#ability to recognize a way you might feel safer?

[inkskinned]

kids remind me, often, of the things i've taught myself out of.

i have a big dog. he looks like a deer. he is taller than most young children. while we were on a trail the other day, a boy coming our direction saw us and froze. he took a step back and said: "i'm feeling nervous. your - your dog is kind of big."

goblin and i both stopped walking immediately. "he is kind of a big dog," i admitted. "he's called a greyhound. they are gentle but they are pretty tall, which is kind of scary, you're right. their legs are so long because they are made for running fast. i am sorry we scared you. would you like us to stand still while you move past us, or would you feel more safe in your body if we move and you stay still?'

"oh. i didn't know that about - greyhounds. i think i ... i want to stay still," he said. at this point, his adult had caught up to us. "i'm nervous about the dog," he told her, "so i'm - i'm gonna stay still." she didn't argue. she didn't make fun of him. she just smiled at him and at me and held his hand while goblin and i, with as wide of a berth as we could make, crept our way through.

behind us, i heard him exhale a deep breath and kind of laugh - "he was really big, huh? she said it's because greyhounds have to go fast."

"he was big," she said. "i understand why that could have made you a little scared."

"yeah. next time i - next time do you think i could maybe ask to touch him? when - i mean, next time, maybe, if i'm not nervous."

later, going to a work event, in the big city, i stood outside, trembling. my social anxiety as a caught bird in my chest. i took a deep breath and turned to my coworker. she's not even really my friend yet. i told her: "i feel nervous about this. i am not used to meeting new people, ever since covid."

she laughed, but not in a mean way. she said she was nervous too. she reached her hand out and held mine, and we both took another deep breath and walked in like that, interlinked. a few people asked us - together? - and i told the truth: i feel nervous, and she's helping. over and over i watched people relax too, admitting i feel really kind of shy lately actually, thank you for saying that.

the next time i go to an event, and i feel a little scared, i ask right away: wanna hold hands? this feels a little dangerous. i hesitate less. i don't hide it as much. i watch for other people who are also nervous and say - it's kinda hard, huh?

i know, logically, i'm not good at asking for help. but i am also not good at noticing when i need help. i've trained myself out of asking completely, but i've also trained myself to never accept my own fears or excuses. i have trained myself to tamp down every anxiety and just-push-through. i don't know what i'm protecting myself from - just that i never think to admit it to anyone.

but every person on earth occasionally needs comfort. every person on earth occasionally needs connection. many of us were taught independence is the same thing as never needing anything.

each of us should have had an adult who heard - i feel nervous and held our hand and asked us how we could be helped to feel safe. no judgement, and no chiding. many of us did not. many of us were punished for the ways that we seemed "weak".

but here is something: i am an adult now. and i get nervous a lot, actually. and if you are an adult and you are feeling a little nervous - come talk to me. we can hold hands and figure out what will help us feel safe in our bodies. and maybe, next time, if we're brave, we can pet the dog that's passing.

[brunchable]

The Taking (Halloween Oneshot) || Sinister Strange x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.5K Warnings: NSFW (18+), NON-CON, NON-CON, Corruption, Forced Breeding, Lactophilia, unprotected p + v sex, magical restraints. DO NOT READ IF THESE MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE.

It was not much of a siege, not in the way your father had described them. From humans you might have expected trebuchets and catapults, a sustained assault upon the great doors and a bridging of the moat. They'd have camped at the edge of the forest, troops of foot soldiers sitting about fires and sharpening weapons as their leaders spoke in the cover of tents, plotting the assault of that keep that had not fallen to invasion in six centuries. Yes, that was how men waged war, but these were not men, and they came in instead by means of magic—or rather revenge to the crown for the loss of the great sorcerer's sister.

You were in the kitchens when it began, overseeing the preparation of the feast for the equinox. Betrothed and soon to be wed, it was your duty now to learn the management of a large household such as your own. You were in your oldest gown of faded homespun, long hair bundled into a scarf as you toiled with the keep servants, your skin growing flushed with the heat of the great kitchen.

You listened closely as Kenna, the cook, explained her reasons for ordering certain ingredients from the market. Your parents were visiting family in the north, and for once the servants were deferring to you as lady of the house. The two women had their heads bent over the piece of parchment, Kenna fanning herself as she pointed to the items and the numbers that accompanied them.

“It's always seven bushels of the kalawort, even when the keep has no guests,” she explained. “We use what's left for the easing of difficult births, and to bring in the milk, though you'll see it often enough as an ingredient in bitter bean soup, too.”

You blushed at this. Your mother had been forcing you to drink a tea of kalawort for months now, believing that it would aid fertility. Your wedding was still three weeks away, but your mother was taking every precaution; your parents had struggled to conceive for many years before the goddess had finally granted them, you.

You had little doubt in the plants' supposed abilities; already your breasts were swollen and tender with milk, ready for the child that you and The Prince would conceive, perhaps as early as your wedding night.

You were about to ask about another herb on the list when the sound of men's voices came from outside. There was a strange thrum in the air, and the hairs at your nape stood on end. Through the back entrance you saw a flash of purple light and someone screamed, and in an instant mayhem ensued in the kitchen as all recognized the sudden stark reality of a siege. For the first time in centuries, the walls had been breached.

“Quickly, Lady!” Kenna cried, her hands digging into the skin of your wrist. “Go to your room,” she said, but then thought better of it. “No! Go to the chapel, you'll be safer there. They will hide you! Go! Go!”

And you fled from the kitchens and the terrified faces of their servants, bumping into footmen and maids as you hurried along the passage, hearing screams now behind you. Someone shouted the word 'magic!', and a shiver travelled down your spine, for no humans possessed such forbidden powers.

At the very end of the western passage, the carved doors to the chapel stood open, and you rushed into the welcoming glow of the candle-lit chamber. For a moment a pair of frightened eyes regarded you from behind the stone altar atop the dais, but then the small acolyte fled through a low door in the corner, and you heard the unmistakable sound of that passage being locked and barred from the other side. You ran to it and hammered on the door, desperate for admittance.

“Priests!” you called. “Help me! We are under attack!” Only silence greeted your words, and the door did not open. No one would come to your aid. Feeling like prey chased into a trap, you turned back to the entrance through which you'd arrived, then drew in a hissing breath of horror.

In the passage, slowly making his way towards you, walked a thing of nightmares. You knew it instantly for who he was; the long arms hung low, the back straight with confidence, pale skin almost silvery due to lack of sunlight. His black hair, streaked with whites on both sides, styled neatly in contrast to his beard. Here walked the Evil Sorcerer Supreme, a being of fireside tales and darkest dreams. His eyes were blue, two glowing orbs regarded you from the hallway, utterly inhuman.

You had seen sketches once, in the library, of his image. He had always carried a long staff and worn dark ragged robes, but his black tainted hands were empty, his form was covered in a robe of silver, his tunic black. The stories had made them out to be creatures of the basest kind, their intellect no greater than that of potion brewers and spell casters, and yet you saw a keen intelligence in the gaze it fixed on you.

He stepped into the chapel with languid movements, and though your body screamed for you to flee, you remained before the barred door, your back pressing into the hard wood as your limbs froze in fear. The Sorcerer closed the doors at the entrance with a sweep of his hand, never taking his eyes off you. When that clawed hand lifted again, he drew a symbol in the air before him, and purple light dazzled your eyes. Darkness swept you into its embrace.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You knew, even before you looked at the low-burned candles, that you had lost time. In the recesses of your mind, the part that had not succumbed to the spell, you had noted the passage of hours, the steady silencing of the keep as more and more of its people were subdued. How many of their bodies littered the passages of this once-great manor?

You tried to sit up, your mind fogged with magic. With a curious sense of detachment you noted the magical chains that bound you to the altar, chains of purple light that fixed your ankles and wrists to the far corners of the stone slab. You could lift your head only a little, and when you did, it was to find the sorcerer standing at the foot of the altar, watching you with a look that you had seen sometimes in the eyes of men, a look of hunger. He grinned when he noticed your attention, revealing two rows of terrible razor-sharp canines.

“What is your name, daughter of the house?” he asked you, and it was not the guttural speech that the stories told of, but a lilting, strangely accented speech.

Your heart sped up as you met his gaze, then wished desperately that you had remained unconscious a while longer. But, you suspected, your waking had likely been at his command, just as your slumber had been.

“Your obstinacy will not serve you. I can make you speak, you know.” He stepped closer, laying one of his rough fingers on the flesh of your calf.

“(Y/N),” you said immediately, desperate to do or say whatever would keep those hands away from your body. But his fingers still curled around your leg, and his grin broadened, and he said your name quietly as his hand trailed higher, disappearing under the hem of your dress. You struggled against his attention, but the chains held you in place, and you could do nothing to stop the tainted hands that came to rest at the apex of your thighs.

But then the hand withdrew, and you let out a shuddering breath of relief. The flickering light of the candles threw curious shadows along the walls, strange monstrous shapes, but none as terrifying as the being before you. He reached into the belt of his robe and produced a small dagger, and for a moment you did not know whether to weep for fear of your imminent death, or to rejoice that your end would come before he could do other, unspeakable things to you.

He stepped close and brought the blade to your neck, and tears sprang to your eyes, for you were afraid after all. But the blade did not bite into your flesh, but into the front of your dress and the shift that lay beneath it, and he slit your garments from nape to calf, so that the fabric parted and fell away from your heaving breasts. The Sorcere’s cold eyes trailed from your bosom, down to your sex that you tried to cover. At the front of his robes, something stirred, and a blush travelled down the length of your form at the realisation of his arousal.

“Do you know who I am, (Y/N)?” he asked you, the dagger dropping to the floor.

“S-Sorcerer Supreme,” you whispered, so softly you could barely hear your own words.

“Yes. That I am. But am I the creature you've read about, a simpleton monster no better than an old warlock that lurks in your woods? Am I that?” He was so close now, standing near your head. His hand came down to caress the curve of your trembling lips.

“Am I that?” he asked again, holding your gaze with the strange blue brilliance of his own.

“No,” you whispered finally.

“No, I am not,” he agreed. “For I am of the Dark Khaos, blessed by the god Chthon who first made us lay with the women of human-kind. The blood of man runs in my veins, as in yours. And the blood of human and Dark Khaos will flow in the veins of our child. Do you understand, (Y/N)?” He trailed a short, sharp nail from your lips, to your collarbone, to your breast. When he brushed your nipple and you shuddered, he said, ever so softly, “Yes... I think you understand.”

He bent his mouth to your breast, his black hair curtaining his features. You did not see that terrible mouth seize your peak, but felt it keenly as he first licked, then began to suckle. After a moment he drew back to look at you in bemusement, his wide lips flecked with droplets of milk, but his lust grew and he bent again to your breast, drinking deeply of the milk that only that morning you had thought would feed your human child.

A strange shiver passed through your body as he drank at your breast, and soon his hand closed around your other breast, kneading and squeezing as he drank his fill. In the pit of your belly a feeling began to grow, a foreign sensation that was almost a need, though for what, you could not say.

Finally he stood back, his breathing uneven, much like your own, “I can wait no longer,” he said, reaching between the folds of his robe to touch himself. You refused to look, but from the corner of your eye you saw him step away, and hope flared within you that he might abandon this terrible onslaught.

But it was not to be. When you finally turned your head, it was to find him watching you as he untied the belt at his waist, then let his robes fall to the floor. You did not wish to look, but could not immediately pull your attention away, for the Sorcerer was strangely handsome indeed. His chest was muscular, his torso lean, each of his ribs visible beneath the taut pale skin. The curves of his arms represented his strength, and the legs were long and muscular. Between them hung his manhood, if such it could be called. 

