on a planet you've never even heard of at that time. The trees the towered over you and the abundant shades of green that you didn't even know existed. The faint sound of your master laughing as you stared up from the base of the tall trees fathomed by the hight.

"Yeah I went once I think during the Clone Wars. It was beautiful there." You spoke, the smiles spread from Omegas face to Hunters as he watched you retell the fond memories.

"Well I also did kinda crash into a tree there but other than that the rest was beautiful." Echo hide his laugh behind you as you told the more embarrassing part of the trip.

"I think I did hear about that one." The ex arc trooper spoke out. You shoved him back slightly as your gaze returned to the stars above.

"Now if you all turn your gazes eastward you can spot the Orion constellation which should also mean the Canis Major is pretty close." Tech pointed upward now, his own eyes locked tightly on the stars.

"That one has the brightest star in the whole galaxy right?" Omega filled in, whether Tech wanted to continue himself or not he could only beam down at the girl, who clearly heard this from him before.'

You smiled also recounting when Tech probably told the group for the first time.

The bounty hunters came from nowhere that day, Omega gripped on the back of Echo's armor plate  with tears streaking down her face clearly scared.

Tech stood above you the, a data pad scanned over you as Hunter tried to apply some pressure to a wound you sustained on your side. Wrecker and Cross stood around the group, the sniper's gaze fixed on the darken horizon beyond.

Panicked breath sounded out and flown into the barren night, as much as you didn't want to scare Omega more you really could help it. You were scared yourself.

"Do you see that over there." Tech took your free arm in his hand and pointed up to the looming sky with it. "That really bright star?"

You were pulled back from your thoughts with the slightest nudge from Crosshair who spared you a glance, nobody else seemed to notice his movements

"I want to go to all of those planets one day." The words were light from Omega, a smile still evident in her voice.

"You'll definitely need to learn to fly then." You added shooting a look at Tech who finally spared a glance at someone else and was immersed in taking pictures of the different planets and constellations.

"If you can find another ship." Tech said mater-o-factly with a finger in the air.

"Aweeee Tech." Omega did the only thing she could think of, huge tooka eyes found Tech and with the pout of her bottom lip you could almost see the moment Tech cracked.

"More contemplation will be needed for that"

Though Omega wasn't disappointed for long as Crosshair whispered to her. "That's practically a yes."

Hunter laughed now shoving Crosshair back into a lying down position. He noted that his brother looked quite different without his armor, but it was a sight he could get used to.

Opening his mouth Tech was about to defend himself before a snore racked through the air. 

"Put someone else to sleep too Techy." Crosshair jabbed a finger at wrecker who still seemed to gripped the ship tightly.

You couldn't blame him though, and is wasn't just because of Tech talking, but you did insist the stars and planets were best to see in the late night. A yawn stifled through you, Echo wasn't the warmest person but the arms that wrapped around you from the clone seemed to do it.

"It's not even that late." Omega protested but her heavy eyelids seemed to contradict her own words.

"No no, we all can't fall asleep up here or it's going to be a pain getting down." Omega curled up into Hunters chest as he spoke. He slowly started to get up.

"One of us should get Wreck." Your own eyelids battled against you as you fought to sit up.

"On it." Crosshair was the last person who you thought would offer but as his leg extended you watched Wrecker rolled over the side.

His startled yell was masked by the thud of him hitting the soft grass below. 

"See it wasn't even that far." The skipper shrugged pushing himself over the edge and landing gracefully with even using the side to get down.

You chuckled as you rolled your eyes at the brothers were up to their old antics.

The chill air was a good contrast to the heated days that came before, so much fighting it seemed that it would never end.

Moments like these would always be cherished, and surprisingly Tech wasn't the one to get pushed off the Marauder.

_____________________________________

Taglist:

@arctrooper69 @thereforepizza @padawancat97 @pb-jellybeans @floffytofu @verybadatwriting @solstraalaa @ray-rook @gregorsmissingarmor

[actually-factually-anonymous]

The unnecessary lack of personal stakes of Marinette Dupain-Cheng in the Agreste Arc

Inspired by a recent post by @starguardianniom, with half pinched again from my own reblog:

Marinette has zero personal stakes in the main conflict of her show, except that she happened to be the first girl who helped Fu across the road, and was thus chosen to wear the earrings. She doesn't even really seem to have any reason to be Ladybug aside from the basic "I can't sit back and do nothing" she stated in Origins. So a sense of responsibility conferred by being the bearer of the earrings, and an ostensible general desire to do good.

This would be fine, except that Adrien very much did have a reason to continue being Chat Noir. Plagg's Miraculous is the source of his freedom, and a new identity of his own making separate from the carefully curated child of Gabriel Agreste. Most importantly he had so much personal connection to the core plot that his narrative potential dwarfed Marinette's beyond compare.

His mere existence is the very axis of the plot, putting it in motion by the apparent desire for a designer child seeming being the very reason Gabriel and Emile sought the Miraculous all those years ago, and the consequences of his creation being the very reason that Gabriel devolves into magical terrorism. Hawkmoth being his father whom Adrien clearly cares for and whose goal of restoring his much mourned mother setup a truly impressive case for split loyalties for when Adrien (seemingly) inevitably learnt of his father's identity and true goal:

I made a comparison before between Avatar and Miraculous where Avatar won without question. Allow me to balance the scales here: the setup for Adrien potentially turning on Ladybug, or having to sacrifice his familial bonds for the sake of justice outweighed Zuko's own setup for choosing his ''honour"/loyalty to his family over his burgeoning sense of justice.

In potential at least. Rest assured that Zuko's character arc still far eclipses anything Adrien was ever allowed.

But the point I'm trying to make here is that in the very story that bears her name, Ladybug's only reason to be involved comes from the fact that she happens to have Tikki's Miraculous. She has no personal investment in the fate of Hawkmoth than other citizen of Paris, she certainly has no conflicting loyalties.

She doesn't even have a personal reason to continue being Ladybug. You can draw a parallel if you like with one of her ostensible inspirations Peter Parker, who learnt the price of personal inaction in a harsh and unforgiving manner that selflessly drives him to protect others. You can say that the Stoneheart incident fulfills a similar role.

But here's the thing: Peter Parker is Spiderman thanks to his radioactive blood. Ladybug is whoever wears Tikki's Miraculous. If Peter retires, he takes his powers away from the protection of New York. If Marinette gives up her Miraculous, a new Ladybug will arise in her place within a day. There's no need for her to be Ladybug, to take on that responsibility, and until the season three finale there's no personal stake for her to be the girl under the mask any more than any other Parisian citizen.

And that means that Marinette isn't the heart of her own story. In Avatar, it's Aang's quest to defeat the Fire Lord because it has to be him that restores balance. In Star Wars, it's Luke whose connection with Vader that has to restore Anakin's better nature. In just about any series there is a pressing need and personal stakes for the protagonist to be that The Protagonist of that story, that make that story their story.

But the setup here has all the pathos and personal stakes placed upon Adrien. Marinette is the centerpiece of the show, but Adrien's handed all of the narrative potential even as the writers let it go to waste.

It's like preparing a finely seasoned meal, then leaving it to rot as you serve plain vegetables. There's just no reason to have the vegetables when the fine meal is ready for consumption: and if that's a problem? If the plain vegetables were always meant to be the centrepiece? Then you should have seasoned the vegetables and made something delectable with them.

Because the saddest apart about Marinette having or actual ties or pathos to the Agreste Arc is that once upon a time that was not the case.

In previous Miraculous proposals, before the PV, Marinette Cheng was at least as part of the main story as Felix/Adrien was. There were various versions of how the story would go, with one echoing Cardcaptor's plot, and the later proposals looking more like what we got in the final product.

But all had Marinette having a personal stake in the story. In the Cardcaptor-esque plot, Marinette was Fu's granddaughter (or granddaughter figure), and Fu was the caretaker of the The Orb. A crystal that contained all the "fairies" (beings that served both the roles Kwamis and Akumas would later take). The story kicked off because Marinette brought her crush Felix into her Grandfather's store and accidentally broke The Orb, shattering it and allowing the Fairies to escape across Paris and empower countless people- heroes and villains both.

It was her mission to retrieve the Fairies, because she was the one who had released them. She was Fu's granddaughter and it was her responsibility to clean up her mess. It was her story, and Felix/Adrien was the one with less direct connection.

Later proposals ditched The Orb as the Kwamis were developed, but up until the most recent and final versions of the story Marinette retained Fu as either her blood Grandfather outright or at least a mentor so close from her childhood that she thought of him as a Grandfather. She also was usually being trained to be a Guardian or something like it herself from childhood.

She wasn't just a girl Fu found on the side of the road. She had as much connection to the Guardians and their world as Felix/Adrien did to Papillion. It even added a certain Montague-Capulet tragic element to the romance, since if Felix/Adrien and Marinette ever got together it would mean one having to choose between their partner and their family.

But for some reason, in the final product Marinette was stripped of all pre-series personal connections to the Miraculous.

The question is why? Was there really so great a need for Martinette to be "a girl like any other" that all of the plot relevance needed to be stripped out of her and added to Adrien, only to then completely ignore all that potential pathos by sidelining Adrien at every turn?

Because if you weren't going to do anything with Adrien, then all you've done is needlessly undermine Marinette's potential as a character.

Seriously, if you had given me the backstory of these two characters and asked which one was the main character: there would have been no chance I would have selected Marinette. Because all the writers have given her backstory is side-character material, whereas Adrien's very existence, as well as his relationship to his family and the Miraculous is at the heart of the story.

And I doubt there would be many others who would think otherwise.

[vaguely-concerned]

Thoughts upon finishing Master and Apprentice! A good double read with Padawan; the ending of that leaving Obi-Wan slightly hopeful about his relationship to Qui-Gon makes for a very sad yet hilarious ‘Local Padawan loses last little bit of hope he didn’t even know he still had’ sort of vibe to the beginning of this one, which is set one (1) year later and Obi-Wan is So Done with Qui-Gon’s whole deal by this point (correctly btw). Also if you can’t tell already I will not be objective or free from bias in this because I love Obi-Wan so much and some of the stuff Qui-Gon pulled made me incandescent with rage on his behalf <3 let’s go

- 'oh obi-wan, you're so mature for your age, I keep forgetting you're only seventeen years old,' qui-gon says, word for word, repeatedly, in master and apprentice, apparently willfully deaf to the industrial-sized warning bells about their relationship dynamic that should probably be setting off in his head. qui-gon believes in vibing with the living force and being in the moment right up until the moment requires him to pay attention to the kid he's raising for more than oh, one and a half minutes of self-effacing inner monologue and then he's like 'well unfortunately there is simply no time for that right now there are prophecies to be pondered'. (the fact that the admission that obi-wan has essentially been left to raise himself emotionally and the resigned reframing of that as 'and maybe that is a good thing!' is part of the olive branch they extend to each other towards the end... will my sadness never end)

- most of all it's so heartbreaking to me that qui-gon seemingly never understands just how much obi-wan as a person is rooted deeply in shame. I don't think that's a feeling that's particularly prevalent in qui-gon's own inner world so he doesn't recognize how central it is in obi-wan's psychology and completely misunderstands and misaligns with him again and again and again and then gets annoyed with obi-wan for that, thus making the shame even deeper. doubly painful because he does see the way rael lives so much of his life out of shame now and feels sad about it, but can't see the way he's contributing to obi-wan doing so. this is what fucks me up so bad about the generational trauma in star wars -- no one here meant to be cruel. for all his faults I do think qui-gon does love obi-wan and doesn't mean to hurt him. but the original sin of the prequels as far as I'm concerned is qui-gon tenderly drying away obi-wan's tears as he's dying even while completely failing to see him, his eyes too fixed on anakin's future to actually be with obi-wan, who's there right now and needs him.

these are simply very different people trying and failing to understand each other, and the harm that can still happen in that… 'if you love me, you don't love me in a way I understand', all the way through the disaster line, even when the love is there, it is there, that’s what hurts the most, it just doesn’t reach where it’s needed, there’s a connection that doesn’t happen. (ironically I think ahsoka doesn't doubt that anakin loves her, it's just uh everything else that went down. so y'know family curse broken! new even more fucked up curse achieved now with more child murder. I mean there already was some child murder in this family but anakin upped the game exponentially) 

- a lil guy who's basically tarzan except the gorillas are replaced with protocol droids and then he becomes a jewel thief is one of the funniest star wars concepts I've ever heard and I hope pax and rahara get to pop up in more star wars media, they’re great fun. (also an idea I think would be super fun to make a character/campaign around in Edge of the Empire or something, everyone playing different droids and then one person being robo-parented lol) 

- was not prepared to have rael posit a theory of what essentially seems to be the jedi version of predestination in his despair, but I do love to see it haha. especially interesting since he, qui-gon and dooku must be among the people alive who've studied the prophecies in most depth, and they've all reached different conclusions -- dooku decides to join the war of light and dark on the side of dark for some reason, qui-gon (possibly the stubbornest fucker the jedi order ever produced) 'turns towards the light not to win some great cosmic game, but because it is the light', and rael in the middle falls into the depressed apathy of 'it doesn't matter what we do here, the outcome is already decided; for there to be true balance there has to be as much dark as light in the world so we're fucked'. but in the end he does take qui-gon's words to heart and turns towards the light rather than accepting dooku's offer, even if he might not believe it makes a difference in the long run. man I love rael. hobo-looking sonofabitch living in a castle for eight years will just suddenly fling out some deep jedi theology huh

- master rael 'I'm gonna make up for the big terrible mistake I made on accident by making an even bigger more premeditated mistake on purpose' averross (affectionate)

- the added layer to dooku’s fascination with prophecy after reading dooku: jedi lost — that his best friend in the world was a seer who couldn’t turn it off and it destroyed him……….. dooku you’re not getting him back if you just understand what he saw you know that right

- the more I read of master and apprentice the more I realize that the reason yoda and qui-gon don't get along is that they're two of the judgiest bitches the jedi order ever produced. They’re like two cats scowling judgmentally at each other from opposite sides of the room pretending to live and let live while going ‘you’re wrong tho’ internally. 

- I dunk on him constantly (not entirely without affection, however grudging), but Qui-Gon is genuinely a really interesting character. He’s so… he’s so. He’s infuriating but he’s infuriating in an equidistant sort of way. You feel me. He’s pissing everyone off equally and he just doesn’t care because again, he’s the stubbornest judgiest bitch around and thinks he’s right all the time. I would be free to just enjoy his ornery ‘no actually I’m right about this’ ass and the chaos he wreaks so much more if Obi-Wan didn’t have to live with the emotional consequences of it lol. 

- poor rael closing in on fifty with his puriteen middle-aged little brother clutching pearls about his getting laid once in a blue moon fhdskjahfas. again a really interesting insight into different ways of interpreting the jedi code, though, I love seeing the jedi not be an ideological monolith. to be fair to rael, having sex sometimes does seem to be the indulgence he has that causes the least conflict with his principles or loyalties so you know what honestly force speed you my friend why not. (and then there's qui-gon 'noooo sex is only okay if you're In Love (implied: like I was)!!!' jinn lmao. I wonder what he'd think of anakin and padme's relationship, would that pass the 'being sufficiently purely in love' test for him) I do like how consistently it’s shown that rael doesn’t mean to be cruel or unkind in anything he says, he always notices something landing too close to home and then pulls carefully back from it instead of pushing on. He seems to be the emotional intelligence powerhouse in this lineage (as long as he doesn’t have his feelings too tangled up in something, at least). 

Dooku: jedi lost also shows us that dooku absolutely knows rael is out there in the galaxy laying pipe and is, at worst, softly amused by it. So in this little family unit it’s only qui-gon losing his mind over it fjsdkafa I’m so used to having qui-gon be the wild card maverick compared to obi-wan ‘*in tears* but what are the RULES master’ kenobi, it’s so fucking funny that within the context that raised him he’s the stick in the mud 

I guess. the book also had a plot and it was not bad! some interesting insights about how the republic interacted with the big corporations and just how fucked everything already was by this point. I'm a pretty character-driven reader so that's what sticks with me for the most part

- obi-wan’s big teenage rebellion here being that sometimes. Occasionally. When he really loses his temper and gets hot under the collar. He’ll say something slightly passive aggressive out loud instead of keeping it contained inside his head. And qui-gon still can’t handle that gracefully AT ALL he snaps right back fdjskfhas. (I guess he also snitches on qui-gon to the council but well, you know, qui-gon was breaking republic law pretty brazenly at that point I think that moves beyond teenage angst and into ‘...master that’s a wholeass felony’ territory). Obi-Wan does go for a couple of low blows, but like. Nothing that’s not actually true, is the thing. And mostly he blames himself for not being good enough, because surely if he were qui gon wouldn’t treat him like this. Augh. hngh. Pain. suffering. 

- I am not one of the people who think everything would have automatically been just hunky-dory if only qui-gon lived and could have been anakin's master (in fact I would have given it a 50/50 chance of going exponentially worse way faster; being more similar as people is not always a guarantee that a relationship will go smoother and qui-gon is an incredibly difficult man to be close to for any length of time), but the way this book basically presents how the dynamic between dooku, rael and qui-gon could have gone on in the next generation too... it would have been incredibly unfair to obi-wan (as always I think that's just an universal constant lmao) but I think the odds of it turning out okay would have been better if you had him in the mix to run crisis control for both qui-gon and anakin, as he does for each of them individually as best he can anyway. at least he could have been free to be anakin's brother and friend purely in that scenario, without all the added mess of grief and having to take on a parental role there so young. he does basically fill that role in ahsoka's apprenticeship, after all.

- qui-gon finally hugging rael before he leaves the planet (and especially since when they were younger he wanted to, but held himself back from it)... that's still his big brother even with all the shit that's happened since ;_____; when someone teaches you how to swim (literally and symbolically) that shit stays with you I suppose

Relatedly: DOOKU getting hugged, and gladly. What the fuck. Are you all seeing this shit. I’m gonna cry or laugh I’m not sure which one why am I emotionally invested in the galaxy's most problematic grandpa now this sucks

[mimimunson]

Drunken fingertips<3

CW- tickling, mention of the police, mention of marijuana, mention of homophobia and bullying but is quite brief, intoxication.

Note- this is my first fic that I have ever written and the first fic I’ve felt semi-confident to post. Please be kind. This is first and foremost a tickle fic so if that isn’t your thing please scroll!! Minors DNI! This is not a tickle kink fic, but kinksters can interact!

Eddie Munson was by no means shy. As long as he could remember he’d always had a theatrical personality, he’d always felt like if he didn’t make someone laugh during the day, the day was wasted. He’d always found beauty in smiles and laughter, he found it endearing that no two laughs were the same. In fact, it’s kinda how he found out he liked boys. Coming out was a difficult experience, but Wayne told him what or who he did in his own bed was his own business. Eddie didn’t need aggressive acceptance, but the casual reminder that he was allowed to be queer. I mean he’d never admit that he flunked most of his classes because he was staring at admiring the guy across from him, he had a metal head persona to attend to but silliness was definitely his strong point.

With the up-bringing he had, it’s no shock that he was touch starved. That all changed when he met his new group of friends, they were all social rejects the same as him. All except Steve Harrington. He was the jock, the king of Hawkins-High. He wasn’t quite like the rest of the popular kids though. While they were calling kids slurs and laughing through the bullying they permitted, he’d stand there with a flushed face, stone cold silent. Steve wasn’t a stranger to Eddie before that, he was the guy he sat next to in his third period biology class on a Tuesday, the one he’d casually admire whilst pretending to take notes.

Steve was a different person then, now he would never stand by and let his so called friends verbally abuse others. Maybe it was his friendship with Robin that had opened his eyes to his own by-standing homophobia. But it was probably because he sat next to Eddie on the couch every Friday movie night in Wheeler’s basement. Steve wholeheartedly believed that sitting next to Eddie weekly was enough to make any man question their sexuality.

Eddie didn’t know how he got here, his knees grazing against Steve’s with his arm resting on the arm of the couch behind him. Both lightly buzzed on beer, whispering away to each other while the rest of the party were fixated on the next movie in their Star-Wars binge. He’d noticed more about Steve in the last 20 minutes than he did that whole year of biology class, his hair had a few strands of blonde mixed in with the brunette locks and when he smiled he had a dimple on the right side of his mouth.

“You have a dimple”

Eddie half-whispered and smirked, attempting to point at Steve’s cheek but narrowly missing from his intoxication. He playfully shrugged it off as if he meant to do that of course he did.

“Okay? So lots of people have dimples Munson.”

Steve shrugged and half smiled in Eddie’s direction.

“No no, you, King Steve have one singular dimple, not plural dimples. One. Only on this side”

Eddie spoke holding up his index finger, pointing as Steve’s face. Steve rolled his eyes and chuckled, nobody, not even he had noticed his singular dimple before.

“I get it now, shh I’m trying to watch the movie.”

He lied through his teeth, mocking Eddie’s performative hand gestures. He could tell Eddie was a little more tipsy than he was, the main clue being the 4 extra empty beer bottles beside him. Eddie giggled, brushing his curls out of his face.

“One Steve. One. Where’s your other dimple? Someone steal it?”

Steve rolled his eyes once more at his drunken friend. “Maybe” he shrugged, “have you got it Eds?”

He smiled, leaning his body weight a little closer towards him.

Eddie’s flushed a little at his words, “Eds”. Steve was the only person who called him that, he was like that scene in the grinch where his heart grows 4 sizes bigger whenever Steve called him that. It felt intimate, a moment that only they could share.

“Listen man, I am not a thief” he held his hands up at the accusation, his smile beaming over at him.

“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to search you, it’s official police business.”

He joked, patting down Eddie’s denim jacket. Giggling when he felt the outline of his grinder and lighter from inside his pockets.

“Drug paraphernalia.. I’m pretty sure that’s a crime. I’ve not been on the job long but I don’t know Munson, it’s not looking good for you.”

He laughed, pretending to check an imaginary watch on his wrist as if a watch could tell him how long he’d been working a profession for.

“Cuff me officer Harrington, for the crime of being a stoner.” Eddie barely spluttered that sentence out before erupting into laughter.

“Oh you think breaking the law is funny Munson?”

He said shifting himself closer to the drunken boy. Grabbing both wrists in one hand, pinning him to the couch, lightly running his fingers across his arms.

“This is funny?!”

Steve continued his ‘pat down’ if you can call it that, he was poking Eddie’s stomach with emphasis to his words.

“I did not know you were such a criminal. You’re on the wrong tracks man, it’s not too late to change your ways”

Eddie could feel his face burning. Steve was not only touching him, man he’d have to remember that for a later daydream, but he was tickling him.

“Fuck Steve come on don’t do that”

Half trying to slap at his hands but missing them in his inebriated state and half trying to hide the ever growing blush on his face. Drowning in a sea of laughter.

“What’s the matter Eds? This is formal policy, I have to do this.”

Steve caught on pretty quickly that he wasn’t laughing at his pretty wooden acting and more so that his pat was something of a ticklish situation for his friend.

“I- shut up.”

Eddie could hardly contain himself, apparently trying to juggle the need to grab Steve’s face and pull him in for a passionate make out session, hiding his blushing face and trying to pretend like he isn’t being tickled shitless was hard for him.

“Munson, you’re really fucking ticklish you know? If you ever actually get caught for possession you are so screwed.”

Harrington proclaimed laughing alongside his friend, holding him down with one hand so he doesn’t squirm his way off the couch.

“I am so gonna kill you.”

He spluttered out in between gasping for breath. Steve’s hands slowed until they halted, towering over Eddie admiring how his curls were like little spirals framing his face, he even found himself doting on the way he looked up at him. His iris’s were camouflaged into his pupils, his eyes were such a deep shade of brown, but when the light hit them just right they looked almost amber. They always complimented his smile, he definitely smiled through his eyes.

“You’ve still got the same smile, it hasn’t changed since we were assigned seats together.”

Steve whispered, his bisexuality was still hush-hush. He’d only confided in Robin before this moment, he found it difficult sure, but hiding anything from Robin was more of a challenge. She’d sussed out his crush on Eddie from the first moment Dustin introduced them. The way he couldn’t help but look at the floor because holding eye contact was painful, the way he’d look like a sick puppy every time Eddie wasn’t able to join in a trip with the party. But mostly the way that Steve had drunkenly confessed that his bi-awakening was Eddie Munson between spitting vomit into the toilet and sharing confessions with each other.

“You remember me?”

Eddie had his hand over his eyes, slightly peaking between the gap through his middle and ring finger. As if missing this moment was not an option, even if the crimson blush burning into his cheeks wasn’t fighting its corner.

“How could I forget the guy who would stroll into class 45 minutes late, smelling of weed, tripping over thin air and flopping himself down beside me not saying a single word but doodling for the remainder of the lesson? I remember most of it, including the times I could feel your eyes burning into the side of my face like a laser.”

Eddie was mortified at this point. He truly thought he had stealth like skills for daydreaming next to pretty boys but regardless, he wasn’t ashamed. He’d do it all again.

“Oh. You saw that huh? I- I just. I just-“

Before the metal head could even finish his sentence, Steve put his finger up to his own lips.

“No need to explain, I get it.”

He nodded, he never wanted to make him feel embarrassed about who he was.

“It’s rough, teen years I mean. For guys like us especially.”

“Guys like us?” Eddie shot him a bewildered look. He couldn’t possibly mean he was- did he?

“You know. Guys like us. Guys who like guys. I mean I’m a guy who likes guys and girls”

Steve is fumbling all his words right now, nervously trying to explain himself was harder than he imagined.

“Listen don’t tell anyone I told you that though man, only Rob knows. Maybe I’m just a bit drunk but, you look so pretty like this. Peach coloured cheeks and that smile. Damn. See this is what I said to Robin, Eddie Munson just- well just looking at him opened my eyes to who I am.”

Steve interrupted himself, realising he’d said that all out loud. After a few seconds of consideration in his head, he was too drunk to care.

“You looking at me with those doe eyes in biology, it made me realise yeah so I’m like definitely bisexual.”

He felt a huge weight lifted off his shoulders, looking down at Eddie who had practically shrunk so far down into the couch that he looked like a part of it. But he was still smiling, still looking at him in the same way.

He lifted himself, sitting upright with his back against the cushions. Grabbing two bottles, ripping the caps off with his teeth.

“Interesting.” Munson divulged, not even noticing that the entire party was staring at them both with their jaws to the floor.