You had seen glimpses of male genitalia, had even blushing listened as your maid tried to prepare you for what to expect on your wedding night. His cock seemed to grow as you watched, rising to jut proudly forward, and despite your fear and disgust, you felt a strange slipperiness between your thighs as your nipples hardened to taut peaks. 

Stephen smiled as though he knew what you were feeling, and came to stand at the foot of the altar. Slowly he stroked himself, his gaze travelling the length of you. He climbed onto the altar, and you began to struggle in earnest, your heart hammering with terror in your breast. But the chains held you in place, and at a snap of his fingers they tightened even more, so that your legs were spread wider.

Desperately you lifted your head, watching the length between his thighs, knowing that it would soon be within you, if it could fit. So focused were you on that glistened tip of his cock, that you did not see him reach for your cunt with his hand. A finger, cold and calloused, slipped between the folds of that sacred opening, and you drew in a sharp gasp at the foreign sensation. Not even your own finger had ever entered there, and yet the sorcerer pushed his long digit deeper into the space while you bucked and cried to dislodge him.

“(Y/N),”he murmured your name with a caress on his lips. “What is this?”

You did not understand what he was asking, and thrashed all the more as though to dislodge both his finger and his words from your being. But it made no difference; the finger stirred again in your depths, painfully, and he watched your face, waiting for an answer you would not give.

“I shall tell you. This,” and you felt again that deep pressure, “this is your maidenhead. I had not thought to find a virgin here. But you will be a virgin no longer.” He withdrew his finger, holding it up to the light as he rubbed it with his thumb. Your wetness glistened on his flesh, and you trembled at the shame of your body's betrayal.

He straddled you, one long muscular leg kneeling on either side of your splayed hips. You screamed as his cock dragged along your thigh. He silenced your screams with a kiss, his tongue plunging deeply into your mouth while one hand pinched your breast. Then his teeth grazed your lips and led a prickling trail down your throat to your other breast, where he latched onto your nipple once more, suckling desperately. Pleasure coursed through you again at the workings of his mouth, and for a moment you were only focused on that, that new, strange feeling, when suddenly you felt a prodding at your core.

Your nether-lips, slick with the fluid of your arousal, parted gently at the insistent prodding, and suddenly the head of his cock was pushing into your entrance, pushing hard and quickly against that barrier that had once been meant as a gift to your future husband. With a stab of sharp pain that barrier gave way, his cock pushing into you, slipping in as far as it could go, Stephen burying himself in your body up to the hilt of his cock.

You screamed, and this time he did not silence you, but remained perfectly still, basking in the pleasure of impaling you so deeply. You felt every vein and strange ridge of that organ pressing into you, it filled you as you had never thought a man might fill a woman. 

In a mix of pain in amazement, you looked down to where their bodies met, you saw only the last few millimetres of his thick base that he had not managed to press into you.

His breathing at your breast was ragged. He, too, looked to where their bodies joined, and you felt him twitch within you. He lifted his gaze to your pretty, terrified face, drinking in your every expression as he slowly withdrew, inch by inch.

You watched his cock retreat from your depths, your heart turning over at the evidence of your lost innocence, the faint smear of red along that thick shaft. But your mind was innocent still, and you did not understand the way of mating, and you thought that it was over, that he was withdrawing and spent. And he saw every thought as it passed through your mind, so that he knew already that you would scream when he slammed into you again, suddenly, brutally, and he seized your mouth with his own and swallowed you screams as he began to fuck you.

In and out and in and out he went, and but for your whimpers, there was only the sound of his cock squelching in and out of your body. It was a wet, lewd, primal sound, and for a while Stephen closed his eyes as he plunged into you, a look of utter bliss on his handsome face as he listened to your bodies meeting and parting. Though his withdrawal and renewed onslaught came again and again, your body could not grow accustomed to it, and you still felt a deep ache every time he penetrated your deepest part. But beneath that ache, there was something else... something that shamed you too much to admit it.

He rode you hard, making small animalistic noises as you massaged the length of him with every plunging motion. He suckled and bit at youryour nipples in a frenzy, one hand teasing the other breast with his sharp nails. And you, ashamed, felt your pleasure growing.

Now, faced with the reality, you whimpered a denial over and over, “No... Please, no. Don't! Please don't!”

Such a thing was never meant to fit inside a human woman, you were certain. And likely he knew that, too, for it was only then that your captor turned his attention to your pleasure. He pummelling at your entrance with that thick knot of muscle, and sucked at your breast with renewed force, but now his free hand moved to where their bodies joined, and you felt his finger seeking the sensitive red nub above your opening.

You gasped at the contact, which sent a sudden current of energy through your limbs. He rubbed at that small protrusion with his rough finger, all the while fucking you with long, determined strokes. He listened to your breathing as it grew shallower, and you began to make small sounds of pleasure that you could not suppress, and when he judged the moment right he bit down on one nipple and twisted the other, while his finger at your womanhood pressed hard into the nub of your pleasure.

A wave of feeling such as you had never known coursed through you, a sense of euphoria that seemed to sweep from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, tensing the muscles of your arms and legs, your cunt constricting desperately around the meaty organ buried within you. You cried out your pleasure, words that had no meaning as your body convulsed with the rush of pure bliss.

Your body held his member firmly for a heartbeat, then another, and another, until the last wave of pleasure had abated and that vice grip relaxed completely, as he had known it would. That was the moment he had been waiting for; as your opening slackened again, he withdrew quickly, relaxing the spell that held your legs splayed. 

With the bit of freedom this granted your limbs, he pushed your leg to fold at the knee, your heel flush against your buttock, and as he held that leg at an angle he inserted himself into you again and pressed hard against your opening, watching with breathless excitement as his cock squeezed painfully against your spread lips, to suddenly be swallowed completely as he sank once more into your depths.

You screamed at the new intrusion, your freedom leg kicking desperately to dislodge the Sorcerer, but he held you down and looked deeply into your eyes, letting out a low groan as his cock trembled within you, and now locked safely in your depths, began to spew its seed.

Closing his eyes, the Sorcerer gripped your hips tightly to him, and you felt the gushing of his cum into your body. Deep within you, in that place where your pleasure had formed, you felt a part of your body seize the intruding organ and his vile seed and eagerly draw it deeper into yourself, into that sacred core where a seed might be nurtured.

He did not move, his nails pressing painfully into your buttocks as he felt himself twitch within your warm depths, waves of pleasure coursing through him as his seed spewed from his phallus in powerful, ecstatic bursts. He groaned softly with every wave of pleasure, and when you moved beneath him he pressed you down into the stone to keep you still, to keep his cock within you.

He might have released your bonds then, and you would not have been able to escape, for the length filled you as no man ever would, and when you tried to pull away it brought a painful ache to your depths, and an almost animalistic response from the Sorcerer, who held you firmly in place while he bred you.

A minute passed, and another, and still they did not move. Finally, feeling the last of his release flowing into your passage, the Sorcerer released your hips from his painful grip. Limbs tired from the exertion, he felt then a need to rest awhile, but you were still tied together, the knowledge clear in your eyes as tears of horror and pain coursed down your cheek. 

Sighing, he released the shackle of your right arm and leg, carefully moving your leg over his own and lowering his body, so that he was no longer straddling you, but resting at an angle behind you. Despite knowing the futility of it, you lunged forward to move away from his body, and he snarled at you even as you whimpered at the pain of his cock pulling at your entrance.

Curling an arm around you to play with your nipple. Milk leaked onto his fingertip, and he grinned to himself, thinking of the child who would grow strong from that milk. And there would be a child. He had recognized the presence of kalawort in your system, often given to women to aid in fertility and bringing in their milk early. Whoever had been feeding you the brew had unwittingly aided him in ensuring the conceiving of a child. His child.

You lay on your side, crying softly as the Sorcerer fondled your breast, his cock still buried deep within you. Every now and then his cock would twitch, or a little shiver would cause the knot of muscle to flex, and small waves of pleasure would ride through your body again. Long, slow minutes passed, the silence only broken by your soft sobbing.

For a few moments, he watched the root of his cock where it disappeared into the tautly pulled lips of your body. At the sight he felt himself grow hard once more, and you whimpered as his hard length grew again inside you. 

He found himself growing aroused again as he watched you taking in the result of your copulation. As his cock released, surplus seed spilled from your depths, you watched with horror as it leaked from your body. But your interest flamed his desire, and he tightened the chains once more to have your spread on the stone slab, a small puddle of his seeds between your legs where he now hovered, briefly, preparing to enter you. He waited until he had your full attention, waited until your eyes were on his length, still glistening with his seed and the faintest hint of red, and then he sank deeply into you with a grunt, and you grunted too, as he had wanted you to.

And then, despite yourself, your body rose to meet his, desperate now for that wave of pleasure it had briefly known. He latched onto your nipple and small pleasing shocks went through you at his lusty suckling, and between your legs, your body gripped his cock with a desperate hunger, clamping around him and drawing him ever deeper.

He could not capitalise on the surprise of your own pleasure, and instead he pressed into you again and again, whispering entreaties over your gasps of pain until his cock was swallowed once more by your bruised womanhood. This time he did not close his eyes, but held himself completely still as his cock pulsed and spurted within you, and he saw the moment that your disgust gave way to something more. The heated gushing within you, you reached your own peak and wonder filled your eyes, and you spasmed around him, desperately seizing the entirety of his length as your body tightened around him and drew his seed deeper.

Finally, when the last of his seed was spent inside you, he rolled you onto your sides, still facing one another and locked together, and set his mouth at your breast, drinking languidly as he caressed your breasts, your back, your buttocks, and you fell into a deep, exhausted slumber. Eventually, when his cock had shrunk again, he pulled free of you, eliciting a sleepy moan from your parted, swollen lips.

Standing over you, he cast a spell of protection on you and the child that would grow inside you, his child. But he was sorcerer of no mean magic, and in the space of the next hour, he had stolen memories from the minds of each of the keep's sleeping inhabitants. For none had been slayed. 

He who had bred the lady of the house had known the moment he looked into your terrified face, that he wanted to see your every expression as he took you. The memory would stay with him, ever after stirring his loins when he thought of you.

You would not remember, not fully. None of the keep's denizens would. And in three weeks' time you would wed to The Prince, and he would bed you, and you would be with child. And if that child should be born a few weeks early, well, none would comment on it. With his father's magic and illusion coursing through him, the child would to all appearances be human. Only in the magical mishaps that sometimes occurred around him would there ever be any hint of his heritage, but by the time it had fully manifested, the Sorcerer Supreme would be back to claim his heir.

But the boy would not be alone in his experience. In a year's time, the keep of Blackburn would be filled with the sound of several squalling infants, all of them born to mothers who could not name nor recall their babe's fathers. Only in the embrace of your husband would you sometimes wonder why your body seemed to yearn for something more than the human member buried in your depths. Only sometimes, as your husband rode between your thighs, your mind would conjure an image of a blue-eyed Sorcerer, and your pleasure would rise to glorious peaks.

Some things can never fully be forgotten.

TAGS: @gracecaldwellx @goldencherriess @gaitwae @classicrebound @gwephen @thealleydog @lucimorningst4r @allie131313 @dragonqueen89 @xunquish-blog @d0ct0rstrangewife @pinkplayer14 @ironstrange1991 @mirikusashes @strangeobsessed @jyessaminereads @boop-le-snoot @pinkthick

[paradimeshifts7]

Punk Pop Steddie Fic (in the works)

Currently finishing up the first chapter to the 2015 punk pop Steddie au of my dreams. Literally so ecstatic about this one -- going back to my ROOTS! Here's a lil taste:

-----

He looks over at his guitar, the black case punched in towards the center in that tell-tale way that lets him know the damage is extensive without him even having to look at it. He wonders if it can be fixed, because something about smashing your guitar right before what might be the biggest show you’ve ever done does not feel like a good omen. This guitar, in particular, means a great deal to him, because it had been his first — his only, really. Sat in the corner of his bedroom like an old friend for what felt like forever. 