“You owe me 20 dollars!! I told you!!”

Henderson rose up, laughing and pointing at Mike. He always did like to be proved right. The party later found out that Dustin was certain his ‘gay-dar’ was spot on but Wheeler told him it was just broken, it was smashed right into the ground.

“I TOLD you guys, but hey, what do I know?”

Cherry-faced, Steve and Eddie looked at each other, and back at the party, and in perfect unison took several big swigs of their beers.

[gffa]

The latest ending of Ahsoka really made me realize one of the big problems with Felony's writing and why so much of the Masndo-verse and Felony's modern writing falls flat compared to OWK and Andor. Shock value. A BIG twist cliffhanger that leaves us all mouth open and HYPING up the next episode in hope and filling the forums with discussions in anticipation. Understandably, he can't write what we wrote in our heads for 7 days and top that. 1.

2. But once that shock is gone when the story has moved onto the next big thing, or you watch it again when you know what it pays off in, or watch the whole series or season again, it just doesn't hold up. It's empty. Vapid. Because it's all about the shock. The twist. The discussion. The hype fodder. It's not saying anything or adding anything. OWK and Andor was a lot better at that, without the use of the nostalgia baiting that Felony relies on. 3. It becomes an endless circle of low lows and high highs, while OWK and Andor both slowly built up to the crescendo of discussions and speculations and both have stayed in the fandom consciousness alot longer thanks to that. And because they have something to say, both to the world and to the viewer. While with the Felony and the Fraudrou verses, it's just a constant barrage of oh wow, moving on, what's next? ehh, it's over, let's move on.

I feel like one day I'm going to do a longer analysis on why exactly Filoni's writing feels weak to me (where I try to be more fair than I'm usually feeling about his writing), because I don't think he's without a lot of talent and there's certain things he really does get about Star Wars, but I think so much comes back to that he's a writer who is caught in a difficult position--playing in someone else's sandbox but has to now establish his own new corners of that sandbox and I'm not sure he's strong enough to be a big picture kind of guy when he works better in smaller focus. His work on TCW and Rebels is content that we do come back to again and again for analysis, during my rewatches of both those series, those shows hold up! But I think they're ones where he had stronger guardrails up, and he was forced to stick to things in one place. I think live action has been bad for Filoni's writing because of the way so much is structured, that there are multiple series going on and I feel like his writing doesn't have the patience to actually tell a story in a single space, that's why we get Grogu's story being split between The Mandalorian and The Book of Boba Fett, that's why we get Mandalore's story being splintered across Rebels, The Mandalorian, The Book of Boba Fett, and now Ahsoka. We still haven't even seen half of the events that happen in the Mandalore bigger story! And you're right that he and Favreau both lean too hard on the cameos and echoes/rhymes for nostalgia's sake. And those reference points are often extremely fun in the moment! And I'll grant that the Luke episodes are ones I go back to fairly often, because I think there's some really good content in there about what attachment actually means. But I don't think it's that surprising, looking back, how quickly the Favroni shows fell apart for us and how it doesn't feel like they're establishing anything that can support a bunch of books and comics. I suspect that Disney's not allowed to have books/comics/etc. based on Favroni's shows because they want creative control over those characters while they're still actively writing for them, but also I look at the OT and the PT and look how much was built off those movies+TCW as a foundation, I look at how much you're able to still watch those and find new things to analyze, and I just don't feel that with Filoni's writing anymore, not since Rebels, not to that level, anyway. (I'll grant that I've been a lot more excited about the Ahsoka series and what we can say about it/find in analyzing it than I expected, I expected nothing but shitposts like we did with Mandalorian s3, but I've had fun with serious meta in Ahsoka! I was genuinely excited to come on-line after episode 4 and talk about themes and structure and how well Filoni did with that there!) Ultimately, I think Filoni (and Favreau) both have a lot of talent, but I think they're being pushed too hard to make too much too quickly and that it shows that they're making this up as they go along, rather than that they had a vision they've been crafting for years and any kind of idea of where they want the end goal to be. Like, yeah, Lucas wrote some stuff on the fly, he changed his mind about things along the way, but he had an end point in mind for his story, so the echoes/rhymes felt more resonant for me. Favroni don't feel like they have any idea where they're going and so much winds up feeling like shock value and self-reference for nostalgia bad for me instead of something that's Going Somewhere.

[greyias]

I really don’t want swtor to shut down it’s the only eu thing that’s active we have left

I knew these asks were going to start coming in.

So for those who haven't heard, it was reported, and then later confirmed by Keith Kanneg on the forums, that EA is "selling" SWTOR to another developer, Broadsword. For those who want to read the article discussing it, you can read here: https://www.ign.com/articles/star-wars-the-old-republic-development-third-party-bioware

TL;DR -- It's not shutting down. The servers are going to stay active for a while

There's a few points to note here:

If I understand things correctly, EA actually owns Broadsword. So EA is in fact not actually offloading a property, I think what's actually happening is BioWare Austin itself is being divvied out and would not be surprised to see if that branch is shut down

At least half of the SWTOR dev team is part of this move, so the key things to keep an eye on is which members of the dev team are moving. If the narrative staff is kept intact, then we have more story ahead of us beyond what's been written, and they've confirmed we're getting 7.3, 7.3.1, and 7.4. It's important to note that their production timeline is generally a year out from things being written, so story-wise, if they have narrative staff, we'll likely still have some story drops ahead of us

SWTOR is profitable (it hit over $1 billion in profit several years ago), and I will admit I don't have the best understanding of video game finances, but my impresion it was far into the black and maybe not an enromous cash cow, but a decent consistent revenue stream. EA is a publisher that is about profits, so as long as the game is profitable, even if there's not new story drops, the game will stay online

Disney has seemingly taken a recent interest in SWTOR after mostly ignoring it after its acquisition of Star Wars, even going so far as to finally acknowledge the general KOTOR/SWTOR era in their presentations last year at Celebration. Does this ultimately mean anything? I don't know, but SWTOR is one of the longest running current properties with a stable player base. They're just as interested in profit as EA. Probably another indicator that the game will keep running for a while.

Other properties that Broadsword operates, such as Dark Age of Camelot and Ultima Online, are old games. Ultima Online was released in 1997, and the servers are still active. So like, I think regardless of what happens in regards of the story, we're not losing the ability to log in and play the game

Long term subscriptions - I remember reading, and forgive me, because I've long forgotten the source, that a key indicator if the servers are going offline is to also keep an eye on the six-month subscription option. Basically, if suddenly the only option for subs goes down to one month, that's when to worry about being able to actually play the game.

This is probably not about SWTOR, but BioWare as a whole. It seems there's a leadership issue at the main Alberta office that's causing issues. This is likely an Anthem issue all over again, but Anthem this time happens to be the Mass Effect and Dragon Age properties. Unfortunately, BioWare Austin looks like it's going to suffer the consequences of that, even though they've been running a tight ship overall compared to the rest of the branches. I feel for them. This sucks.

Now I'm not an oracle, I have no idea if this is ultimately a good or bad thing for the game itself. There's a lot of evidence for both sides of the coin, so right now the best thing is to wait and see. We at least have the promise of the next two patches. Let's focus on enjoying that, and celebrating what we love about our silly space game.

If you love the game, keep playing it. Spend money on it, and keep it profitable and it will stay around. Be kind and supportive of the devs, who regardless of how this shakes out, are going through a major transition. But immediately decrying an active game's death and going into doom and gloom is not going to help things.

Will we get more story beyond 7.4? I do not know one way or the other. I hope we do, but it's hard to say for certain on that front. But I do believe we'll still have our toons and be able to replay all of the released content for quite a while to come. Again, for now I'm just going to enjoy my favorite game, and support it as long as I have it. Even if this inevitably means it's going to change.

[moodymisty]

I feel this whole „ovulating askbox for the primarchs” (well, I fit in this category bc I love this trope - I mean being cared even more like a porcelain ngh!) comes from pure curiosity and being on the science team, wanting to imagine all this wrong shit being inside your body. And as in Corvus fanfic you made earlier...the consequences of such thing would be unshakable, making food for so, so many questions about half-primarch (and to an extention primarch) biology. This must be tiring, but like...um...what if it’s deadly, what if the consort fell incredibly ill and then they find out why (revelation lol)? This makes so much for a conflict! If so, is there possible to make whole population of biological superhumans without space marine hormonal coctail and indoctrination...I’d still headcannon that potential half-primarch would be sterile, but what if, right? Or conflict for the throne and Imperium of Man holy molly! (Or like, getting forbidden from getting that bed to rumble)But as it is said, pregnancy is still used as a form of shock, a new development in life that completly rearanges your perceptron towards society and society perception towards the pregnant women. Often the role of such is just sidelined into the „mother” role...but coming back to the tiring with a askbox. Are you still doing star wars fanfiction? Or is this blog fully focused on WH40K (I don’t mind either way, I like both). Anyway keep being awesome and let your litterature cooking skills still shine no matter the age.

The fear of the unknown of it would be a big thing, I mean unless another primarch beat Corvus to the punch you'll be the first one having a half primarch child. I tend to imagine that (I mean pregnancy is already dangerous lets be real but) any half primarch child is going to be super fucking taxing on the body probably to the point of near killing you. More than likely it's a race against time to see how long you can manage to carry the child until they have to take it out for your own safety.

I imagine some of them would be interested in the power of a half primarch as well. Are they going to be less powerful because of half baseline human blood? Or is it going to be a nephilim situation where they have the full power of a primarch but the uncontrollable emotion of a baseline human?

But I'm glad you like my stuff friend <3 I'm taking a break from Star Wars after some heavy burnout and tbh the series wasn't that interesting for me at the moment. Since Andor my interest has kind of been waning, and constantly having to deal with dumb discourse ending up on my dashboard no matter who I unfollowed didn't help. I might go back to SW at some point, but for now it's mostly WH and Darksiders.

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (19/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~3.2k

More of Feyre settling into her place in the Night Court and understanding exactly what it means to be Lady of Night. Some dialogue and text is lifted directly from A Court of Mist and Fury.

Read on AO3 or you can find the nineteenth chapter below the readmore.

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11 - she underestimated just who she was stealing from | ch. 12 - no amount of freedom gets you clean | ch. 13 - stay stay stay | ch. 14 - call it what you want to | ch. 15 - even when you're sleeping, keep your eyes open | ch. 16 - you drew stars around my scars | ch. 17 - do you remember all the city lights on the water? | ch. 18 - and it smells like me | ch. 19 - your mom's ring in your pocket

The next morning, I ate breakfast standing in the space between Rhys's back and his wing, peering over his shoulder as we both read the latest report from Azriel. The spymaster's words were short and to the point—I understood most of it, and Rhys answered my questions about what I didn't.

The conclusions were clear enough. Despite Azriel's extensive network of informants, there was no new evidence of the attackers' identity, and the Cesere trove had been completely looted. Nothing had turned up for sale on the black market. And strangely, a complete accounting of whatever had been inside of the temple was impossible to find. No survivors meant nothing but dead ends.

I was still finishing my tea when Amren arrived with a stack of books that was nearly half her height. Slips of paper with handwritten notes were shoved between the pages of all of them, and some of the titles were in languages I didn't recognize.

Amren dropped the stack unceremoniously onto the kitchen table. "Research. As requested before you leave for Illyria, Rhysand."

"Research on what?" I said.

"On you, girl. And whatever power has been thrumming in your veins since you were Made."

I downed the last of my tea—I wasn't sure I wanted to talk about whatever remnant of the Great Rite still lived within me. It was something I tried not to think about. In the past couple of months, I'd gotten used to ignoring it, though the echo was still constant.

"And I assume you found something, or we wouldn't be having this conversation," Rhys said.

"I have theories, but books aren't enough to prove anything—we'll have to run tests."

I set down my empty cup, and Rhys rested a hand on my lower back. If Amren hadn't been there, I would have leaned into his touch.

"We don't have time for dramatics today. Please explain," Rhys said, and it was the closest anyone, even a High Lord, ever got to barking an order at her. From the way Rhys stood a hair closer to me than usual, I could tell it stemmed from protective instinct.

"Feyre has been claimed by the Night Court, and she's mated to its High Lord. It stands to reason that she's a creature of Night. But at the same time, her Making was a boon from Spring Court magic after taking Tamlin's place in the Great Rite. She may be…something else entirely."

An oily knot of dread settled in the pit of my stomach. "If Tamlin thinks I stole power from him and swore fealty to Rhys on Calanmai…" I said.

Perhaps being the Cursebreaker wouldn't be enough to keep Tamlin from hunting me and seeking revenge if he thought I'd worked against him. Saving all of Prythian might not matter in the face of the feud between Night and Spring.

Rhys let out a low growl. He must have been thinking along the same lines.

"Agreed," Amren said with a curt nod in his direction, "and because treasure troves with objects from both Spring and Night are few and far between, it's time to stop stalling. You have a promise to keep."

"Find another method," Rhys said. Darkness began to leak from him, the inky whorls stretching in my direction. Tendrils wound around my arm but didn't squeeze.

"Feyre has to go claim it anyway."

"She's already proven more than enough."

"Spare me, Rhysand. We all know what you were thinking when you put that bargain tattoo on her finger."

A muscle feathered in Rhys's jaw. Amren rolled her eyes.

"Tell me what you're talking about this before this comes to blows," I snapped, shrugging Rhys's hand off my back.

When he glamoured me, Rhys kept the bargain tattoo visible on my ring finger now that we were back in the Night Court. He'd never actually promised me that the morning after Calanmai wouldn't be the last time we saw each other, so it had never faded. In truth, I'd grown a bit fond of it. But if there was something I hadn't been told about it…

Amren looked at Rhys, and there was something almost amused about the way the silver in her eyes swirled. He took a deep breath, clearly gathering himself. I crossed my arms and waited.

"There's a ring," Rhys said, and each word sounded as if it were ripped out of him. "An heirloom of my family, passed down from female to female. My sister wasn't born yet, so my mother gave it to me when I was a boy. A reminder that she was always with me, even during the worst of my training, and I safeguarded it with preserving spells, the way our kind do for anything valuable. When I reached my majority, she took the ring away and gave it to an ancient, wicked creature called the Weaver, who added it to the collection of treasures she amassed over millennia."

A hoard of spelled objects from all over Prythian, the perfect setting to test what magic matched the echo still within me. Assuming, of course, that I could avoid the monster guarding it.

There was one aspect of it I couldn't quite follow. "Why would your mother give it away?"

Amren's answering serpentine smile made my blood run cold, though I doubted the look that Rhys shot her in response could have been any more murderous.

"Another test. If I were to marry or mate, then the female would either have to be smart or strong enough to get the ring back. And if she wasn’t either of those things, then she wouldn’t survive the marriage. I promised my mother that any potential bride or mate would have to pass, but I think if she were still here…she'd agree that you've already done more than enough."

I froze. And nearly forgot to breathe until I blurted out, "A wedding ring?"

My wedding ring, really. It sounded so human. Rhys was my mate, my soul-bonded partner—husband didn't even begin to cover it.

"Yes, but you're under no obligation to—"

I cut him off; a horrible thought had just occurred to me, and I needed to ask, even though Amren was growing impatient. "You— You haven't…sent someone after it before me, have you?"

"Cauldron, no," he said, horrorstruck. I felt a bit better, though, knowing that there wasn't some poor female who'd died attempting to marry Rhys a few centuries before I was born.

"And this isn't— You're not…proposing?"

For a moment, Rhys just stared at me with the wide-eyed expression I'd last seen Under the Mountain when I'd told him I was nineteen. Amren rapped her nails against the table.

But a pounding against the front door saved him from having to answer my question. Cassian, Azriel, and Mor had arrived, and there were more urgent matters at hand. The door unlocked with a gesture from Rhys, and Amren muttered something about leashing his dogs as we made our way to the sitting room.

Cassian wasted no time reporting on everything he'd learned about the rogue war-bands—their numbers, their movements through the forest, who in Windhaven sympathized with them. I wasn't familiar enough with Illyria to follow all of it. But I still listened carefully, waiting for a chance to suggest I go with.

The conversation turned to exactly what to do with the ringleaders. It was obvious enough that they couldn't be allowed to live, not after they'd supported Amarantha. Killing them in woods would be most efficient. But it would be out of the public eye, a missed opportunity to send a message, albeit a bloody one.

Perhaps it was the question of how to claim my wedding ring still being fresh in my mind, but a thought struck me. It might have been ridiculous—I wasn't entirely sure what sort of creature the Weaver even was—but it seemed worth considering.

"If we need to make a statement to keep control of Illyria," I said, cutting in, "then we could give them to the Weaver and kill two birds with stone."

Five pairs of eyes landed on me, all with naked shock.

Rhys was the first to smile. "Are you suggesting that we allow a death-god to eat a few rogue Illyrians in exchange for the return of your wedding ring?"

I couldn't tell if he was mocking me—it did sound ridiculous when he put it like that. In truth, I didn't care enough about the ring that I was willing to kill for it, but the Illyrians who'd gleefully bowed to Amarantha would be put to death anyway. And years of hunting had taught me to wring every last ounce of utility from a kill.

I lifted my chin. "Amarantha refused to free her human slaves. I'm the Night Court's resident human. What better way to punish them for supporting her than turning them over to me?"

Azriel's brows flicked up in approval. After our conversation in the training ring yesterday, the sight of it made me feel a bit more sure of myself.

"If we're cracking a few wing bones, Feyre might as well get a turn," Cassian said. Breaking an Illyrian's wing bones—ideally leaving enough jagged edges to tear holes in the membrane—was one of their most severe punishments, I'd learned, a favored way of preventing prisoners from escaping to the skies.

"It's Illyria, not Velaris, so word will get out, which we can spin in our favor. Distaste for slavery instead of petty revenge against those who supported the bitch who made Rhys her—" Mor said, choking back that last word with a grimace. Her throat bobbed. "The bitch who hurt him."

"I'll never be offended by you telling the truth. Even about that," Rhys said softly.

On the other side of the sofa, Mor took his hand and squeezed it. "No one reasonable would fault you for slaughtering your rapist's supporters. But for the unreasonable ones…it's also true that involving Feyre could help dispel the rumors that Prythian's savior is a pawn you intend to discard."

"Assuming the Weaver is willing to bargain, it's not a bad plan," Azriel said.

"Hell of an assumption, though," Cassian added. He crossed his arms, the siphons on his hands glinting in the sunlight streaming in through the window.

My eyes slid to Rhys—I had their support, but as High Lord, this would be his call. If he wanted me to stay out of it and find another way to get the ring…I'd understand.

"All of it is your choice, Feyre. If you don't want to risk leaving Velaris, no one will force you," Rhys said.

I hadn't thought of it like that. I'd been so prepared to prove myself useful, ready to argue that a human wouldn't slow the rest of them down or get in the way. But Rhys's concern was the burden it placed on me.

Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised—after Calanmai, he'd told me that if nothing else, I needed to understand there was a target on my back. I was safe behind Velaris's wards, hidden away in an untouched city like a gem in a vault.

No one would blame me for staying behind. I'd nearly lost my life countless times since Tamlin dragged me over the Wall, and continuing to push my luck might be a bit…insane.

But when Rhys's mother had left that ring with the Weaver, it had been a message. The test wasn't about whether I was worthy of her son—after all, the Cauldron itself had matched us—but rather a statement about what it meant to share your life with the High Lord of the Night Court, hard-won wisdom wrapped up in a challenge she'd designed to outlive her when the worst came to pass.

Lady of the Night Court wasn't just a title…it was a mantle to take on.

"I'm not shying away from any of it. I'll go," I said.

There was a flicker of pride down the bond, identical to the one I'd felt the first time I'd landed a hit to Rhys's jaw. And apparently he wasn't the only one who felt that way—from where he'd been leaning against the doorway, Cassian reached over and mussed my hair. I hissed, batting his hand away.

"Send your mate and your dogs out to the yard if they insist on playing, Rhysand. The adults still have matters to discuss," Amren said.

Cassian's smile turned predatory. "Amren, if you wanted to play—"

"Can we not?" Mor said with a groan. "We're supposed to be working."

To his credit, Cassian said nothing after that, just smoothed my bangs back into place apologetically. Rhys watched for a moment, expression soft, before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

Amren had a point; there was plenty to plan with Rhys being away from Velaris for a while, the priestesses still in need of support, and more information about the state of disarray in other courts filtering in daily. We were at it for a while, making plans and setting priorities.

It was another early night, followed by another early morning.

For the first time since Calanmai, I strapped a quiver to my back, a hunting knife to my thigh, and slung a bow over one shoulder. The familiar weight made my stomach churn. Even though I'd eaten breakfast, fear that the food would run out came roaring back, and for a moment, I felt as if I were still starving in the winter woods.

I forced myself to breathe. That part of my life was over. I wouldn't let it get the best of me now.

Dawn was breaking when I met Rhys in the foyer. His wings were still too weak to manage the long-haul flight from Velaris to Illyria—we'd winnow most of the way, then land. With the bow and quiver, it was a bit awkward, but Rhys scooped me up in his arms easily.

My unease disappeared, so quickly that for a moment I thought he might have pushed past my shields and slashed it with a talon. But no, I just…felt better with Rhys holding me. The scales of his leathers brushed my cheek as I pressed myself closer.

I felt a rumble in his chest as he chuckled, low and soft. "Good morning to you, too," he said.

"We have somewhere to be," I grumbled.

Rhys kissed my temple as the world disappeared into smoke and shadow. In an instant, we were high above the ground, falling fast. I yelped and held on tighter as his wings snapped open.

We pitched forward, and the wind died down as we settled into a smooth glide. The air smelled strongly of pine, and I breathed it in deeply as I lifted my head and beheld Illyria for the first time.

This high up, the tents and buildings were little more than dots on the mountain. And we were far from the only ones in the air—everywhere, winged males were soaring to and from Windhaven. Two of them drew closer, and flashes of cobalt and crimson in the morning sun were enough to identify them as Cassian and Azriel.

As curious as I was about Illyria, there wasn't much to see as the ground rushed up to meet us. Fire pits, the grey stone of the mountain, a few squat permanent buildings. Not much else.

Rhys's wings flapped occasionally, enough to keep our descent slow and controlled. With my arm hooked around his shoulders, I could feel the strain in his muscles. But he was managing—and making it look effortless.

Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel landed in perfect synchrony, with the ease of seasoned warriors who'd trained to fly in formations. Rhys set me down, and I found myself wishing there was a more graceful way to stand up after being carried.

Because people were staring.

The High Lord had returned after fifty years Under the Mountain, with a human girl cradled in his arms. I drew myself up to my full height and met their stares. There was no warmth here, no joy. But there hadn't been much of that in my ramshackle village below the Wall, either. I might have been the only person without wings for miles, but in a way, Illyria seemed familiar.

An older male approached, flanked by a small group of warriors with their hands near their weapons and their wings tucked in tight. As they took in my Illyrian leathers and the ash arrows peeking over my shoulder, I tried not to fidget.

"Your dog," the male said, indicating Cassian with a jerk of his head, "already completed camp inspections yesterday. Don't tell me you've brought a human to check for dust in the barracks, too."

He'd said human, but from the way he spat the word, he might as well have called me a cockroach instead.

"After fifty years away, it's good to see your sparkle hasn't dimmed, Devlon," Rhys drawled. "Feyre Cursebreaker is a member of my Inner Circle, and she wouldn't be here to clean up a mess if you'd kept a tighter leash on your men."

I didn't feel much like a threat, not surrounded by winged warriors twice my size. But I knew better than to let that show. With practiced ease, I pulled an ash arrow from my quiver and gave them a small smile as I tapped it on my thigh.

Devlon hated Rhys—I'd knew that much from all the planning we'd done the day before. I wasn't sure if he was bold enough to call his High Lord a whore to his face, though. From the way he'd narrowed his eyes, I could tell he wanted to. My grip on the ash arrow tightened.

"These last fifty years have been difficult for us all," he said through clenched teeth.

"I'm not interested in hearing your excuses. The current state of your camp is pathetic, and if I see one more misstep, you can consider yourself court-martialed."

Rhys turned and started walking towards the tree line, not bothering with a dismissal. Azriel, Cassian, and I followed without another word.

There were more stares as we crossed the camp, not just from the warriors, but from Illyrians who'd clearly been in the middle of chores or going about their business, too. If Windhaven was anything like my village below the Wall—and I suspected it was—word traveled fast. I focused on matching the quick pace Rhys was setting with his stupidly long legs, lest the gossip be about Prythian's savior jogging to catch up and falling on her face.

It wasn't until we'd stepped into the forest that Rhys's wicked amusement slid through the crack I kept open in my shields for him. Stupidly long legs? But you look so delicious framed between them.

"Save it for when we're back home, Rhys," I muttered, and I could've sworn I heard a snicker, either from Cassian or Azriel. We reached the edge of the camp not long after that.

There had been days those first steps into the woods had taken everything out of me. Days I'd been weak from hunger, exhausted from hours on my feet, but alive and determined to stay that way. To ensure my family stayed that way.

Enough food and rest made a difference, but the weight of memory was a heavy one, something that had lodged itself deep in my bones. It might still have dragged me under. But I had a lifeline, an unbreakable cord to grip, and for once, I was working as part of a team.

The work ahead of us might be grisly, but nocking the arrow in my hand had never been easier.

[chloe-skywalker]

Injuries - Poe Dameron

Poe x reader

Warnings: none (angsty?)

Word count: 1,755

Summary: Can Poe forgive Y/n for something that happened on her last mission? Or will they break up for good?

A/N's : May The Force/4th Be With You

Masterlist

Star Wars Masterlist

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“I’m sorry! Please Poe!” Y/n yelled out tripping after him. She didn’t mean to upset him Y/n just thought why worry him? “Forgive me.”

Poe turned towards her with an angry look in his eyes. “Why should I?”

Y/n let out a sigh before trying to plead with her beloved pilot. “Poe, you have to understand-”

“No! I don’t and I don’t want to hear any excuses you have to say.” Poe stated, shaking his head. He didn’t want to hear any excuses or reasons why she did what she did. He let out a sigh. “This.” he pointed between them. “Whatever we had. It’s done!”

Poe turned on his heels and left her standing in the middle of the mostly empty hanger. Y/n was on the verge of tears watching him leave. Had it really been that big of a deal? She just didn’t want to worry him but now she might have lost the best thing in her life.

“Y/n” Finn said having watched the whole thing with Rey.