Steve had been playing the guitar since he was little, ever since his mom gave him one for Christmas when he was twelve. It was too big for him, because what did she know about guitars, but it was expensive, and it sang like a dream. He spent years secretly strumming away at those nickel strings in his room, the one thing that was just his — that no one could take away from him. 

Friends came and went, but Steve’s love for that tawny instrument never faded. He would make trips to the library by himself, wander the shelves of the music section until the librarian knew him by face, often pulled out a couple practice books to set aside for him. She was a spitfire of an old lady, silver hair and a smile just for Steve, who always brought his books back on time, always said please and thank you like he was taught. His parents knew, surely, what with the sounds coming from his room every evenings, but if they cared, they never let on. And for a kid whose worth was so often defined by how well he did, it was actually an act of mercy that they didn’t say anything. Steve was good at sports, had a natural proclivity towards it that his dad had made sure to capitalize on.

Go make me proud, kid. 

So there really wasn’t any other option than to excel, to practice and throw his whole soul into it — to not except anything less than what his dad would clap for, what would earn him a smile or a hand on his shoulder. 

Guitar wasn’t like that, though. In the quiet of the evening, barely too-big instrument cradled in his lap, Steve could take his time. There was no one watching him, so it didn’t matter if his hand slipped. Sour chord or perfect tune, it made no difference. He worked his way through basic practice books until he had taught himself how to read music, dyslexia be damned. And when he found he could easily translate the notes on the page to the strings of his guitar, he started learning harder songs. By the time he was in high school, he had played through most of the library’s repertoire — had to start slinking by the only music store in town to get what he needed. 

It wasn’t like he was afraid of being found out. Frankly, being recognized for his musical abilities would have probably won him more dates than he’d have known what to do with it. But as soon as people knew, it wouldn’t be his anymore, so he tread carefully — visited the music store only when he was sure that he wouldn’t be seen. He learned every song he could get his hands on, scanned every piece of sheet music that came his way and picked his way across the strings of his guitar. So when Eddie said, “it’s very metal, what you did”, Steve played dumb. Of course he knew Black Sabbath, but he didn’t know Eddie — not yet. So it was safer to play coy, to keep the things that were just his close to the chest like he knew how. 

Nancy Wheeler was the first girl he’d ever wanted to write a song for. Nothing on the radio could quite encompass what he wanted to say to her, nothing screamed Nancy enough to be worthy of her caliber. He started singing, just softly at first, like he had always done when he was learning songs, but his voice got louder with each passing week — each time that lovely girl gave him the time of day, flashed that pretty smile in the hallway when their eyes met, teeth hidden behind those lips that Steve felt less than normal about. 

The first thing he wrote was utter shit, a blathering mess of trite expressions and words that barely rhymed. That particular work had met its end in the trash can, but he didn’t give up, because even though it was shit, it felt good to put pen to paper. Thinking about Nancy, her stormy blue eyes and the way she looked at him like she just couldn’t help it. 

He never played anything for anybody, not even Nancy, until he’d been a little drunk one night and strummed something for Robin, sat splayed out together on his bed while his parents were away. She had looked at him with such love and pride that he thought he would burst, and had actually blushed when she told him how good he was, her eyes a little wide like she couldn’t quite believe it. So he played for her sometimes when she asked, because Robin was special and she didn’t count as other people. And when he played for Eddie, when the metalhead was laid up in the hospital recovering from near death, he wondered if Eddie, too, wasn’t other people. 

In the months that followed, he didn’t stop wondering. 

[jeonstellate]

until the end of time

like the hands on the clock, the story of jihoon and [first name] will go back to the start.

๑彡 lee jihoon x gender neutral!reader

๑彡 reincarnation!au, see you in my 19th life-inspired!au — character death — angst

๑彡 paragraph format — 1.4K words

masterlist

[gif’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

Lee Jihoon is tired. Exhausted. Drained.

He has seen a million sunsets from multiple corners of the world. He has seen countless empires rise and fall into the ashes they once came from. He has seen hundreds — if not thousands — of people he was once close to succumb to the way of the world.

He has lived through a number of predicted world ends, just to witness another day after.

But Lee Jihoon is not immortal. He is not a vampire, not a werewolf, not a wizard, nor an owner of an elixir.

Rather, Lee Jihoon is a mere mortal — burdened with the memories of his past lives.

However, for someone who can remember all sixteen of his past lives, he sure has forgotten a lot of things over the centuries. He supposed he has the imperfection of human brains to thank, especially in regards to his accumulated memories blurring together after he reached his seventh life. It is not like he prefers it any other way, anyway, since the said flaws actually lessened the burden of remembering.

He no longer remembers when he decided to lessen the deep connections he makes in each life . . . until eventually he stopped all together. He recognizes that decision made him colder in each reincarnation, but he found himself not caring. People will forget him anyway, but he will not. At least not until his memories of them join the blur.

Lee Jihoon has no regrets living detached, especially if he survived sixteen past lives to date without going insane. And now, on his seventeenth life, he plans to live similarly.

Except he met [first name].

[Full name]. The child of his mother’s best friend. The child who is protected from the world’s cruelty by their age and is full of curiosity and wonder because of it. The child who is, more likely than not, currently living their first life.

At first, Jihoon was annoyed by [first name]. How could he not? They literally walked into his life fascinated by sunlight and rainbows, as if they were made of magic. It was appropriate for their age then, single-digit it was, as it was for him — although he was a few years older. He did not count their naïveté against them, though, partly because he would have been in the same boat had he not regained all of his memories a week before they met. If anything, it was safer to say that he was actually jealous of [first name]; envious of their ability to keep their innocence until they are old enough to find out the truth themselves, without memories of past lives ruining the rose-tinted glasses early on.

Jihoon tried his hardest to be nonchalant about [first name]’s existence. It even came to the point where he tried to ignore them the best way he could, just to put more distance between. However, his efforts had been proven to be futile — especially given that [first name] was an oblivious and persistent child. Thus, against his own judgment, he still wound up attached to them.

Instead of using his jealousy to rip away their innocence about the world, Jihoon uses his feelings to protect their innocence for as long as he can. After all, he might have preferred to don a cold exterior, but he is not entirely heartless. And since he is not given the chance to enjoy an untainted world view, he made it his personal mission that [first name] does. For both of their sakes.

Through [first name], Jihoon gets to live. He is not simply existing nor trudging through his seventeenth life. He actually has a purpose — and is actually making memories worth remembering.

And yet . . . he still holds [first name] at a distance. He merely considers them as a child that needs his protection, rather than as a best friend — like how they see him as. It is undeniable that he cares for them more than he would like to admit, but his curse is hindering him from accepting it.

Lee Jihoon simply cannot experience another lifetime of longing for a soul who will not remember him once their life resets. He simply refuses to.

However, like a flame to a moth, [full name] is oblivious to the dilemma they are unknowingly putting him through.

On the day of [first name]’s tenth birthday, they are strangely adamant that Jihoon has to spend it with them. Albeit they have known each other for years at this point, they have yet to celebrate [first name]’s birthday together. It really is not a big deal, especially considering that they see each other fairly often, but it is apparently so for [first name]. And Jihoon, who prioritizes their happiness above all else, just has no other choice.

"What ride are you looking forward to go on, [first name]-ssi?" The chosen address is a manifestation of Jihoon’s attempt to put a distance between, while not ignoring the familiarity. Frankly, it is a stark contrast to [first name]’s chosen address for him, ‘Jiji’ and ‘Hoon-ie’, considering that they are much more unconstrained when it comes to feelings and societal norms.

"The carousel!" The birthday celebrant exclaims excitedly, making him face them in anticipation for their inevitable blabber. Truth be told, Jihoon has grown fond of watching [first name] talk about something they feel strongly about. Especially since he gets to witness the strengthening spark in their eyes whenever they get more excited. "You should ride it—"

However, this time, the blooming feeling in his chest is not light. Rather, once his head turns towards them, he is suddenly filled with a familiar suffocating feeling.

An intuition he only gets whenever he is close to reset.

Jihoon’s mind is immediately at a panic. The fact that his intuition flared up now, while he is still inside a moving vehicle, can only mean—

He feels the impact first, before he hears the shattering and the bending.

He wants to call out to [first name]. But he finds himself unable to. Not when his breath has been knocked out of him. Especially not when he can feel hot liquid oozing down his face.

It takes an incredible amount of will and pain to even try to look at [first name]’s face. However, all of those are nothing compared to the moment when he finally sees what he is looking for.

[First name] suffered more from the impact, no doubt because most of the force came in their general direction. He cannot see how he looks like at the moment, but it is easy to imagine he does not look as bad as [first name]. Especially because their eyes stayed close even after the effect of the impact has subdued. Still, he thinks nothing of their stillness, mostly because he does not have enough blood flowing through his brain to even think.

And yet, just before the blood loss overtakes his consciousness, Lee Jihoon suddenly remembers the first life he has forgotten.

He started out as a prince. In an era where rivalry between neighboring kingdoms were prevalent and deadly, he just so happened to be in love with a child of an enemy. They managed to keep it within themselves in the cloak of the night, but—

Someone eventually ripped the comfort of the cloak away. And with it, came the price.

The prince was forced to watch the love of his life get executed, prohibited to do anything by the rope around his feet and by the strong arms locking his own in place. They showed no mercy with the royal-born, mostly because one had the blood of the enemy and the other had been labeled a traitor.

Fortunately, with the ounce of mercy left within their being, the guards at least allowed the two to bid farewell.

I’ll find you in the life after death. Even it takes a hundred lifetimes, wait for me. I’ll find you.

His so-called curse, as it turns out, originates from an oath. A promise born from pain, which inflicted knives of loneliness once forgotten. A promise so sincere that both the universe and time conspired to see its completion.

And after sixteen more lifetimes, Lee Jihoon has finally found the reincarnation of his love from his first life. [First name].

Unbeknownst to him, long before he started fighting for his life in the ICU, [first name] has already started their journey on the next do-over.

[ina-nis]

Loneliness: It's not something we have, or something we're victims of. (...) Depression is easier to talk about, Kim argues, because it “is a recognized illness with a biological basis.” The liberally minded, at least, “understand that the depressed are victims rather than makers of their misfortune." Loneliness, by contrast, does not enjoy this objective status. Nor, Kim notes, does it “benefit from the same sympathetic perspective of victimhood.” Loneliness, which “cannot yet be attributed to brain chemistry,” is often perceived instead as “a social dysfunction of one’s own invention.” It is rarely raised as a personal issue, he continues, because the “unspoken assumption” is “that if you are lonely, then you must be unlikeable or socially maladapted.”

(...) The trouble with loneliness, in other words, is that subjective experience cannot be eliminated. Talking about a disorder like depression transforms feelings into something more physical (...) something that has you. The personal difficulties I am struggling with and the beliefs that shape my emotional experience disappear, replaced by the abstract it of depression, a malignant external force. But Kim does not have loneliness. He is lonely (...) His “confessions of loneliness” leave him open to judgments of inadequacy. It is so much safer to be considered a “victim” of depression. Then, all this human messiness disappears from the conversation. (...) Murthy recently revisited the subject (...) Loneliness, for Murthy, is something people often bring on themselves, as he illustrates with both his own experience and that of a friend. It can be addressed by simple choices to “prioritize human connection.” His tick-box recommendations for success: strengthen existing programs “that bring people together,” use our devices less, and “reach out to people we care about” more.