Y/n/n” Rey called out at the same time as her and Finn headed over to the Y/h/c-ed girl. Both cautious and worried about her as they approached.

“Wha- no. I-I’m fine. I just need some air.” Y/n spoke wiping tears from her cheeks before she turned and walked between the two, heading outside. Needing to be alone for a bit.

Finn and Rey watched her go wishing they could take away her pain. Finn turned to Rey hoping she could tell him why their friends that were massively in love just had, well that happen. “What just happened?”

Rey turned her focus on Finn to answer her friend. “Remember that mission she was sent on?”

“Yeah.” he nodded

“Well, she got hurt really bad and didn’t report it. She kept with the mission. Apparently it was a life threatening injury.” Rey explained.

“Oh” Finn raised his brows in shock.

“Yeah, that's not the half of it.” Rey nodded also having been in shock at the news. “She didn’t say anything when she got back to base either. Eventually Y/n just passed out from all the blood loss. Scared the life out of Poe.”

“Ok. I get why he’s mad, but. Y/n was just trying to finish the mission. It was so important that no one knew what the mission was about or for but Y/n and Leia.” Finn said trying to understand why Poe would break up with the girl he loved more than flying. “But why’s he taking it out on her?”

Rey shook her head ‘no’ and shoulders. She didn’t have a clue either. “I don’t know but ever since he’s been distant and Y/n has been tearing herself apart. She feel so bad.”

Finn sighed looking off in both directions to where their friends ha disappeared. “You can tell on her face how bad she feels for not saying anything to him.”

^ ^ ^

“Poe, man. Your off lately. Have been for weeks now.” Finn pointed out sitting across from the shaggy haired man.

“I know.” Poe mumbled under his breath rubbing his eyes. He knew he hadn’t been at his best for awhile. Not since he broke up with Y/n. He always slept better beside her and she made his life brighter.

“What's wrong man?” Finn asked with a concerned tone and face. He felt for his friend, even though he had a good idea what was wrong but had Poe figured it out yet?

“I miss her, Finn.” Poe let out a heavy breath before lifting his gaze to Finn’s. “Look… I know I’m the one who ended it, what me and her had. But she scared the bantha crap out of me with that stunt she pulled.”

Finn sighed knowing his next words weren’t helpful. “You broke her heart.”

“What?” Poe’s eyes widened at that statement. He broke her?

“You broke her heart. Poe, I really don’t think she meant to cause herself to be injured or to worry you like she did.” Finn explained looking at Poe with sad eyes. “I think you need to talk to her.”

Poe nodded taking a gulp of his drink. “I will.”

^ ^ ^

“y/n/n, you got to leave your room at some point.” Rey said knocking on her bedroom door. The door opened and Y/n let Rey in before she turned back to as far as Rey could tell, packing.

“I will. Just let me have one more day to wallow in self pity and sadness.” Y/n casted Rey a tight smile before returning to her task at hand. Y/n hadn’t left her room much since the whole hanger incident with Poe. She didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. Well, she at least talked to R2. But that was it. It hurt to much to do much of anything. Her heart shattered that day and she has been trying to pick up at least the tiniest of pieces.

“One more day?” Rey asked a she stepped further into the room, completely puzzled by Y/n’s words.

“Yeah. I leave tomorrow for a mission.” Y/n stated not even turning to look at her friend.

“What?” Rey couldn’t believe what she was hearing. After all the emotional hurt the Y/h/c-ed girl just went through she’s now gonna go on a mission?

“I’m leaving for another mission tomorrow morning. Well, afternoon, but I want to try and leave early.” Y/n shrugged as she continued to pack her bag.

“What about-” Rey was hoping her and Finn had enough time to fix things between Y/n and Poe before either or any of the, had to leave again.

“Don’t say ‘what about Poe’.” Y/n said cutting off Rey before she could even finish the sentence. She let out a sigh before taking a deep breath and continued. “He broke my heart. I don’t need to worry how he feels if I leave.”

“But Y/n, Leia sends you on dangerous missions. What if you don’t get to come back? You don’t want to leave anything unsaid.” Rey tried pointing out. Everyone knew what had happened between the couple but the one’s closest to them knew they needed to talk. Make up, even.

Y/n bit her lip biting back tears. “I have a lot I would like to say to him. But he’s made it clear that I’m out of his life, mind, his everything. So I’m not gonna try. Cause that would be putting myself through unnecessary heartbreak.”

Y/n carried on packing and Rey turned and left her to it. She needed to find Finn so they could plan their next move. They had to get Poe to talk to her, and fast.

^ ^ ^

“Poe!” Finn yelled out running through the hallway with Rey.

“Poe!” Rey also yelled as they got his attention, Poe turning to face the two.

“What?” Poe asked now facing the two who seemed very out of breath.

“y/n’s leaving.” Finn stated catching his breath but there was still urgency in his voice.

“What?!” That got Poe’s attention instantly. What did they mean exactly by ‘leaving’?

“She’s heading out to go on a mission.” Rey explained further to the new panicked pilot. At least if this was his reaction maybe he could fix things.

“When?” Poe asked the two as he started to move around them ready to go find his girl.

Finn and Rey shared a glance. “Well, she’s not suppose to leave till noon but-”

“She’s already almost done with loading up her ship. She wants to leave early.” Rey cut in.

“Is she in the hanger?” Poe rushed out as he and BB started to fast walk backwards down the hall, ready to take off once a location was confirmed.

Rey nodded. “She should be. Go!”

“Go!” Finn shouted as well.

Poe sprinted down the hallways with BB-8 on his heels. Once they reached the hanger Poe headed for the spot where Y/n normally landed her ship. Upon getting closer Poe decided to call out for her. “Y/n!”

“Poe?” Y/n turned around confused as she was halfway up the ramp of her ship. Some people turned at the grown mans yelling but seeing as it was Poe and spectacles were his specialty, they all got back to what they were originally doing. “What are you doing here?”

Poe finally reached her, standing in front of where she had come down the ramp. He was out of breath but the look in his eyes, Y/n knew nothing would stop him. “I heard you were leaving for a mission.”

“Poe-” she shook her head but he cut her off. Poe needed to tell her.

“No, no please just let me explain.” Poe grabbed her hand hoping if he was it would prevent her from leaving before he could get the words out.

“I’m sorry I was so harsh on you.” Poe gave her a guilty sad smile and sent a squeeze to her hand. “I let my emotions get in the way, and that’s my fault. Please, forgive me.”

He really hoped he could get her to forgive him. They had been through so much together and he might’ve ruined it all. He was just scared of losing her. Poe knew her Jedi mind along with her being a Organa-Solo-Skywalker blood meant that she was more stubborn than anyone else in the galaxy. An truth is he would’ve done the same thing to finish the mission. He wasn’t being fair.

Y/n sent him a small smile and reached for his other hand. “Poe I understand you being worried, scared, maybe a little upset. But I can’t go through that again. Your reaction was, well to put it nicely? A lot. I can’t do it again- not if I give us another chance.”

Poe nodded in understanding. “I promise, I’ll be better. That I’ll do better to not react so harshly.”

“An I promise if I get hurt I’ll tell you right away.” Y/n smiled nodding along with him. She was glad to have her Poe back. Then she smiled mischievously at him and Poe furrowed his eyebrows confused. “You wanna come with me?”

“Huh?”

Y/n laughed at the look on his face before swaying their hands at their sides. “Leia did say I could pick and bring a partner if I wanted.” she smirked, both knowing they weren’t gonna pass this up.

Tag: @gruffle1 @padawancat97

[thehollowprince]

Honestly? I gotta say I'm pretty disappointed and kinda underwhelmed in the ending of The Acolyte. I'm mostly disappointed in certain decisions they made to certain characters and things (*coughcough* Osha *coughcough* Oshamir *coughcough*) Somethings we of course expected to happen did in fact happen. We get a fun couple cameos. But, yeah. Just feeling overall disappointed and underwhelmed.

Yeah, I'm with you.

I'm not going to way I had high hopes for this show, but I went into it cautiously optimistic. (Truthfully, after Ahsoka I'd take pretty much anything.) The cast was what hooked me because I've seen all the mains act before and was looking forward to seeing what they would do in Star Wars, even despite the subject material. But with the exception of Lee Jung-Jae and Manny Jacinto, everyone else's performances fell pretty flat for me.

We had characters that were supposed to be mains (Yord and Jecki) who died after we only had them for two and a half episodes and somehow we're expected to grieve that loss, despite not having anything to really grieve. Personally speaking, I knew all the Jedi on Khofar were going to die before the show even aired because the trailer showed them facing off with a "Sith". Unless they completely broke continuity (which, let's be honest, Headland would) they all had to die for us to get to the point in The Phantom Menace where the Jedi believes them extinct.

Which is something someone I follow just pointed out. Assuming that was a Plagueis cameo, what's the point of Osha and "Qimir"? We know Plagueis goes on to train Palpatine/Sidious, so what's the point in showing us them at the end? Aside from the shipping element, what was the point? Because in the grand scheme of things, they mean nothing to the Sith grand plan. They're just a branch of the Sith tree that gets pruned before we get to the prequels.

Like I said before, so much squandered potential, and in this case, just to give fandom a new ship to obsess over. Between the few number of episodes and the shortness of those episodes, this just reeked of corporate interference to get people to tune in week to week and now for a potential second season.

Disney isn't producing Star Wars stories, they're giving us content. And content with the sole purpose of getting us to consume more content.

[beesmygod]

sorry to double ask but my elden ring timeline thoughts have been activated and id like to roughly explain some of it so!

Marika's village is jarred -> Makes a deal with the Greater Will for revenge against the Hornsent -> Usurps the Gloam-Eyed Queen, becomes god, marries Godfrey, seals away Destined Death creating a cycle of reincarnation (and stagnation) in the Erdtree -> Godwyn is born -> War with the Fire Giants and Fell God, genesis of Radagon -> War with Lurnia -> Marika/Radagon marries Rennala -> Messmer is born, allowed to live to fulfill revenge against the Hornsent even tho he harbors visions of flame -> * -> War with the Hornsent, Land of the Scadutree is sealed with shadow (along with Messmer to prevent him to prevent him from returning with the flame), assuming this is the event which causes Mesmyr to lose contact with Greater Will throwing the Two Fingers into chaos -> * -> Panicked Two Fingers makes Radagon divorce Rennala, Grief destroys Rennala's psyche leaving her a crestfallen shell, Marika being the one who truly loved Rennala this forments the schism between her and Radagon/the "Greater Will" -> Stagnation starts killing the Erdtree, Godwyn is deigned a sacrificial lamb to cultivate a new Rune of Death by the "Greater Will" in an effort to cure the Erdtree of its stagnation, Godwyn's intended death is the final straw that fully turns Marika against the "Greater Will", Marika and Ranni both formulate plans to usurp the "Greater Will" (imo separately) -> Marika banishes Godfrey and his army creating the Tarnished, and revives Melina's soul and gives her her mission -> Before the Tarnished return Ranni orchestrates the Night of Black Knives, breaking the new Rune of Death in two, stealing the half that kills your body for herself and leaving Godwyn with half that kills you soul -> Marika's plan being ruined and unable to save her Son destroys the Elden Ring in grief and rage as revenge against the "Greater Will" -> The Shattering war starts, Rykard intentionally gets eaten by a snake god like a dumbass, Godrick becomes a grafting pervert, Radahn holds back the meteor halting Ranni's plans, Miquella's shit fuckery with Mohg and Radahn starts -> We show up :)

*Other demigods are born in this period (including Melina, who is eventually sacrificed because one child with visions of flame is enough to fulfill the revenge and another threatens the safety of the Erdtree. Her soul is retained by Marika for contigency against the Greater Will)*

Started using quotes around Greater Will to denote it being after Metyr lost contact with it meaning it wasn't truly the Greater Will anymore.

Wow holy shit thats a lot sorry

DA BIGGER ASK!!!

oh shit wait my timeline....is the gloam-eyed queen NOT melina? or is melina taking on the former queen's duties/role as part of the ~elden cycle~ or whatever? you're right though, i forgot the GEQ was the guardian of destined death at one point so it couldn't have been her kid. well, that's a fucking wrench in my brain. that's worth meditating on more and wondering about.

OHHH WAIT I READ FURTHER...it's interesting that melina could have been force revived by marika (and why not? she's doing it to a lot of people including us) because i had assumed melina and messmer were another set of radagon and marika's twins who were fucked up and cursed in a different way than the other set they allowed in public.

another weird wrinkle to the radahn stars thing is that i forgot about miquella's eclipse plan that failed to bring godwyn back. if the stars have been stuck in place, then its radahn's fault the eclipse didn't happen. on purpose??? maybe??? i really like the idea of radahn, who by all accounts appears to have been a big softie, being like "nooo my sister don't go to space i wont let you :(" but i had forgotten about how much that side of the family hates marika's lol.

WAIT I REMEMBERED: at one point melina was going to be an empyrean right? we find that statue of a young girl surrounded by three wolves, presumably the same spirit ash wolves we can summon that once belonged to "torrent's former master" (melina!). man wtf. what is melina. who is she. what is she. who sealed her freaking eye and why. and most importantly....why can't torrent triple jump like the ancestor spirit come on bro

[mioyeo]

Watch your back : chapter 4

Once you don’t value what you have someone else learns how to take care of what used to be yours

Synopsis : 8 men supposed to give her all the love they promised end up leaving her behind without a valid reason

Pairing : girlfriend Reader x PolyAteez !