It’s a familiar list, often repeated. Loneliness, in this scheme, is a lack of social interaction. But people like Kim are rightly wary of this reduction. They know that many outgoing people with active social lives are lonely. (...) Kim described his loneliness in various ways. He talked about a lack of “deep, nourishing bonds,” a feeling that “no one truly understands me,” an emptiness and sense of isolation, and the “awful feeling of being encaged” in his own mind. Such characterizations do not suggest a mere lack of social contact or the need for programs “that bring people together.” They suggest an estrangement from others. Not an absence, but a quality, of relations that lack meaningful connection, feel alien, or are non-responsive. Relations, in short, that are “relationless,” that are mute and do not speak. The element of estrangement stands out in another word that Kim uses for loneliness: alienation. Alienation, though not synonymous, is a helpful concept for thinking about the personal experience of loneliness because it can be defined only in relation to specific contexts or social expectations—to what a person is alienated from. Rather than another abstraction, it can direct our attention to the ways in which people feel disconnected from their social worlds.

Among the possible forms of personal alienation that might relate to loneliness, three feelings stand out: homelessness, insecurity, and powerlessness. By homeless, I don’t mean a physical condition—being homeless—but a sense of not belonging. Disconnection, for instance, might follow a loss of meaningful others and accompany grief or homesickness or health challenges that restrict interaction. It might reflect a detachment from a situation or community, such as when we do not share the values or goals that are highly regarded by those around us. We might feel homeless when we do not feel respected, or our abilities or accomplishments valued. A sense of disconnection might also arise from a marginalization enforced by others, as when our “type” is disfavored, or we have been singled out and ostracized.

By insecurity, I mean not a lack of confidence or a feeling of anxiety but a distressing awareness of the tenuousness or superficiality of our social relations. The lack of depth and satisfaction may be especially felt in educational and professional settings, which can be highly competitive and where rewards hinge on carefully orchestrated presentations of self. Rather than being cultivated toward genuine friendship, associations are developed for such networking purposes as enhancing prestige or climbing ladders. Rather than being open and honest, relations are characterized by diffuse distrust, invidious comparisons, and mask-wearing. There is an enforced aloneness when no one can afford to be vulnerable. Finally, by powerless, I mean not so much the inability to control situations, as a perceived lack of self-efficacy to make meaningful bonds. Much in our world is unstable, precarious, unpredictable. The few remaining rules of conduct tend to be negative: what not to do. Lack of guidance and sheer self-protection can lead to a closing off from others. Retreating into ourselves, we may find, to quote Alexis de Tocqueville, confined “in the solitude of [our] own heart.” A truly responsive relationship, one in which both parties speak with their own voice, may seem unattainable. We may doubt not only our ability to reach another person but our ability to make an accommodating response should they be touched or affected by us.

Loneliness, in short, is complex. It defies the language of victimization, on the one hand, and the reduction to merely quantitative terms, on the other. At stake is often an estrangement from our surroundings that is neither external to us nor a matter of the number of people with whom we might interact. Loneliness concerns the quality of our relations, their mutuality, the ways in which they speak or fail to speak to us. If we want to understand loneliness, this is where we have to look (x)

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Would love to get more MK thoughts and am always up for asking shit: how do or do you think the boys’ way of showing love changed between pre Cairo and post Cairo, as far as the changes in their personal development and in their relationships? Like would Steven’s ways of showing care to coworkers pre show be different from how he shows care for Layla post show? Or would they be the same in a different font?

Oh man oh man. So I did a post a while back about Love languages. (HERE) But that was more about direct displays of affection.

But The fun things about this stuff is that headcannons and metas can grow/expand/change.

Just like love!

Besides, I think that was more of just a how they specifically love language with Layla. Or someone in an intimate setting/figure of interest.

So I apologize if I repeat myself or go off the rails because I LOVE this stuff.

Of course how they show love changed! Everything about them has changed! But most of all, their ability to recognize themselves has changed.

So pre-Cairo: The biggest change is Marc. We see a bit of Marc's dynaic with Layla on the boat. He's cocky, he's up for adventure. He teases. And of course "Layla would be down to kill the hippo and steal the boat." Marc loves Layla. He idolizes her to a point. In his mind, she is this perfect thing that is too good for him. She needs protection from himself and the horrible things he brings along.

He also has a dichotomy going on. Because he allowed himself to fall for her and get into a relationship with her before he got too far into his own head and pushed her away.

It was like for a brief moment he had confidence and thought he might deserve to want happiness. But then when his mother died and grief overtook him (not for her, but for himself and all that she took from him in life and death), he remembered that he didn't believe in himself or what he was worth.

POST CAIRO: Marc cannot afford to idolize like that anymore. It's bad for him. He cannot see her as a perfect being outside of his worth. He has to learn to see her for who she is. She isn't perfect. She makes mistakes. She can take care of herself. She is capable of her own choices and handling hard truths. Seeing her take up the role of Scarlet Scarab and fight was probably eye opening for him.

But also letting Steven care about him is also a lesson he has learned. Marc saw himself in the role as protector of everyone. Who do we want to protect most? Those we love. He might not have even realized it. That the more he loved them, the more he wanted to protect them, the more he pushed them away from himself. Marc has to accept that he is not the protector. This is not his role. He needs protecting. He's carried too much for too long and now he needs to rely on other people.

I think his new love language is realizing that as much as he wants to protect them, he needs to learn to rely on them.

Maybe he starts to awknowledge when he is feeling out of sorts or overwhelmed and he brings Steven in willingly. Maybe he notes when he needs to be close to someone and he lets Layla be there. He would struggle to admit it outloud. He would never go to her and ask to be held, but perhaps he would wordlessly take her hand and pull her close.

To an outsider, it would seem like he is pulling her in so that he can control or protect her, but in truth, he is asking her to be there for him. He needs the physical touch that isn't brutal or harsh. He needs the gentle reassurances. Reminders that love can be tender and kind.

It may even seem like he's hiding behind Steven when he lets Steven take over, but really he's trusting Steven to get him out of a sitaution he's lost control of. He is asking Steven to guide him to a safer place emotionally.

STEVEN! Oh Steven. He's changed so much too!

Steven is the kind of boy that would bring a large healthy lunch to school. He'd sit with his friends and note their poor lunch choices. The one that buys pizza every day or the one that gets chips and chocolate milk every day. He'd set his bag of carrots down in the middle of the table and note how he has too many and feel great happiness as they all partake of his food. He'd silently hand out grapes without them asking or he'd give them half his sandwich saying how he had a large breakfast and didn't want it.

Thing is, Steven feels love by making other people happy. He wants them to feel his joy. He wants them to be excited.

Problem is, Steven often suffers for it. Like with Donna, he was always going to her with expectation of bringing her around to his happy world or of getting rewarded for his knowledge.

His co-workers don't see him as a useful person. They ignore him. They think he's just the strange man who prattles on and on about things that don't matter to them. Perhaps Steven started to believe it. That all his learnings and self taught studies were a waste of time.

Post Cairo: Steven has learned just how useful he is. He can do things that he puts his mind to. All his studies and readings came in handy. He not only found Alexander the Great's lost tomb, he could read the glyphs, he could solve the puzzles, he could even protect Layla and Marc. He has found his place as a helper.

He is the guide to Marc. He is the helper to those that need a voice to stand up for them. The voice of reason. He's smart and he is worthy of love.

Love is what Steven wants most of all. He was born out of a desire to be safe and to be loved.

So how does his language change? He learns how to protect in the way that is needed. Steven learns kindness. Of course he was always kind and hopeful, but he learns how to BE these things.

He tells Marc his truth that it wasn't his fault. He learns his strength to fight for Marc. He learns to fight for Layla (not just fight, but to deside she is worth fighting for). He learns how to stand up to Harrow and his immortal beliefs.

I think Steven would still bring a large lunch to work and share with his co-workers. He still wants people to be happy. He wants to bring joy to people and he wants them to be passionate about things. But this time, I think he not only learns how to stand up for himself when they try to bring him down, but he also learns how to LISTEN to people.

Listening to what Marc's story was really telling him. Not just seeing Marc as the killer and bad person that Marc presented himself as. He had to look past it and really SEE marc and listen to him to understand what Marc needed was kindness and love.

How he shows love for Layla? He loves seeing her smile. Hearing her laugh. He loves the blush she does when complimented. Steven takes over the worshiping part. He lavishes on Layla. Tells her how beautiful she is. How smart she is. He lets her show her interests. Marc is the wild side. The part that lets Layla be adventurous and wild and carefree and have fun. Steven is the side that lets Layla be intelligent and quiet and at peace.

Not to say that Marc can't sit with Layla on a couch and just nestle in and be quiet with her for hours on end, or that Steven can't go on a trasure hunt with her. It's more of an emotional and mental balance. When she's passionate about history, she could tell Marc and he'd listen and nod, but he wouldn't understand. She knows she can geek out with Steven. When she wants to go be goofy and stay up all night and run from food cart to food cart all night, she can do this with Marc who will always point out the next bad fast food cart down the street and race her there.

Marc has learned to be open and self respecting. Steven has learned how to be less judgemental and to stand up for what he wants.

Jake? Jake is learning. This is the most active he's been in ages. He's had to step out of the shadows more than a few times. He's grumpy. He's tired of hiding. I think Jake is starting his own journey. He's learning that to protect his system, he cannot just casually slip in and out and call it a day. He must seek out those that would hurt them and take care of it. I think this is the start of his own love language.

I think Jake loves his system deeply and has never thought about showing it. He just wanted to watch and observe. But now, he is learning that love is protection. It is powerful displays of "don't fuck with my family, hombre. I will fuck you up."

And I think if/when Marc and Steven figure this out, it's going to be like suddenly realising you have been standing in the middle of a hurriane this whole time, but had no idea because a hell of an umbrella was over you the whole time.

Jake is going to need Steven's kindness and Steven will have to utilize his new found abilities to listen and observe. Jake is also going to need Marc's new found ability to open up and realize his own self worth. He is going to have to realize that Jake is there FOR him and Because of him. Jake is going to have to learn how to stay out of the shadows. To show his love and protective instinct. To be the voice that tells Steven "Don't eat that, it's been sitting on the counter for days" or tell Marc "put the bottle down, go talk to Layla". And they will have to learn to tell Jake "we can do this as a team. You don't have to take it all on by yourself".

....did that answer your question? I feel like I'm just out here screaming and pointing and frothing at the mouth sometimes.

[ofhouseadama]

Happy birthday! Question. So Garak had a very low tolerance for pain before wire. Hence, yk, wire. But then he spent years (decades?) equating pain with pleasure. What's that gonna do to his pain tolerance post deactivation? Does it still instinctively feel good, or is he back to low tolerance with sad drug memories? I have mixed thoughts on masochist Garak

I also have mixed thoughts and feelings on masochist Garak. I have no mixed feelings on the idea of Julian liking impact and pain play. I think he just straight up does like those things and Garak likes to give him those things because it gives him endorphins and dopamine to inflict pain on someone who's begging for it.

This is a little bit of a two-parter.

The first part is that there is the very real chance that overusing and then deactivating the wire and hard resetting his brain chemistry completely throttled Garak's ability to even feel pain. We don't know what kind of nerve damage might exist from when he was activating the wire every day. We don't know what state his amygdala is in, or whatever the Cardassian pain center of the brain is. His brain might interpret pain very strangely or it might receive some of the information that he's in pain, or it might receive too much information. There's a lot to play with there in regards to how the wire may or may not have fucked up his brain chemistry and neuron pathways long-term. Lots of fun interpretations to go with there.

The second part is that in a very real way, Garak cannot afford to show pain as the lone Cardassian on DS9. Politically and personally cannot afford to show weakness. And later on, cannot afford to recognize it in himself, or he will buckle under the weight of Cardassia's imminent demise at the Dominion. He denies his emotional pain to the point that it manifests physically as panic attacks. But we see it every time someone throws a punch or breaks a rib. When Garak is attacked in his shop in "The Way of the Warrior," the politically expedient and safest reaction is to 1. not fight back even though we see when it is the smart move that Garak is perfectly lethal in a fight when he wants to be and 2. claim to Sisko and Odo (and Julian, but he knows Julian isn't buying it) that he's fine and waves off the idea of pressing charges.

You know what, three parts. This has three parts.

The third part is that Garak is an emotional masochist, for sure. If for no other reason than he cannot conceive of feeling emotionally safe and emotionally secure and to feel safe in any kind of emotional attachment. A child weaned on poison finds harm a comfort, etc etc. He cannot conceive of safe attachment. Even his attachment to Julian is unsafe, though through no fault of their own. It's just the political truth of their relationship--it could be used against either of them at any moment, should either of them let it deepen too much.

And they're both too aware of the situation to allow it to get that far, which means that the comfort that Julian is able to give Garak is limited.

During canon.

And like I love and partake in the headcanon that Cardassian physiology is made of sterner stuff and that Garak would receive immense physical pleasure out of Julian gnawing on his neck ridges or raking his nails down the scales on his back or pulling his hair because like, who doesn't when they're cum-dumb and fuck-struck with endorphins and all those feel good hormones but also.

Also.

I think that in a post-canon scenario when it becomes safe (safer?) and easy and possible for Julian to truly and openly love Garak out loud, it's going to feel a lot like staring directly into the sun. It's going to hurt. It's going to feel like when blood rushes back into a limb, all pins and needles and clumsy-wrongness. There's going to be pain because comparison is the thief of joy and Tain constructed Garak's life so carefully so that he would never know love. So that Garak would accept that what Tain handed him, boxed up in all the trappings of duty and obligation and loyalty to Cardassia, as something better and more honorable and worthy than something so low as love. Even Mila wasn't allowed to love Garak where the sun shone, where it could be seen, where it wasn't smothered and politicked around. Everything Garak has ever even considered loving has died alone in darkness.

When Julian loves him, it's going to hurt. And he's going to wish he still had the wire.

But Julian is also going to lace their fingers together and pin Garak's hands above his head and fuck him tenderly while letting him hide his face in his neck. He can hide but he can't escape it. Until, like with the wire, he loves him out loud enough time that it rewires his brain chemistry and he understands he is safe.

[primebusiness]

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Keeping your vehicle clean and in good working order helps reduce the risk of being involved in an accident with a pedestrian. Taking care of your vehicle will also ensure that it is safer to be behind the wheel and that you can react quickly and effectively should an accident occur.

8. Always check your mirrors and keep them clean, as this will help you avoid a collision with a pedestrian.

9. Always be cautious around children or other vulnerable pedestrians, especially when there isn’t a crosswalk in place or the street is poorly lit.

10. Be careful with elderly and disabled pedestrians.

Elderly and disabled individuals have a harder time seeing, hearing, and feeling than other people do, so they need extra time to cross the street.

11. Always obey pedestrian countdown timers at traffic lights.

When a light changes to green for walking, wait until the countdown timer has finished before crossing. Otherwise, you might be surprised by the arrival of a large truck or other vehicle.

13. Don’t jaywalk, which can increase the likelihood of being injured by a motorist.

Jaywalking increases your risk of getting hit by a vehicle and can affect your ability to recover compensation in the event that you are hit. It is also illegal in many states and cities, so if you are jaywalking, you should consult with your attorney to ensure that you are covered for your injuries.

[heiresea]

@evlest​ sent: “i, uh… i can’t swim.”

summer starters. / accepting.

       the word ‘ still ? ’ nearly manages to escape her lips, halted only by the grit of her teeth. being abrasive, as natural as it may seem, wouldn’t be worth the memories that would follow. or rather, that’s what she tells herself in the lull of silence. though if she closes her eyes, beneath the comforting scent of the sea, uma swears she can smell the faintest hints of shrimp that refuses to leave her lungs. 

       at best, it’s awkward between them. there’s less hostility when they talk, but it’s been replaced by a heaviness, an unspoken acknowledgment of all the barbs & wounds they’ve shared over the years. how does one even make the attempt to trapeze the dangerous tightrope dividing the two of them ? do either of them WANT to ?

       even now, uma stands in line with the fae, unwilling to let mal out of her sight. if mal disappears, she could sneak away, & who knows what she might do with uma’s back turned. this close to the cresting & retreating of the sea, without any real sense of danger, there’s no desire to take her chances. even if she’s stronger now, even if she could call on the waves to serve her, she doesn’t want to give mal the opportunity to betray her again. letting her join the cecaelia here, in this space between land & sea, where she feels so close & connected to the magic that hums in her veins … that’s more than intimate enough.

       “ y’don’t say, ” uma answers at last, acknowledging the admission with as much neutrality as she can. while it isn’t terribly surprising to learn that mal ( still ) can’t swim, she recognizes the hesitant words for what they are - a confession of vulnerability. perhaps even a weakness. the ocean is unforgiving & indifferent, someone lacking the ability to swim would never survive even just a few meters from shore. 

       “ well. guess that means you better not fall in. ” not again, she wants to say. but that first time was never real, not truly. not again, because they say history has a funny way of repeating itself. not again, because uma knows the consequences of rushing to save someone, knows what people bred in the selfishness of the isle would do, have done. not again, because even with that knowledge, uma knows with certainty that she’d run between the scattered broken pieces of shells & dive in headfirst & bring the ( untrustworthy, vain, backstabbing - ) dragoness back to safer sands. 

       & maybe that’s the most pathetic part of it all.

[topflushingdemolitionexperts]

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By doing this, you'll guarantee you get a quality demolition company. After all, the even more research study you do, the more probable you'll wind up with the demolition specialist you require. So, do not skimp on quality. Ultimately, it is very important to employ a demolition contractor with experience as well as equipment. Demolition is an unsafe task, and also any person without experience is liable to be wounded or perhaps killed. Consequently, you must hire someone with substantial demolition experience that has a thorough understanding of demolition techniques. These specialists are additionally learnt using advanced technologies and devices. Last but not least, you need to hire somebody you can rely on with your project preparation. If you don't really feel comfortable with the demolition procedure, it's time to find an additional contractor. Knowledge is power and so you would like to top up what you have learned in this article at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Building_implosion.  

[maevefinnartist]

shadow work PSA

after having *four* different relatively-new-to-witchcraft witches express to me in the last few weeks that they feel they aren't a very good witch for not doing shadow work, I'm gonna make this PSA:

"shadow work" is not really a witchcraft thing, it's a concept in psychology coined by Carl Jung. they certainly go hand-in-hand, it's absolutely a useful thing to do to further your ability in your craft (and also just a healthy thing to practice) but it's not a concrete requirement as a witch. it's up to you if you want to do it ♡♡ if there's certain traumas you don't feel comfortable addressing yet, you are not required to, you're still a witch.

if you would like to do shadow work but aren't sure where to start, don't overthink it. all it is, is analyzing the ins and outs of the less-pleasant ways our brains work. addressing and challenging the parts of ourselves we don't like and don't want to reconcile with. this can include working through trauma, or recognizing and unlearning our own problematic behavior.

write a list of things about yourself/things you do/thoughts you have that you'd like to better understand or unlearn entirely. approach one subject at a time, and just sort of do some stream-of-consciousness journaling about it. you don't have to have a life changing epiphany, the only goal is to know and serve yourself as best as you can. it can take you one day, or a month, or longer. it's up to you. it can be exhausting, it can reopen wounds you'd rather leave closed. as someone with cPTSD I can understand why this might be a slippery slope for a lot of people, and also why I want to tell all the witches that if you're not comfortable doing this, you *are not required to do it*. do not let witchtok make you feel like you're not good enough or not a real witch or whatever because you don't do everything they think you should do.

9 times out of 10 though, you will feel better at the end*

eta: *if done safely and responsibly and it's something you're comfortable endeavoring. as many people in the reblogs have pointed out, it's far safer and more responsible to not do this sort of thing alone. if you are able to approach shadow work with the help of a therapist, please do so. doing shadow work can be harmful in myriad ways to folks with certain mental illnesses. be safe ♡

[dyns33]

Fog

Flufftober 27 - Geralt x Reader 

           It's a simple fog.

If Geralt had said it, then it had to be true, so Y/N had no reason to be afraid and stick to him as they walked through the forest.

Even Jaskier was totally relaxed, he who was always a little nervous and excited when they had to take this kind of road, because they might come across bandits and monsters. Nervous because he didn't want to die, even though Geralt was there to protect them, and excited because he was going to have new stories to tell in his songs.

If the bard wasn't afraid, there was no reason for her to be afraid either, she was braver than him.

With his eyes, his sense of smell, his hearing, his medallion, in short with all these abilities, the witcher would know very quickly if there was something that was hiding in the mist and following them.

           "... You can spot the Foglers too ?"

           "Hmm."

           "Because I remember the last time. You said you could tell if a fog was magic sometimes. But not all the time. And since they're invisible, it could be hard to..."

           "Relax." he sighed.

Geralt didn't ask her to get away from him however. He didn't say anything either when she jumped at a noise near them, and Y/N clung to his arm as if her life depended on it.

Which was a bit true most of the time. Whether it was for his job, or because he cared about them, even if he didn't like to recognize it, the witcher always put himself in front of others when danger arose.

But that didn't mean he liked being touched.

Well, it was complicated.

When they were in a big city, it was not uncommon for Geralt to visit courtesans. He had had a few lovers too. With his profession, and the way people treated him, being afraid of him because of all the rumours, and his appearance, there were few people who wanted to touch him. Or just to hit him.

Even though he wasn't supposed to have any emotions, it was obvious he felt lonely and touch starved at times. But he couldn't attach himself, he couldn't show vulnerability, and he didn't want to be fiddled with by the first comer, who could treat him like an object of curiosity.

After several years of friendship, Jaskier was still not allowed to touch Roach, and he could only approach Geralt to help heal himself or wash his back.

He certainly would have let Y/N do it, but she wasn't a healer, and she seemed uncomfortable when he undressed in front of her.

However, he let her touch him as much as she wanted, whenever she wanted, without her needing to ask permission. Along with Yennefer and the other witchers, she was the only one to have this privilege.

Y/N wasn't trying to figure out if that meant something. But she still felt flattered.

           "... Do you want to get on ?"

           "What ?" she asked, snapping out of her thoughts.

           "On Roach. You will be safer. Even if there is nothing."

           "Oh. No, it's okay. I trust you."

           "Hmm. Obviously." he said with a mocking smile, looking at her who was still holding his arm.

           "That's true ! And I feel safer here anyway."

Near you.

She didn't say it, it would have been embarrassing. Geralt still understood what she meant. He growled softly, but didn't add anything, continuing to move forward, holding the horse in one hand, letting her do what she wanted with his other arm.

Behind them, Jaskier was starting to lose his confidence, as there was a lot of noise between the trees, and he wondered if the witcher had made a mistake.

           "Well, I want to get on the horse." He announced, walking faster to catch up with them.

           "No."

           "But you proposed to Y/N ! It's not fair. And she said she didn't want to, and you're not going to ride Roach either, so I..."

           "No."

           "Mean witcher ! I'm scared too."