Warnings : this chapter contains mentions of, reader ignoring Seonghwa for weeks , deep talk , arguing with Rin , flashbacks etc Please reminding me if I forgot something

Tag list : @legbouk , @scarfac3 , @m4rsluv , @hcyaa , @jackinmyarea , @layzfeelit , @loverlele , @mulletjoonsupremacy , @veneziamadness , @belle643 , @gugggu6gvai , @atinytinaa , @voidcupidz , @atinyreads , @baguette-atiny , @parkthothwa8 ,

This series is going to be posted together with the Psychiatric series, which means one chapter after another

Word count : 1,5k

She woke up tiredly going into the bathroom leaving her tidy bed behind

It's been some weeks since the incident , she stopped caring for anything else

It was only school , home , work and sleep in , to the point it got concerning for him

The quietness was starting to bother Seonghwa he at least expected for her to spare him a glance but nothing, neither did she talk to him or anything not even a single interaction

The only thing she smiled about was when she watched baking videos , was with the others or texted her new friend

Who felt bad seeing her down when they went to the cinema , she fell asleep there not even paying attention to him at all

Hey look the best part their about to-

There she was asleep with her head on his shoulder looking like a toddler who just had started it's nap time

She put on a big sweater that belonged to Seonghwa and some of his nike pants , despite the rage she felt and heart break she kept these pair of clothes it was the only thing she felt comfortable with from him at the moment

The girl went down into the kitchen and made herself some cereal before sitting down on the floor in  the living room

It was quiet as she enjoyed the alone time since everyone was asleep obviously since it was 6am

She went on her gallery and scrolled through the pictures and stumbled on her Seonghwa albums she somehow didn't want to get rid off

Pictures

She chuckled at the last one remembering that day as if it was yesterday

Can't I get any ? Why not I'm the one paying

Because it will take us a lot of time to stand in line  and our train will arrive soon

But we can catch the other one

Seonghwa my feet are sore I want to go home and finally sleep

Baby please I'll be sad if I don't get that Star Wars lightsaber , I really need it

Seonghwa please I- you owe me a feet massage, and now we have to look for a hotel or something because that was our last train

Thank you ! Come on let's go before it's gone

Both walked back to the toys shop where a huge line of adults with their kids where

Seonghwa look at the line it's so long

But baby it's going to be worth it just wait

They stood in line for like a hour and half , Seonghwa ended up fighting with a kid that wanted the same color as he wanted

I was in line first so I get the purple one

But sir your to old to like these stuff and I'm a kid who's still growing up

I don't care if your a kid I was here first

Daddy he doesn't want to give me the purple lightsaber it's rare and I want it !

Yeah exactly it's rare that's why I deserve it after waiting for hours in line

The kid kicked him on his leg hard grabbing the lightsaber and ran away to the cashier where his parents payed for it

Hey that was my lightsaber!

His lips started to tremble from the pain and that his purple lightsaber had been taken away

Seonghwa let's go it's gone already

She grabbed his hand leaving with him out the store as he waddled behind her like a child who's just had the worst day of its life

Baby please it's just a toy

It's not just a toy ! It's a rare purple lightsaber

He leaned on a pole crossing his arms looking away with his black hair slightly covering his eyes making him look a lot cuter than he already was in her eyes

Seonghwa baby please cheer up I'll see if I can find you another one I'll do anything for it

He looked to the side allowing her to  snap a quick picture

Really? , you better not play with me

I promise baby don't worry

She pulled his mask down and kissed him making him smile and hold her

Thank you love

She smiled and scrolled through other pictures each one telling its own story in her mind , she looked at her wallpaper it was a cute picture he took with one of the boys

Wallpaper

Placing her phone beside her she continued to eat and watched a random show on Netflix

" Why are you awake at this hour "

Jongho walked towards her as she sat there eating unbothered

" I couldn't sleep anymore "

He sighed sitting down next to her and kissed her forehead

" You guys need to fix it soon "

" If you came here because of this you just wasted your time "

She placed her finished bowl on the table and laid her head down on his lap

" Honestly, you both are being immature just talk to each other and see where it goes "

" Listen to me I don't want to make a move he hurt me by saying that , he needs to apologize "

" And you don't think you've hurt him with doing what you did and saying what you said?"

He rubbed her cheek

" I don't think so ,  he said it first "

" Come on baby think about it just talk to each other and you'll be fine again "

He stood up and went back to his room not before stopping somewhere else

She sighed and drew her attention back to the television , but her phone soon started ringing

Incoming call from " Tall prince "

Ah Y/n~~ are you awake ?

He yawned into the phone making her chuckle

Mhm I woke up hours ago why are you calling me this early in the morning?

I missed my strawberry besides I wanted to take you on a morning jog you in ?

Are you for real? it’s 6am

Ay just get ready I'll buy you breakfast too

I just ate cereal what else do you offer

I'll get us a nice waffle breakfast mhm ?

Ok I'll get ready , is Taeyang coming?

I show you my friends once and your already heads over heals , kidding he's asleep I don't think it will be the best idea to wake him now or he'll start nagging

He laughed quietly and smiled as she let out a sad sigh

I'll tell him to come next time don't be sad

You better , you know how much I enjoy jogging with him

I know I know now get ready so we can meet at your doorstep

They both said goodbye and hung up

She got up and went inside her room to change into her sports bra and some track pants , despite it being chilly outside she was going to warm up eventually from the jogging

" Don't you feel ashamed of yourself for going behind their backs with another guy ? "

Rin stood in front of her with showing her phone with the wallpaper on display

" Why are you going through my phone for ? , and he's just a friend of mine "

She tried snatching her phone back but failed

"Should I call San again , even better Yeosang ? I'm pretty sure they would be pissed "

The girl chuckled raising her voice on purpose

" I'm not a child to be controlled , I'm allowed to have friends it's not like I'm dating him or anything we are just friends "

" Yeah "friends" don't really save each other as Tall Prince on their phones "

" I don't know what type of mentality you have but friends do that , maybe you just don't have any of them that's why your acting up "

She approached the slight taller girl trying to snatch her phone back but again to no use

" Maybe I'll just call Yeosang right now and see what he'll think about you seeing other guys "

" I don't care about his opinion either his or San's , I may love them but I make my own decisions on who I want to be friends with "

She took her phone back before putting it inside the pocket of her pants

" I'd be surprised why Seonghwa said what he said last time but I'm not , I mean your indeed boring and less attractive  "

Y/n chuckled looking at the girl

" Is that what you care about ? being attractive and entertaining ? look the one who's boring is Seonghwa and he isn't that entertaining either but I did not choose to love him because of these little perfections I wanted to love him because of what he presented me and that being his true charms neither of them being attractiveness or entertainment"

" Well that's what you think- "

" I've dated them for like 4 years  while you are just on your first year with them , I know I'm starting to get boring no wonder they started dating you without letting me know which is ok because I'm not holding them back ”

Y/n grabbed one of her tracksuit jackets and went down the hall taking her keys  before finally exiting the house

Someone watched her from above out their window how she smiled brightly before hugging the boy that had been waiting for her a while now to come out so they could go jog

" What took you so long to come out "

" I'm sorry I just fell asleep "

She smiled telling him something else before they started jogging away from the apartment

[kay-jaye]

apology dance (1650's version)

for my dear @lillioba. thanks for inspiring me to write this! 6k words of blood, sweat, tears, two mental breakdowns, and tons of historical research. i might be starting the whole "i was wrong dance" series. i've got plans.

we could have lived this dance forever by kayjaye (T)

“You know,” Aziraphale said, hushed tone drawing the demon’s gaze, “in regards to forbidden things, well, there’s always the…underground scene.” “Underground,” repeated Crowley. “Sounds hellish.” “No, not like—” Aziraphale glanced around them, aware of his voice resuming normal volume, then fell back into a whisper. “Not like Hell.” “Aziraphale, are you enlisting me to engage in an illegal theatrical gathering?” “I was simply asking if you’d care to join me for a show, dear.” * Or 1650 presents...Underground theater, the Adultery Act, and an apology dance. Starring: - Aziraphale “the Puritans made me do it” Fell AND - Anthony J“who said lust was my specialty?” Crowley

read on ao3 or here!

*****

“Are you even listening to me, Crowley?”

Crowley took a swig of his drink—or it could’ve been Aziraphale’s drink for all he knew. It was alcoholic (that was what mattered), tasting distinctly of fruit, but unlike any wine or sherry he’d known Aziraphale to frequent.

He scolded the smile off his face, hiding its stubborn remains behind the rim of the beaker. “By default, certainly not the one doing the talking right now.”

Aziraphale fixed him with a disapproving glare before folding, unfolding, and folding his hands on the table. The pub was at half capacity, but no one paid much attention to the copious number of beverages served in their direction.

Crowley didn’t plan on running into Aziraphale in London. In fact, Crowley tried very hard not to make a habit of planning on the angel at all, but the shreds of hope were tolerable and, more importantly, excusable. He wouldn’t be too let down, and they wouldn’t have to recognize the blatant defiance against their respective sides that came with scheduling meetings. Coincidence was safer.

Poetic, even.

“Those damn Puritans,” mumbled Aziraphale.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “Rather blasphemous,” he mused. “Are they? Damned?”

“You— I mean, theaters, Crowley, really? What’s the point in shutting down entertainment? And during war? Sometimes, it’s as if they want to be as miserable as humanly possible.” Aziraphale searched the table for a moment, spotted the cup in Crowley’s hands, and slumped forward. “It’s not—”

“Fair?”

Aziraphale sighed. “What’s not fair is you polishing off the rest of my drink.”

“It was on me anyway,” Crowley said. “I’ll get you another.”

“No, it’s quite alright.”

Staring at the being in front of him, Crowley pointedly set the cup down. “Seems you’ve got plenty of dramatics to make up for the lack thereof,” he said, not as successful at hiding his amusement this time.

Crowley knew Aziraphale’s grievances were partly rooted in the simple pleasure of having someone to tell them to. As soon as he received news about the Puritan ban on public stage plays, the likelihood of a vexed angel appearing increased tenfold. Not that he kept track of the events he was sure Aziraphale would have words for, but when they did happen to run into each other, he was extremely pleased with the accuracy of his subconscious guesses to the real thing. Wasn’t very demonic of him to take pride in how well he knew an angel, but he could blame the snake in him for wanting to see just how unangelic he could make said angel as he registered his complaints.

“It’s been years!” Aziraphale threw his hands up, finally attracting the eyes of a few patrons across the pub.

“No need to lose your head about it, angel. Would hate to see you end up like ex-King Charlie,” Crowley said as he stretched his arms and collapsed back against the chair. “And it’s been eight years. We’ve been around for—”

“So you’re counting too.”

A snort escaped him as he lounged deeper. “Only because in 1642, you stormed in to fuss about good ol’ Willy’s forced retirement.”

“I did not storm—”

“Oh, it was a great storm. Plenty of lightning.”

“Or fuss—”

“I would’ve argued he stepped down in 1616, you know, when he—”

“Good Lord.”

“Careful,” warned Crowley. “She might actually answer you one day.”

He was afraid he’d taken it too far when Aziraphale didn’t respond with some version of quick-witted chastisement. If Crowley blinked more often, he would’ve missed the once-over from Aziraphale, as though the angel were just now realizing they were in each other’s company. He was about to say something—not of any comprehensive language, maybe an indecipherable noise caught in the back of his throat he could play off as a change in conversation—but Aziraphale wore this loaded expression on his face, and Crowley refrained from interrupting, keen on hearing whatever thought had Aziraphale’s jaw set in such a way.

Then he shook his head. “You are insufferable,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley nudged the empty cup lightly across the table, humming, “You must be fond of suffering, then.”

…And that was his cue, a sign that he’d had too much and needed to call it a day—a night—how long had they been here? The sun dipped lower without him noticing, light collecting in a slim orange line at the bottom of the nearest window. Thank Someone, Crowley had yet to reach the point of drunkenness that loosened his tongue and left him completely oblivious to it. So far, just the former, and he could work with that.

“Not of suffering, no,” came Aziraphale’s rebuttal.

Crowley’s mouth twitched at the carefully placed denial, and he wondered if it had been purposefully crafted to sound more like a confession instead. With that statement, Aziraphale seemed to lay something out on the table, but when Crowley looked down, there was nothing except the angel’s hands, still folded far too prim and proper for someone who’d drunk his fair share tonight.

But like every time Aziraphale waved this olive branch in front of him, doubt swallowed Crowley. He could be mistaken. It could be any other plant-based stem. He was undeniably selfish when it came to this particular temptation, and even so, Crowley could not bring himself to reach out and take it, in diametric contradiction to his nature, concerned with doing the “right” thing (not by Her standards, mind you; by a mostly rule-following bastard, if anyone) and remaining complacent in speaking with words capable of passing undetected.

If not that, angel, what are you fond of?

It was a question that could not receive an answer, he knew that.

Hesitant to end the night but equally at a loss for excuses to prolong it, Crowley sat up and gestured for their cups to be retrieved. By the time the table was cleared and Crowley had slipped back into his jacket, Aziraphale worked up the nerve to say what he’d conceivably been trying to say all evening.