Not being able to go directly next to Geralt, since the horse prevented him, the bard came to stand near Y/N, as close to them as possible, but when he moved to put his arms around her because as a fox was running past them, Geralt pulled Y/N towards him, away from Jaskier.

           "No. Don't touch."

           "What ?! You said "don't touch Roach" !"

           "Shut up and move on."

           "But I'm scared !" the bard insisted.

           "Then get on Roach."

           "... Really ?" Jaskier and Y/N asked at the same time.

           "Yes. Hurry, before I change my mind."

Not wanting to lose this chance, Jaskier jumped on the horse, which didn't seem very pleased to have him on his back, but they were able to continue their journey, Y/N still glued to Geralt.

He had preferred that Jaskier touch his horse rather than her. She was more important than Roach. Even Yennefer was not allowed to touch Roach.

           "Geralt ?" she whispered. "I can hardly see anything now."

           "I can see very well. There is still nothing."

           "And can Jaskier see things, from where he is ?"

           "I don't think so. Why..."

Quickly, she placed a kiss, not aiming very well since she didn't have his vision, but managing to touch a spot between his cheek and his lips. Then she continued to walk next to him without saying anything.

Geralt didn't say anything, but he had tensed for a few seconds, before relaxing. And make a weird noise.

           "... I hear something !" Jaskier panicked. "Sounds like a big purring cat ! Geralt ! There's a monster ? Geralt, why aren't you saying anything ? Y/N ? Why aren't you talking ?! Geralt, are you smiling ? Is it the fog ? Geraaaalt ?"

           "Damn it Jaskier !"

[bigskydreaming]

So I def agree that outside of amusing fanon takes about how famous the Waynes are, its not actually super likely that they’re recognized on sight and they’re not likely to be a Keeping Up with the Waynes type deal in comic canon for the most part. And there’s a ton of reasons why Bruce would be a lot more keen to keep them OUT of the public eye than thrust them into it. 

BUT because I’m always like, its not that various takes CAN’T work, its that you can’t just handwave them into working and you kinda gotta do the work of making them work.....

AU takes where the Court of Owls are revealed earlier and try to get their hands on the recently orphaned Dick Grayson, like, have a ton of potential in terms of addressing why Bruce would be confident he was able to better provide or care for Dick than others for reasons beyond just ‘haz resources’ AND at the same time address a lot of the issues people have with Dick being Robin in the first place.

Because if Dick has to be initially rescued from the Court, and Bruce is aware that the Court is like, proprietary about this kid and absolutely WILL keep coming after him and trying to remake him into the tool they view him as being.....like, that has the potential to totally reframe the context of Bruce taking him in, him potentially being thrust into the public spotlight by extension, AND him becoming Robin.

By virtue of making the Court of Owls the Big Bads of Dick’s personal journey from a much earlier point, and by acknowledging how ingrained into the very foundations of Gotham they are and how difficult they are to ever defeat or get rid of for good....by making them an active threat Dick has to be protected from, even and especially in unconventional ways.....suddenly Bruce taking him in himself and raising him in the public eye AND letting him fight alongside him as Robin....has strategic value that’s entirely for Dick’s benefit.

Because a kid who is in the spotlight categorically CAN’T be just disappeared into the shadows as easily as the Court would like. Bruce - the equal of the Court in resources and privilege and power and differing only by his intents and how and in what ways he wields all of the above - has the ability to counter the Court’s attempts to utilize Dick as a pawn....by actively sharing his own resources and power and profile with Dick in order to put him on a more even footing with the very people who keep trying to prey on him throughout the rest of his life.

Similarly, knowing what the Court intends for Dick specifically, and the capabilities of their Talons, provides at least marginally better reasoning for Bruce to be like, this isn’t an ordinary kid in ordinary circumstances, the closer I keep him to me, the safer he is. 

Like yeah being Robin is NOT SAFE, but the idea here is Bruce being paranoid that nowhere is safe, so when Dick is basically like “I want to be Robin, I want to help you fight, I’ve already seen how terrible people like the Court can be and you can’t actually protect me from shit that’s already happened so let me feel better by DOING something and turning the shit I’ve already been through INTO something I can find comfort and power in for myself and others” - (and keep in mind I’m still not arguing oh yeah being a kid vigilante is totally healthy, 10 out of 10 therapists approve, we’re just talking about degrees here, relativity, all that) - 

Well this way, the very idea of Robin makes more sense to Bruce than it might otherwise, as he reflects on the fact that because nowhere is truly safe for this particular kid, and because even despite Bruce’s best efforts, some day Dick’s very likely to be on his own facing off against the Court anyway...then the better prepared he is for that day the safer he’ll actually be from the threat Bruce KNOWS is coming. Additionally, as Robin, Dick becomes intrinsically networked into the greater superhero community, meaning Bruce has the hero community itself invested in protecting this kid not just as another innocent among billions, but as one of them directly.

Idk, idk, I’m just saying. There are possibilities here. Ways to make this work. I’ve seen AUs that have the Court going after him right after his parents died but almost always just to make him like a baby Talon. And I’ve spoken on my personal dislike of a lot of Talon tropes before so won’t here, but the point of this is AUs where the Court appears as a Big Bad earlier in Dick’s life don’t actually HAVE to just lead into him being a Talon, there are a lot of other ways to play things. 

Just using them as a catalyst for Bruce raising him himself and training him as Robin, like, that alone can potentially add a lot of nuance or additional layers to Dick’s narratives and overall character arc, even without making him a Talon.

[tryingmyves]

Hey Ves! I have a request for you! May you please do Shinsou, Todoroki, ( A character of your choice) who got hit by a quirk who turns them into a lil toddler and they’ve got the biggest crush on their female chubby/plus size classmate 🥺🥺💞 and when they turn back they confess to her💞

hiiii @blossominglark ~ tysm for your request! i’ve haven’t written something like this yet, so i hope you enjoy! ✨

Shinso’s First Crush

PAIRING: Hitoshi Shinso x Y/N (female, plus sized)

c/w: toddler!Shinso, mostly fluff

When you went to class this morning you thought it was just going to be a normal Monday, but the arrival of Mr. Aizawa with Eri and a small violet haired boy in tow announced that today would be different.

“Awh! Who’s this cutie?” Ochako asks, spotting the unfamiliar child first, “Did you make a new friend, Eri?”

“Don’t call me that!” the boy responds, his pudgy fists balling at his sides.

“There was a mishap last night while we were practicing Eri’s quirk,” Mr. Aizawa says, “She uh, rewound Shinso a little too far.”

Every eye in the classroom is now on the pint-sized Shinso, silence filling the room before a cacophony of reactions burst out all at once. Kaminari and Sero are laughing hysterically. Mina and Hakagure are fawning over how adorable little Shinsou is, while Midoriya is rushing to Eri from his desk to assure her that mistakes happen and no one is mad at her. Iida is questioning how to reverse the effects of Eri’s quirk, and even Bakugo looks amused at the announcement. You’re the only one who notices the quivering lip and watery eyes of tiny Shinso.

Since his introduction to your class you’ve been attempting to befriend him. He made it clear that he hadn’t transferred to the hero course to make friends, but you see passed his uncaring facade. He’s let other people’s comments of the possible malicious nature of his quirk effect his self perception. He is so used to people calling him a villain he can’t fathom he’ll ever be called a friend. And you are determined change that. You’ve made small progress towards your goal in the last month. He sits with you in the cafeteria and even accepted a few invitations to study with you and your group, but no significant progress. But now, seeing Shinso so vulnerable in front of your entire class makes you stand from your desk. Even if he isn’t “here to make friends” he needs one right now, so that’s what you are going to be.

You quickly walk to the front of the room and use your chubby frame to hide him from the overwhelming sight of the his classmates gawking at him. Lowering yourself to your knees so your plump face is level with his, you say, “hey, it’s alright Shinso. Everything’s going to be okay.” Subconsciously, your voice becomes softer and there’s a melodic tune to it. You know that the toddler in front of you is a member of your class and typically two months your senior, but right now he’s just a scared little boy. You can’t help but treat him like any other child.

He wipes at his nose with the back of his sleeve, sniffing back tears, “Y/N, they’re all staring at me. I… I don’t like it!” Shinso is mortified at his current state. He was so determined to do everything by himself to prove he belonged to be in the hero course, but now he’s been reduced to a helpless little kid. Worst of all, the kind, curvy and optimistic girl he’s been secretly crushing on the last month is now trying to console him. He’s normally so good at containing his emotions, but it seems Eri’s quirk has reversed his emotional maturity along with his age. Right now all he can manage to do is try to hide his face so no one can see his tears.

You extend your cushy arms outward, offering a hug and Shinso can’t help but rush into it. He feels so exposed right now but when you hold him against your plump body he feels a little safer. Like he’s wrapped up in a cocoon of you. He hopes he can just stay cloaked in you arms until his metamorphosis back to his old self is complete. However, that possibility is dashed by the arrival of All Might and a man you don’t recognize at the classroom door.

“Sorry we’re late, Aizawa. This is who I told you about on the phone.” All Might says, clapping a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. It turns out, among the countless connections All Might made as the Number One Pro Hero, is a hero who goes by TimeSkip, with the ability to fast forward time. In the hero world, he typically puts his quirk to use at the sights of natural climate disasters by accelerating the regrowth of the land so entire communities aren’t displaced. Luckily, he’s capable of aging or time skipping any living matter, not just plants. Mr. Aizawa had called All Might for help after the incident and was relived his colleague knew someone who could fix the current predicament. 

“Shinso, go with All Might and TimeSkip. They’re going to get you back to normal,” your teacher says.

But Shinso just burrows himself deeper into you, pressing himself up to your chest. You can tell that he doesn’t want to separate from your comforting embrace. You turn your head over your shoulder, “Mr. Aizawa, would it be alright if I went with Shinso?” You drop your voice so you won’t be overheard by your classmates, “For emotional support,” you say with a light nod to the weeping Shinso in your arms. He just gives you a nod. You whisper down into Shinso’s hair, “It’s okay, this is almost over.” You take his small hand in your own and lead him out of the classroom, using your large frame to keep him out of sight of the others. 

The pair of you follow All Might and his friend through the halls, eventually stopping in a vacant training room. TimeSkip explains how his quirk works to Shinso, who is still holding your hand and trying to hide behind one of your legs. With some gentle easing from you, Shinso finally lets go of you and takes TimeSkip’s hand instead. You stand in the hallway with your back to the door while Shinso is returned to his normal self. The hero had explained his clothes would not be growing with him, so it was best for you to wait outside. A few moments pass before the two heroes open the door and step out of the room. 

“He’s all set in there, Y/N.” All Might says, “I think he’s a bit embarrassed, maybe you can cheer him up before the two of you return to class.”

You nod, thanking both All Might and TimeSkip before stepping in to talk to Shinso. He’s wearing his uniform now and leaning back against the wall, head low, and face covered by the mess of his purple hair.

“Hey Shi-“

“Please don’t talk about it,” his voice is quiet and filled with humiliation.

“Oh, yeah. It’s no big deal,” you try to brush it off. You want to comfort him and tell him that he doesn’t have to be self conscious, but you know that will just make him feel worse. “I was just coming to see-“

He cuts you off again, “Y/N, I have to tell you something. When I first transferred into the hero course I told you I wasn’t here to make friends. But then you kept talking to me and trying to get to know me and you started inviting me to lunch and study groups. And I… started to think that having you as a friend wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

He looks up at you now and takes a step closer, moving away from the wall. “And I realize I like you more than that. I love how soft and round you are, and that you always make sure everyone’s included. That you don’t make yourself smaller because you deserve to take up space. I think you’re beautiful and I am too scared to say it.”