“You know,” Aziraphale said, hushed tone drawing the demon’s gaze, “in regards to forbidden things, well, there’s always the…underground scene.”

“Underground,” repeated Crowley. “Sounds hellish.”

“No, not like—” Aziraphale glanced around them, aware of his voice resuming normal volume, then fell back into a whisper. “Not like Hell.”

Crowley took his time inhaling, well-practiced at feigning impassivity, for the sake of testing whether Aziraphale had it in him to address a request directly. He leaned forward, elbow propped on the table, chin in hand, and cocked his head, fully committed to just as much dramatic flair as his counterpart.

“Aziraphale, are you enlisting me to engage in an illegal theatrical gathering?”

Aziraphale smiled, and his hands finally unclasped. “I was simply asking if you’d care to join me for a show, dear.”

Thank Someone for his glasses; Crowley didn’t want to think about how his eyes lit up at the mere suggestion. His reply was the same as it had been since Rome, even if Crowley tacked on, “Because it’d be a shame to miss an angel partaking in unlawful activity,” in the interest of saving some face.

Following Aziraphale out, Crowley nodded his thanks as he ducked past the angel holding the door for him. They walked in step, the evening quiet blurring into the background.

With an excited, tipsy lilt, though sober enough to avoid stumbling when he walked, Aziraphale recounted how he knew the venue host. A noise of acknowledgement forced itself from the demon’s throat, but he couldn’t recite the name of the English nobleman funding the illicit show or explain how Aziraphale obtained access to such private affairs if prompted. Crowley’s attention waned in favor of watching Aziraphale slip his fingers beneath his shirt collar, tugging the fabric to rub his neck. Crowley swallowed, told himself it was the stitching that was admirable and nothing else.

The outside certainly didn’t look like any theater Crowley had ever attended, granted he didn’t usually note the architecture of the places Aziraphale coerced him into. Unlike the Globe, this one promised a complete roof. Initially mistaken for any regular tavern or pub, a brick arch preceded the pillar-lined entryway suitable for a respectable manor. Aziraphale led them through a maze of hallways, and Crowley blankly surrendered to either requiring Aziraphale’s assistance or a literal miracle if he intended to leave this labyrinth. Finally, they came across a young man standing guard outside a pair of ajar ballroom doors.

If you considered his thin frame and fidgety disposition guard-worthy characteristics, that is.

“Mr. Fell, glad to see you could make it,” he addressed the angel.

“As am I, Walter,” said Aziraphale, cheery as ever.

The man turned to Crowley, suddenly apprehensive. “And you, sir…?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale cut in, leaning forward as if to tell a secret. Crowley half expected to see the angel’s giddy wiggle at anything remotely sneaky. “He’s with me.”

That, though…that was not what he was expecting.

Despite his best efforts, Crowley fought a losing battle in the struggle to maintain a stoically cool expression. Shock? Or satisfying pride? At least his jaw didn’t hit the floor. It was strikingly far from He’s not my friend. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.

And it was altogether so easy to misconstrue:

He’s with me. We’re together. How silly to think otherwise.

A pregnant pause before Crowley noticed Aziraphale looking at him, waiting for…ah, yes. He extended a hand blindly in Walter’s direction and forcibly dragged his heavy gaze away from the angel.

Not quick enough to avoid narrowing blue.

“A friend of Mr. Fell’s,” he said matter-of-factly, and perhaps a bit indulgently. “Anonymity is essential at these types of things, is it not?”

Walter smiled and shook his hand. Something about that little human gesture always tickled Crowley when he was on the other end of it. A deal with…well, not the devil, but by association, sure. His returning smile was more amused than pleased to meet, and Aziraphale knew exactly why. If the admonishing eye-roll, accompanied by a soft laugh, pivoting into a muffled cough, and then an attempt to clear his throat, was any indication.

While Aziraphale exchanged pleasantries with Walter, Crowley took the opportunity to peek into what he assumed was the house, surprised to find a large audience already sitting. A candle-lit chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting overhead light along with the sconces on the walls, punctuating each row of seats. The stage itself appeared brighter, most likely the work of reflectors.

Crowley was impressed, not only with the set design but also with the number of people willing to face fines for attending clandestine performances.

Hell probably loved all the rule-breaking.

Likewise, Heaven probably loved the Puritan devotion to having no fun.

The ghost of Aziraphale’s hand appeared, hovering just above the small of Crowley’s back, not touching but burning all the same. “Ready?” Aziraphale whispered behind him.

Crowley bit down, his focus solely on resisting the urge to lean back and close the distance, forgo dancing flames and feel the fire firsthand. Such an effort required utmost concentration, so if the noise Crowley made sounded strained, it was purely because he’d forgotten to breathe.

As they settled in their seats, the ambient murmur of conversation gradually tapered off, drowned out by the resonant thud of the closing doors echoing through the theater. Crowley folded his glasses into his pocket, now concealed in dim darkness where attention would undoubtedly be centered on the stage. An anticipatory silence enveloped the room, broken as an actor dashed into view, waving a letter in his hands and declaring word from Don Pedro.

One of the funny ones, then. Crowley was just relieved it wasn’t a tragedy.

The play progressed smoothly into its second act with practiced precision, succeeding yet again at impressing the demon. Periodically, he observed Aziraphale’s reactions to the parts that elicited laughter from the crowd, and he was met with the same angel delight present during the premiere some 40 years ago.

That is, until the abrupt scene change. He’d heard of improv before, but introducing a completely new character seemed like a stretch.

“Oi, Thomas!”

A man emerged on stage.

Crowley leaned forward for a better look at the newcomer striding across the floor, and next to him, Aziraphale straightened as well.

“Is there a Thomas in this one?” Crowley whispered, glancing at Aziraphale, but the confusion was obvious in creased white-blond eyebrows, too. He could’ve sworn this was Much Ado About Nothing. Like the actor evidently named Thomas, Aziraphale shook his head in puzzled bewilderment.

Benedick-now-Thomas took a step back, managing a shaky, “Henry?” before the advancing man reached his target and responded with a rough shove against the actor’s shoulders.

“You knave! You slept with Catherine.”

A murmur rippled through the audience.

“I don’t remember this part,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley spared another glimpse at the angel focused on the unfolding scene, an uncertain crowd waiting for things to make sense. It was a familiar feeling—trouble brewing, boiling under the surface; he was used to being the cause of it, however. Crowley crossed his arms and relaxed back into his seat.

They came for a show. A show it would be.

“Catherine?” Thomas said. “Your wife? By God, Henry, I didn’t—”

“You may be on a stage, but don’t act daft,” said Henry. Balled fists were enough of a threat to send Thomas knocking into props. “Just last night, I saw you and that bedswerver enter the Star Inn together.”

The other actors stood awkwardly, some peeking offstage for further instruction but ultimately conflicted on how to react to the sudden intrusion. Crowley saw several audience members whispering to each other.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Thomas insisted.

Henry glared at the man with a curled lip so ugly, Crowley could make out the sneer from where he was sitting. “I ought to have this place shut down,” said Henry, “but I’m sure you’re aware of the price of adultery these days, fitting as it is.”

Commotion buzzed through the audience again.

“You’d have them execute your own wife?!”

“She ceased to be that the moment you had her.”

“I haven’t, Henry, I wouldn’t—”

Crowley turned toward Aziraphale, ready to make a comment about drama writing itself, a callback to the world being a stage or the world being an oyster (oysters were a touchy subject for Crowley…as in they kindled a stifling desire for touch), but the angel had gone stock-still. No more craning his neck for a better view, just frozen silence pulling the ends of his mouth down.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stared straight ahead, but Crowley suspected he wasn’t actually looking at anything anymore, rather thinking with his eyes open. “It was me,” Aziraphale said, barely audible.

“What was you?”

“I was the one who met with her.”

Crowley blanched. Snakes are cold-blooded creatures, but the ice flowing through his veins was an entirely new sensation.

“You” —think of a different word, think of a better word, there are so many other words— “fucked her?”

It was almost comical, the seconds between the time it took Aziraphale to register Crowley’s question. His distracted stupor morphed into panic as he zeroed in on the demon, and Crowley received a pair of wide eyes mirroring his own. He witnessed the angel’s frantic grapple for words that hit a blockade and went down the wrong pipe. Even in the low lighting, the rosy hue of flushed cheeks and burnt ears stood out as Aziraphale choked on his reply.

Meanwhile, Crowley was busy trying to wrap his head around the image of Aziraphale engaging in…ngk, let’s not go there.

To Aziraphale’s mouth, currently agape in alarm, but reminiscent of what else those lips might part for. To Aziraphale’s fingers slithering farther than just his shirt collar. To Aziraphale’s hands and their branding heat. To Aziraphale’s insatiable hunger for food that must surely translate to other mortal appetites.

And even worse, the softer fantasies. The love wafting off in waves. The “my dear” pressed into bare skin. The assurance of never hitting the ground again. Arms so safe they could make a demon forget what falling feels like.

Had he ever really stopped? Was he still plummeting through layers of ozone and dirt? Did the stomach-sinking, wings-burning, halo-shattering ache ever disappear, or was he merely used to the eternal descent?

Used to being dropped.

And there it was at its core—yearning to be held. Crowley didn’t know how he knew, but unforgivable as he was, damned and disowned, he knew.

Aziraphale would hold and hold and hold.

He was probably that kind of lover; he was an angel, after all.

An angel.

Holy fuck. He was an angel who made an effort—

“No!” hissed Aziraphale.

Most of the audience had resorted to shifting in their seats, peering around the room and filling the space with growing chatter after Henry marched off stage and Thomas darted in the other direction. The remaining actors floundered until someone announced a brief interlude.

Aziraphale floundered too before grabbing Crowley’s wrist. “Come on,” he said, and they filed out of the theater with a few other deserters.

Crowley kept his thoughts to himself as Aziraphale hauled them outside where the temperature had noticeably dipped. The angel halted, surveyed the area, too paranoid to be inconspicuous, then walked farther down the street to turn the corner with Crowley in tow.

Now alone, the atmosphere felt as surreptitious as public stage plays.

“I didn’t—” Aziraphale said, finally releasing his grip on Crowley.

The demon waited.

Aziraphale crumbled into a pout. “...with her. I didn’t—We didn’t do that.”

“So you didn’t fuck her?”

“Really, there’s no need to be crass.” Aziraphale took a breath. “Mrs. Beckford and I met at the Star Inn to talk about the play. Like I told you before” —when Crowley was definitely paying attention; the pinnacle of an avid listener at all times, him, obviously— “her husband affords the theater. He makes the whole thing possible.” Suddenly, the brick wall behind Crowley became curiously fascinating as Aziraphale averted his eyes and said, “I wanted—well, you liked this one back in 1612, so I just asked if…”

Without the weight of his glasses, Crowley couldn’t discern how successful he was at disguising the toss-and-turn in his head. Shock expired, spoiling into bitterness, soon replaced by awe. He couldn’t decide which was more embarrassing: that he only enjoyed Much Ado About Nothing because Aziraphale loved it so much, or that Aziraphale took it upon himself to request a show he thought Crowley would appreciate.

“So I suppose it’s my fault for the misunderstanding?” Crowley quipped, prepared to brush past the admission.

“Well, isn’t it?”

Crowley frowned. “I was joking.”

“It won’t be funny when Catherine gets killed for something she didn’t do,” Aziraphale said. “And Thomas, wrongly accused.”

“So what? You’ll tell them it was you instead?” Aziraphale seemed to actually consider it, which made Crowley groan, “Mr. Beckford—Henry, or whatever—sounded pretty convinced of what went down.” Satan knows they never believe the women. Witches, all of them. “Angel, you’d be ki—discorporated. You know they execute the woman AND her lover, right?”

Aziraphale started to place his hands on his hips, then thought better of it and crossed them over his chest. “Yes, well, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

Crowley’s frustration narrowed into a glare. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re the reason for this awful adultery law, aren’t you?” said Aziraphale, assertive even in his flustered state.

“Sorry?”

“Did you want me to forgive you?”

Crowley almost flinched. “I meant, what are you on about? I didn’t start the law,” he said. “Adultery is one of your side’s Big Ten.”

“Not killing people is also a commandment,” Aziraphale stated.

Crowley bristled at the angel’s disdainful tone. “She’s always been rather hypocritical when it comes to violence. Bit of an oxymoron, holy war,” he said hotly.

“Either Hell assigned the Adultery Act to you,” Aziraphale said, steering back to the original point, “or you just…”

“I just what?”

“Or you’re just the Serpent of Eden!”

The fight knocked clean out of him.

Aziraphale shrugged in exasperated defeat, and all Crowley could do was stare. “Tempted Eve and doomed them both,” he continued. “A test of faith and irrevocable punishment sounds right up your alley.”

Crowley refused to call it betrayal, so he chalked it up to the consequences of mixing low expectations with hope. Aziraphale felt guilty about Catherine and Thomas, he knew that, but Crowley had been labeled guilty for a long time.

“Test of faith and irrevocable punishment,” Crowley echoed. “I think you’ve got it wrong, Aziraphale. You know who that does sound like?”

He looked up at the sky.

Aziraphale didn’t respond.

“And I am the serpent,” said Crowley, forcefully venomous. Then softer, “You were there, remember?”

Neither of them spoke, but the demon offered a single lingering opening that went untouched. He turned and walked away.

The angel let him.

———————

Crowley woke up hungover, something he didn’t usually allow. The light pouring through the inn window was far too bright, but no matter how hard he tried to miracle the shutters closed, he couldn’t escape the splitting headache of being awake. He reluctantly sobered up, exerting most of his energy toward the endeavor and rolling his eyes at the realization he’d no doubt get plastered again in a few hours. It was already late afternoon when he coaxed himself out of bed.

At least he’d been too drunk to dream. He did not need to see the angel anytime soon.

Serpent of Eden.

Her book loved to paint him as some vile creature instigating the fall. Every translation since man managed to hold a pen, the depiction of deceit.

True, he did tempt Eve. He liked Eve, though. She never quite forgave him outright for the apple, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d stuck around after the garden, known her as they lived out their separate retributions. In his opinion, he reckoned knowledge made her all the more likable. Except for that infuriating habit of pointing out when a certain guardian of the general eastern direction was looking. She’d teased him until his face was redder than forbidden fruit, and then she’d teased him about that, too.

Crowley’s aforementioned statement turned out to be false; he hadn’t expected to see Aziraphale, but when he set foot in the pub that evening to find the angel waiting for him, it was definitely something close to need. Godawful hope ruining his stony front yet again.

He should’ve picked a different pub. He should’ve started drinking earlier. He was too sober for another argument. And damn it all, he should’ve left London last night, but he couldn’t. Not when the angel would’ve turned himself in, the absolute martyr. Could give Her son a run for His money.

Of course, Crowley couldn’t step in for Him, but he could do something about the angel. He’d be damned (again) before he let Aziraphale ridiculously, needlessly, discorporate himself. Even if he was mad.

Once Crowley begrudgingly made his way to their table, and let it be known the idea of hightailing it out of the establishment did cross his mind, Aziraphale wasted no time asking the question awaiting its exhaled release.

“What did you do?”

Crowley practically fell into his seat. “Can I get drunk first?”

Aziraphale shook his head incredulously but didn’t stop Crowley from ordering a dram of whiskey. “I went by the Beckford estate this morning to speak to Catherine—to confess to her husband,” Aziraphale said, “and she told me the strangest thing.”

Crowley threw back his drink and willed the alcohol to kick in sooner.

“She said the accusation of adultery wouldn’t hold up in court because, miraculously, no record of her marriage to a Mr. Henry Beckford existed.”

“Well, you know the courts,” said Crowley. “Dreadfully hesitant to rule irrevocable punishment without proof. Funny isn’t it, how most marriages in England are unregistered?”

“Crowley.”

He aimed for indifference— “I do believe I fixed your problem” —and landed somewhere between smug and stressed.

Aziraphale’s expression softened. Crowley debated a refill.

“Don’t,” the demon said. “I performed a slew of demonic miracles last night. Can’t be held responsible for what I may or may not have miracled. Did you know they were out of whiskey here?” He waved his cup in distracted demonstration. “Restocked the whole town.”

Like the prior night, the pub was relatively vacant. An absence of clinking silverware and subdued tavern talk saddled the air with uncomfortable tension.

For Crowley, anyhow. Aziraphale seemed content to tough it out.

“Ok,” Crowley conceded impatiently, “so I made a couple documents disappear. Big deal. Call it wily, angel. Were you or were you not on your way to untimely discorporation?”

Aziraphale looked relieved and somehow even more guilty. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “Thank you.”

Politeness was second nature for an angel, but they both grasped the absurdity of it directed at a demon.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Crowley corrected. “‘M a demon. Can do whatever I want.” He pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose for good measure. “You think I haven’t been twisting the fine print of that law since they wrote it? I was the one who added the bloody clause about not including women whose husbands were absent for three or more years. They wanted to start chopping off heads left and right.”

As if Aziraphale encountered a new version of Crowley every time he opened his mouth, the angel looked on the cusp of several routes to take. Crowley almost wanted the angel to pick up where he left last night, call him a snake, and remind him how foolish this entire arrangement had been. Not the Arrangement, but the messy web spun full of unspoken-rules and uncrossable-lines. Though he’d been privy to their creation and placement, Crowley was prone to forgetting the location of these silk strand glue droplets and stepping on them like landmines, unraveling the whole thing. He could never seem to find his footing without setting off explosive repercussions.

Crowley wasn’t sure if he was a spider caught in a web of its own making, or a fly in Aziraphale’s.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.”

Perhaps it was the famine of the word that made Crowley go slack, but the apology dropped into the pit of his stomach and rubbed in the starvation he’d so skillfully ignored.

“I shouldn’t have assumed you were behind the act,” Aziraphale said. “I actually, uh, checked in with Gabriel and the others.” Crowley raised an eyebrow, and Aziraphale cast his gaze on the ground. “Turns out they sanctioned it. For the noble cause of Puritanism.”

“I take it they were also fans of putting a pause on ‘lascivious mirth and levity’?”

Aziraphale pulled a face. “They see value in banning the plays as well, yes.”

“Yeah, well, for what it’s worth,” Crowley said, words slightly bitter with a burned edge, probably from the whiskey, “Hell enjoys the blatant sexism of the Adultery Act, too.” He tilted his cup and watched the last few drops pool to one side of the bottom. “Heaven. Hell. Two sides of the same coin.”

If Aziraphale disagreed, he held his tongue, opting for a pinched expression of pain or worry that Crowley figured was due to something more. “But I should’ve— Hell is one thing,” Aziraphale huffed. “What I’m trying to say is I know you.”

You do not know me, a faint memory of Crowley’s objected. Something doused in suspicion, mixed with a hint of a challenge, and drowned out by bleating goats. Something he would’ve said back then, and something he couldn’t bring himself to say now.

“Do you?” he asked. Because it wasn’t total denial, and temptation did happen to be his job, and maybe he just wanted to feel less unknown.

Aziraphale looked at him, saw straight through the act, and with such conviction, spoke more words than what he actually said.

“Yes.”

Crowley stared back, as though Aziraphale might rescind his statement, but the angel’s determination never faltered. Upstairs and Downstairs might read it as Yes, I know you well enough to thwart any wiles you may throw my way. But Crowley, well-versed in silent tongues, saw it for what it was:

Yes, I know you’re doing this on purpose. Asking questions to see if they’ll get you in trouble once more because everything is a test of faith with us, isn’t it? I know you miss the unicorns. I know you have a tendency to criticize living things—those poor, terrified plants—but you like to see them grow anyhow. I know you in spite of whatever lead balloon comes crashing down, and yes, I know you well enough to also know the Serpent of Eden was just as shy as he was sly. Because I was there.

If the public ever found out that Crowley could never stay mad at Aziraphale for long, it would surely ruin his demonic reputation. He hummed in thoughtful acceptance.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said again.

Though he wasn’t mad, he could still make the angel squirm. “Did you want me to forgive you?” Crowley mimicked in his best posh accent.

Aziraphale cringed. “I suppose that would be nice, yes,” he said, equal parts hopeful and sheepish.

“Demon. Not nice,” Crowley growled, this time setting his glass down to point a finger between the two of them. “And forgiveness from me would just cancel out or something.”

Aziraphale considered this, shoulders sagging and hands unsure of what else to do other than grab onto each other. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but the disappointment bled right through.

A merciful demon? No, Crowley just couldn’t stand to see Aziraphale sad for very long either.

“I’ll tell you what you could do, though,” he said.

Aziraphale perked up.

“Dance.”

A furrowed brow lifted into pink surprise as the angel tilted his head. “Uh, with you?”

Yes. “No,” Crowley said a bit too fast. “Give us a little jig, y’know, a song and dance. You like the theater. They say emotion is best expressed through art.” He attempted to reason his way out of this one. “Show me how sorry you are, angel.”

“I…don’t dance.”

“And I’m not nice,” Crowley said, but he was smiling now. “Unorthodox apology for unorthodox forgiveness sounds like a fair trade to me.”

A beat passed between them, and Crowley almost thought Aziraphale wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t exactly serious about it either; it was just the first thing that popped into his head and out of his mouth.

But then Aziraphale stopped chewing on his lip, made a decisive noise, and stood up from the table. Crowley’s speechlessness was remedied only by the screaming voice in his head that this might be the best accidental idea he’d ever had.

Aziraphale took a small step backward, looking over his shoulder once before realizing he’d rather not make eye contact with anyone, which was an unheard prayer because Crowley slid his glasses down far enough to peer over them, settling yellow eyes right on him.

“Go on,” said Crowley. “Really sell it.”

Aziraphale shook his head at the demon, but took a deep breath to fuel his singsong tone.

One hand on his hip, the other palm up, “You were right,” both arms outstretched, “you were right,” a graceless spin, “I was wrong,” and a clumsy curtsy to top it all off, “you were right.”

Aziraphale lifted his chin but stayed stiff in his pose, waiting for approval.

A dancing angel, Crowley figured, would be something along the lines of embarrassing. Like watching a child try to take its first steps. The never-before-seen aspect completely captivated him, and it suddenly hit him that this was for his eyes only. It was embarrassingly silly. Turns out, silly really does it for him.

Or maybe that was just Aziraphale.

“Right, then.” Crowley nodded with a coughed-out laugh. “That’ll do it.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale exhaled in exhausted relief and straightened finally. He plopped back down into his seat with a forest fire ravaging his cheeks. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was all mine, I assure you,” Crowley practically purred.

Aziraphale’s frown failed to be anything less than fond, and then switched to contemplative. The blush didn’t seem to be dying down anytime soon. Not that Crowley was complaining, but he grew more concerned with each shade of red that he’d have to find a water bucket to cool the angel off.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “It’s certainly not an excuse for blaming you, and obviously I know you didn’t do it,” Aziraphale said, “but truthfully, I just figured you would’ve had something to do with a law dealing with lust.”

Crowley squinted at him from behind his glasses.

Aziraphale fretted in the silence, then tried to clarify, “Adultery is often associated with lust, as I understand it.”

“Aziraphale,” began Crowley, and he couldn’t believe he was about to say this, “I’m not an incubus.”

“Of course, I know that,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “I just thought because you’re so…you know. I thought—” He gestured to all of Crowley, wildly searching for the correct term. “You and lust,” he said, like it was clear as day.

The pieces weren’t clicking. Crowley let out a punched, “Wot?”

“Nevermind it,” Aziraphale said, waving off the conversation. “It’s over now. I appreciate what you did, despite what I said that night.”

Crowley grunted, positive his face was just as flushed now. “Would’ve been unfortunate if that Thomas lad got dragged into something he wasn’t involved in, let alone sentenced for it.”

“Ah, yes, well,” and Aziraphale spoke the next part very slowly, “they are in love.”

“Who?”

“Thomas and Catherine.”

“But I thought—”

“Yes, I know you organized the document mishap,” Aziraphale said, raising his eyebrows in a little nod that usually meant Crowley was supposed to listen carefully, “but a nonexistent marriage might as well be the case. Catherine was so unhappy—had been for a long while. Frankly, I was surprised her husband made such an outburst, especially considering the rumors of his own infidelity.” He looked as though he wanted to say more about Mr. Beckford’s trysts, but did not. “During my conversation with Catherine, we discussed the theater, but she also confessed she’d fallen in love with Sir Thomas. Nothing like an arrangement— I mean, her arranged marriage. Something real, Crowley. But she was afraid of what might happen. The Adultery Act was the reason they never… Thomas isn’t a liar. Catherine wouldn’t lay with him because she couldn’t bring herself to condemn them both, I suppose.” Aziraphale paused, suddenly remembering himself, then added, “At least, that’s what she told me.”

Crowley was silent. The risk of spouting idiocy, loaded like bullets on his tongue, waiting for the slightest tremble to set off his hair-trigger self-control—that was too much, even though he was fairly certain the alcohol hadn’t taken effect yet.

Did she want to though?

I think I’ve heard this story before.

Oh, now you’re not even trying, angel.

You know I’m already condemned.

So he clamped his mouth shut because the recoil would’ve sent him reeling, and it could only ever end in someone bleeding out.

“Well,” Crowley said, “drink, then?” Before Aziraphale could even nod in agreement, the demon was already in the process of flagging down the tavern keeper. “What’d you have last night, angel?”

Aziraphale broke into a grin. “You drank mine, and you didn’t even know what it was?”

“Obviously wasn’t whiskey,” Crowley grumbled, but he was immensely glad to hear the angel laugh.

Don’t stare too long. There’ll be stars in his eyes when he opens them.

But Crowley was not a saint by any means; he couldn’t deny himself the view. And there were. Stars. A twinkle in shining blue that sent a thrill up Crowley’s spine. A relic of a past life and what it meant to create entire galaxies all wrapped up in a celestial being’s eyes.

“Cider, dear,” Aziraphale said. “I thought you would’ve known.”

Crowley could’ve sworn he was going blind as the angel had the audacity to fucking beam.

“There’s just something so remarkably alluring about apples, wouldn’t you say?”

*****

i now know too much about the Adultery Act of 1650, theater terminology, the Little Ice Age and alcoholic cider, 17th century lighting and candle reflectors, and the Anglo-Scottish wars.

i’m not kidding, i watched an entire 30-minute YouTube video recapping the English Civil Wars.

well, there’s my take on 1650, hope i did it justice, and thanks for reading!