He take a few more steps towards you, so there’s only a foot left between you, “But then when I was frozen there in front of the class you swooped in. And I didn’t hesitate to fall into your arms. I didn’t let my stupid brain get in the way… so I have to tell you now, before I think better of it…”

You can help but smile at the confession. You’ve thought Shinso was cute from the moment you met him, but decided he needed a friend before trying to be something more than that. You didn’t realize that Shinso was crushing on you too. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

Shinso lets out a light chuckle, finally letting a smile reach his lips. “I don’t. But I had to get it out before I changed my mind. It only would have made it worse.”

You take a small step forward, halving the distance between you. “I, uhm, like you too you know.”

“Why would you want some lanky, closed off guy like me when your so curvy and beautiful?” Shinso breathes in disbelief.

“I guess I have a thing for tall guys,” you joke.

He just shakes his head at you, “Y/N, do you want to go on a date with me tomorrow night?”

You giggle and nod your head, holding out your arms the same way you did in the classroom, “I would love to,” you beam.

Shinso steps forward, enveloping you in a hug. Despite your plus size frame, he easily lifts your feet off the ground for a moment before gently setting you back down.

“I’ll pick you up at eight, okay? And… thank you for helping me today.”

“That’s what friends do,” you assure, excited at the possibility of becoming something more.

[bffhreprise]

Best Friend For Hire Reprise, Entry 381

 “Not tired are you?” questioned Ariadne, who had been testing my abilities and helping me understand how to use them for hours.  There were differences between how to accomplish tasks, since Ariadne’s magic needed control of her emotions just as much as clear mental pictures, but her explanations really did help.

 “P-Processing.” I told her, wondering if she actually thought I ever grew tired.  I felt she should know better, considering she knew what I am.  At the moment, I was still revising her first lesson, current lesson, and all of the ones in-between as well as considering some other possibilities for my magic.  I was thankful to know that my weird ability to see other places wasn’t monstrous, since Ariadne could do it too, just not as well.  Part of my mind was still coming to terms with the idea that I had been subconsciously using magic my entire life.  Thankfully, Ariadne didn’t think I had inadvertently hurt anyone.

 “No, Dani, I don’t think you should make requests of Raine quite yet.  Let her keep practicing.” stated James in reply to something Dani had asked in her native tongue.  The musical language of her people was still beyond me without lessons, but a few words seemed to make sense to me.

 “But Daddy!  This would be practice!” she insisted in English.

 James switched to Dani’s native tongue, and Dani’s smile turned impish, a sure sign she had been caught being mischievous again.

 Alma took a few steps over to hug Dani from behind before saying, “Dani, behave.  Birthday girls get to make the requests here.”

 “I… d-don’t mind.” I told them, moving back and forth between where they were talking and where Ariadne was, not wanting Ariadne to think I was ignoring her.  I was aware of the vampire brothers watching me, probably unaccustomed to seeing someone in two different places, but playing with Papak had shown me that they were practically frozen in place compared with me, just like everyone else.

 Meanwhile, Ariadne was telling me about tricks she had discovered over the years to quickly diagnose health problems in different types of creatures.  I doubted some of the tricks would work quite as well for me, not having a couple thousand years of experience in recognizing different types of cellular damage, but she seemed confident that I’d get the hang of it.

 James was staring at Dani, whose smile only grew.

 “A playmate for Alberich!” she suggested, finally letting us know what she wanted.

 Alma sighed before saying, “She probably shouldn’t attempt life yet.”

 “Is that really possible?” questioned Maple.

 “Of course, though creating life takes far more energy than you’d probably expect.” replied Ariadne, having finally reached them.  “I certainly can’t recommend doing it until Raine is very confident in her abilities.  Getting something slightly off is very easy and potentially lethal for the new creature.”

 “What about creating an enhancement suit for Pufflewink?” suggested James, obviously thinking that Pufflewink could keep up that way.

 For several seconds, I considered different modifications to the suits, considering how cute they could look.  While considering cuteness, I also considered whether or not Pufflewink would feel comfortable.  Like all kitties, Pufflewink liked warmth, and the suits were designed to ensure a certain level of warmth.  Everyone else had adapted to the feel fairly quickly, so I imagined Pufflewink might as well.  After letting myself enjoy numerous scenarios of my kitty playing around in her new suit, I double-checked a rather important part of this idea, asking “I c-can?”

 James nodded, saying, “As long as Jarod doesn’t mind.”

 “That’s an awesome idea, man-slave!” insisted Emma, grinning broadly.

 “I’ll admit that I’m intrigued to see what spells go into these things.” commented Vito eagerly.

 “Suit design is a trade secret, so no giving it away to anyone.” stated Jarod loudly to be heard over everyone.  “Mila, would you mind adjusting the design for felines?”

 “Already optimizing the fiber configuration.” she replied, sounding amused.  “Master, mind if we borrow your office briefly?”

 “Feel free.  Raine, I think she wants you upstairs.” encouraged James, smiling as well.

 I nodded to him, and then went into the office.  Quest gladly accepted!  At the speed of Mila, the entire room transformed into screens for me to inspect with additional screens forming up from the tiny ball things that came out of the floor.  Everything from molecular composition of the substances involved to the details on how James’ spells interacted with the physical form were on display.

 Downstairs, James was commenting to Jarod “I hope you know that she’ll never forget the designs.”

 Jarod grinned broadly.  “And I hope you realize that I have many, many plans that could use her aid.”  He was doing his villain act again.  On one hand, he really was good at looking like an evil mastermind.  On the other hand, he was a good person and wouldn’t actually attempt anything evil.

 In the free time I had between taking in the different screens, I considered if I was really capable of meeting Jarod’s expectations.  Yes, I was learning to use my magic, but I didn’t have anywhere near Ariadne’s level of mastery.  Sure, the best way to get there was practicing, but what if I oopsed again?  Energy research could be dangerous.  Would I be able to contain things?  Maybe Jarod wanted safer experiments first…  He’d listen if I told him I wasn’t ready for anything dangerous, right?  More scenarios erupted in my mind, but I didn’t have faith in them.  Jarod was very nice, but he could also be a little… obsessive.

 “If she comes back with a finished suit, I’ll be most disappointed.” stated Vito with a frown.

 “No need to be disappointed.  I’ll gladly show you the spell.” James told him.  “I just ask that you don’t utilize it for your kind yet.”  When Vito nodded his agreement, James created his spell.

 For once, I really studied what went into the spell, committing the entire arrangement of energy to memory.  Though I didn’t have confidence in duplicating such effects with my own magic yet, I could arrange residual energy, just like the others.  Mila was already showing me modifications to the spell on some of the screens, having shown me a 3D model of it already.

 Emma sighed and said, “You guys really know how to bring down a party.”

 “We’re partying?” questioned Noelle, seeming to have forgotten the conical hat on her head.  She was so adorable, and I wondered what she was showing the others.  Sadly, her magic couldn’t affect me through my own magic, so I couldn’t see.

 “Yes.  Today’s Raine’s birthday.” replied Dejon with a patient smile.  He had been working with her lately.

 I mentally danced through the room I had already prepared for them as a couple, in hopes of them dating.  He liked her, paying far more attention to her than he had paid attention to anyone else, and she certainly seemed interested whenever she looked at him.  I put the new memory of them together in goofy party hats up on a shelf, admiring it.

 Noelle’s eyes brightened, happy as ever.  “I should tell her Happy Birthday!”

 I mentally thanked her again, adding another tally in my mind’s personal room for her under the times she wished me a happy birthday today as I continued studying and connecting all of the pieces Mila was feeding me.

 “She’s off making something for her cat at the moment.” explained Dejon.

 “She has a cat!?  I love cats!” she exclaimed excitedly.

 There was a whole section of Noelle’s private room in my mind dedicated to her playing with Pufflewink.  The adorableness delighted me.

 “Me too!” exclaimed Kayla, lifting up Alberich, who had been leaning against Alma’s leg for the past minute.

 Alberich was a very proud, very small lion, but he didn’t swipe at Kayla this time.  Through our chats, I had learned that Alma spoiled him far too much when he was young, which was probably why he could be a bit snooty.  Luckily, even Alberich found Noelle cute, affected by her magic just like most everyone else—poor James didn’t know what he was missing.  When Noelle pet him, I could imagine how easily Alberich recognized her delight.

 Not long after Noelle and Kayla started playing with Alberich, Mila informed everyone that I would be indisposed for several more minutes—she could only show me things so fast.  I would also need some time to practice before I would be satisfied.  Everyone but me went to the ballroom to dance instead of gaming for once.  There were more cat-themed party decorations in there, and I was determined to join them soon.

 After I finished the material that Mila had for me, I started asking her questions and was surprised to find she liked my ideas for a few modifications in the suit.  She had originally assumed that I would simply remove the suit whenever Pufflewink wanted to go potty, but agreed with me when I pointed out that my little kitty would probably get disoriented by the sudden loss of enhancements more than our friends did.  With a bit of work, we came up with some alterations that should work, and Mila found some additional cleaning spells she felt would be better suited for cats.  Four-hundred-and-seventy-two variations later, Mila and I were satisfied that we had a suit Pufflewink would like, so I fetched her and created the suit around her.

 The difference was notable as soon as I saw my little kitty move.  She was confused, but I talked to her and warned her she’d need to be a little more careful.  Mila insisted the difference in strength and speed was considerable, so I took her word for it.  Satisfied that Pufflewink was happy, I took her down to join the others, dancing along with her in my arms.

 Mila felt the need to stick a spotlight on me the moment I arrived, but I didn’t mind.  James and Alma came over to examine the suit.

 “Were you successful?” he asked.

 “M-Maybe.” I replied, not as confident as Mila.

 He grinned as he said, “We should test it later before Alberich and Pufflewink play too much together.”

 I nodded in agreement.  Pufflewink would need more time to adjust to her new abilities.  “I-I should… visit… with… Ariadne.” I told him after considering a number of scenarios where Ariadne examined my kitty to make sure the enhancement suit was agreeing with her.

 When James and Alma moved to hug me, I was surprised, but I only considered dodging for a very brief moment.  I did like hugs, and neither of them would accidentally squeeze Pufflewink too hard.

 “I hope you’re having a wonderful birthday, Raine.” stated James as he hugged me.

 I nodded and smiled at my friends, telling them “B-Best ever.”

 “No.” stated James, making me consider what was wrong.  He then clarified “We plan to make each one better.”

 I probably stared at him too long when he said that and nearly let myself cry.  James was such a kind, wonderful person, and I would be grateful to him forever.  I was certain he underestimated how much he had done for me—modest as he was—but giving me a home where I am accepted, despite what I am, was already the best present I could receive in a lifetime.

[amiedala]

SOMETHING MORE (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 24: There's the Kicker

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: this chapter doesn't warrant warnings except brief mentions of violence!

SUMMARY: When you hear your name, you think you’re hallucinating it. It comes out of nowhere, and the voice that it comes from is familiar, trusting, warm. And there’s the kicker: it’s unmodulated. You’re pretty sure you’re imagining it, because you’ve spent so many nights playing over Din’s voice in your mind, his promises, the way he broke them.

And still, you freeze, turning around, feeling completely suspended on the space-time continuum. Standing there, unmasked, heartbreak written all over his face, is your Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian. As your heart hammers, drowning out every impulse to run towards him and jump into his arms, you have to remind yourself he left you, and even though he found you, he’s not yours anymore.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: HELLO MY LOVES SO SORRY THIS IS DAY LATE!! i had a lot of family and personal stuff come up on the back half of the week, and the chapter just wasn't where i wanted it to be last night. i hope this makes up for it! and i promise, the next chapter is going to be muchhhhh longer, and (in my opinion) very good ;) ENJOY!!

*

Getting back to Hoth feels like trying to run up a staircase that doesn’t fully exist.

Your starfighter, the one you put together with your aching hands and a little bit of wishful thinking, is rebelling against you. It’s fitting, you think, trying to hit warp for the thousandth time, that in the Crest’s unceremonious, splintered death, it left behind a new ship for you can wrangle in its wake. Immediately, you feel awful, swearing and kicking the parts of your hand-me-down Rebel ship into shape, reminding yourself that your home—the physical part of it, at least—is gone, and it makes you want to break down in the middle of space, get lost in the stars and not think about anything in this forsaken galaxy ever again.

But every time you close your eyes, you see the lightsaber glow green, and you know somewhere deep in your chest that Wedge called you back for a reason. It’s colossal and monumental in the same thundering way finding Din and the baby for the first time was, as illuminated and fated as meeting Ahsoka. There’s something here, something real, something more, if General Luke Skywalker himself sent Wedge a hologram and shook your old friend up this badly.

Finally, you get the ship to move. You kick the malfunctioning warp system a few times before she shudders to life and groans under your pressure. “Kicker,” you mutter, flipping all the colorful, variant buttons on the dashboard to get her to move. “Kicker, that’s what I’m gonna call you. I’d name you Rebel,” you continue, punching the ship into hyperspace, “but that one might be a little too on the nose. What do you think?”

Because it’s a ship, Kicker doesn’t say anything. You smile though, a small, stolen one, and as you exit the crush of warp in front of the icy behemoth that is Hoth, you feel your heart aerating and releasing, nervousness building a colony of butterflies up in your stomach. Luke Skywalker, you whisper a few times, turning his name over in your mouth. You know he’s real. You’ve seen him before, only from a distance, but you’ve heard the concrete stories, the way he turned from desert farm boy into the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy. He’s the kind of man that can turn into myth with the right storyteller, and he’s always awed you. There’s a part of you that connects to him—something yearning and desperate, that part of the tales you always heard where he keeps trying to save people beyond saving.

Wedge knows him. Knew him, maybe, with the mystique surrounding the Jedi that Luke became, but you’ve seen the way Wedge talks about him, how the double suns of Tatooine shine in his eyes, his enthusiasm, his kindness. And you know they haven’t seen each other in ages, because Wedge has been from one end of the galaxy to the next, and Luke—you aren’t on a first name basis, he’ll always be General Skywalker, but there’s something about the way he appeared in your vision that makes you feel closer to him—well, Luke’s been becoming a Jedi.

And after perceiving said Jedi on the seeing stone immediately after your premonitions of Grogu getting whisked away by something evil? It feels like too close of a coincidence. And you don’t believe in coincidences to begin with.

The descent to Hoth feels even colder and slower when you’re shivering in anticipation before you even break through the planet’s atmosphere. You’re in your jumpsuit, and one of the spare blankets from your makeshift bed in the back of the cockpit is draped over your legs, but you’re still freezing. It feels like forever until you’re finally docked and you can sprint towards the control room where Wedge told you he would be, boots stomping heavy and intentional against the frozen ground.

“W—” you wheeze, immediately skidding to a halt the second that you breach the doorframe, all the breath leaving your lungs, “what did he say?”

The room, you realize, a second too late, is full. There’s seven people splayed around the hologram, and they’re all staring at you. You recognize all of their faces, both from seeing them around here on base, and from your youth when you were still a fully integrated member of the Alliance, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you pull your helmet off, trying to walk over to where Wedge is standing with as much grace as you can muster.

“It seems like some of the message is corrupted,” Wedge manages, lowly, pulling you gently out of the way of the other people talking urgently over the holotable. “He said something about a new Jedi, though, and that he’s heading back to find them—”

“Me?” you blurt.

Wedge startles. “What?”

You bite your lip, grabbing his arm and dragging him a bit further away, hoping to avoid the other generals’ earshot. “I—I was on Tython,” you breathed, “just now. And before my fiancé and our kid abandoned—left me on Dantooine, we were on Corvus. Where we met with a Jedi—I think. I don’t know if she identifies as one anymore. Her lightsabers were white.”

Wedge blinks at you. “What?” he repeats, and you steal a nervous look at the others gathered around the hologram. Some of them are examining the table itself, others are watching you, and you feel both incredibly small and incredibly judged. “You’re not making sense, rebel girl. What about you?”

You inhale. It’s shaky, but it’s a start. You’re still out of breath. “I—I’m Force sensitive,” you whisper, as quietly as you can, “that’s why I was left on Dantooine. The baby—Grogu, our son—he’s also Force sensitive, and Moff Gideon was after the both of us. It was safer if we split up. Can,” you interrupt yourself, still out of breath, “can you play me the message? I think that Luke—General Skywalker—might have been talking about me.”

Wedge stares at you. After a second, he takes a half step back, but the look on his face, disbelief, is so close to Din’s of confusion and betrayal after you showed him the same piece of information about yourself. You swallow, suddenly self-conscious, pulling your braid over your shoulder.

“How long have you known?” Wedge whispers, voice urgent. “About your abilities?”

You shake your head. “Not long,” you promise, “two months at most. Listen—”

“Why did you say yes to me?” Wedge interrupts. “Why did you come here? We’re barely anything, right now, Nova, the Alliance is completely scattered after the fall of the Empire. There’s not enough of us to protect you.”

You blink, anger slowly filling up the expression on your face. “I can protect myself,” you hiss back, “and, besides, I’m not—I’m not dangerous, Wedge, and I can take care of myself. Besides,” you say, trying not to choke, “I think Gideon has the baby right now, b—because our ship was shot to shit—”

Wedge faces you again, putting both of his broad hands on your shoulder. Immediately, you close your mouth, suddenly anxious. You don’t know what he wants from you, and you don’t know if you should have told him about everything. But if he was friends—close friends—with Luke Skywalker, he shouldn’t be this uncertain about your Force sensitivity. You bite your lip, unsure how to react, but you can feel the anger and desperation slowly building back up in your chest, billowing like an old, ancient flame.

“Moff Gideon,” Wedge says, voice low, “is after your fiancé and your kid?”

Troubled, eyes furrow, you nod. “Yes.”

“And when you just left the base earlier today,” Wedge continues, his voice intense but slightly strained, “where did you go?”

“I—” You inhale, sharply, breaking his intent gaze to look over at the rest of the people in the room. Almost every single one of them is outfitted in the regalia reserved for admirals and generals, and the ones who aren’t are pilots. You know the uniform. You’re practically wearing it yourself. They’re all looking at you with a strangeness to them, eyes flickering back and forth between you and Wedge, as if asking for permission. “When we met Ahsoka Tano on Corvus,” you continue, trying to direct your conversation to both Wedge and the others in the room, “she told us—me and Grogu, my kid—that she couldn’t train us, because we had emotional attachments to one another. But she told us to go to the planet Tython,” you pause to swallow, mouth dry, “because it has a strong connection with the Force, and we could connect with a Jedi who could.” You stop, looking back at Wedge. “I heard him,” you whisper, “and I saw him. His lightsaber, lighting up the hallway of an Imperial cruiser. I know that Gideon was after my family.” You pause again, inhaling a shivering breath. “When I was just on Tython, I saw our ship. It was just rubble.” You’re trying so hard not to cry, but you can’t help yourself. “I’ve had visions, Force visions, for months now, of the planet. Gideon and his troops were after the baby, and I know Tython is where they took him.”

Wedge’s hand is up against his chin. He exchanges a quick, unreadable look at one of the generals, and then he faces back to you. “How many men does Gideon have?”

You look around at the people in the room again, and decidedly take a step forward, towards the table, towards the paused, flickering, blue hologram of Luke Skywalker pulsating up from the table. “A lot,” you admit, hand flying to your necklace before you startle with the realization that it’s not there, that you gave it to Grogu right before you were deserted out on Dantooine. “I know the galaxy is still in reparations from the fallen Empire.” You swallow, trying to meet the eyes of the rest of the people in the room. “But I don’t think the Empire is as fallen as we previously thought.”

Wedge moves in behind you, and a space opens up around the table. You smile, grateful, falling into rank with the other eight people in the room. “That’s what we’ve been afraid of,” he affirms, bumping his shoulder gently into yours, the same thing your dad always did when he wanted to include you. You let your stature relax, leaning in to examine the pulsing of the hologram on the table. “After we defeated the Empire, most people left the Alliance. It seemed like the natural thing to do when there wasn’t active, visible evil to fight off anymore. People wanted to get on with their lives.” He inhales, deeply. You can see worry lines chiseled into places they weren’t before, the last time you saw him. “Luke, though.” He stares at the rotating disillusion of his friend as he exhales, “Luke knew it wasn’t over. He’s been all over the place,” Wedge says, and this part sounds like it’s just for you, “trying to find people who can use the Force like he can, and like you can too. Trying to rebuild the Jedi Order.”

You swallow, looking up at him. “What does the hologram say?” Your voice comes out shaky and small.

Wedge sighs, pressing the button to play the message.

“Wedge,” Luke says, voice tinny but full of relief. “It’s been a long time, and I know you’re busy, but I need your help.” You watch, transfixed, at the blue, flickering image of the greatest Jedi in the galaxy. You swallow. “I think I’ve found someone. Maybe two people, I can’t be sure. I felt it through the Force.” He pauses again, giving Wedge a look that feels private, intimate, like something only for him to see. You avert your eyes. “I’m headed to the planet Tython. Then—then I’d like your help, and the Alliance’s, to help safeguard whoever I find.” You look at Wedge. “I know it isn’t fair to ask. I know I’ve been distant for a long time. But I need you to know that the galaxy is still in danger. I feel it, Wedge, and I know you can too. I’ll see you soon.” And with that, the holotable flicks off, the rotating, grainy, blue image of Luke Skywalker himself turned to dust.

“He found you,” Wedge says, but it sounds more like a question.

“No,” you whisper, voice small. “No—I saw him, but it was a premonition. I didn’t call out to him.” Your eyelids flutter, because you’re trying to hold back tears. “Grogu,” you say, voice even smaller than it was before. “Gideon has Grogu.”

Wedge exchanges looks with the others in the room, then looks back at you. You’re exhausted, and you rub your hands over your tired eyes, pressing until you see stars. “So Luke is going after Moff Gideon?”

“Yes.”

“So we need to help him.”

You spin around, back to Wedge and the generals. “No,” you enunciate, trying to stress just how bad that idea is with a single syllable. Then your words come flooding back. “No. We—you, any of you—cannot go after Gideon. I know you want to, and I know you’ve taken down plenty of the Empire, so I know you’re capable, but you can’t.” You look back at Wedge. “You can’t,” you whisper again. “I’ve seen him. He’s flattened entire cities in his destroyers, and he’s ruthless. He’s power-hungry, and anyone or anything that stands in the way of that is something that will soon be dead. I held him off once,” you say, projecting this part to the rest of the room, “once, and I barely got out of there in time, and it drained me for days. I still feel that exhaustion here. You can’t help Luke with this. Protecting me, and whoever the other Jedi are—that’s what you need to do. I know this is horrible. I know you probably feel helpless.” You swallow, fingers grasping around open air around your throat where your necklace used to be. “But you can’t take on Gideon. Not alone. And not even with all of you. I’ve seen how that story ends. It cost me my family.”

Wedge stares at you. “So you’re suggesting we do nothing? To help Luke Skywalker? To get your kids and fiancé back?”

The question burns. You meet his gaze. “No,” you answer, finally, “I’m suggesting we strategize before we attack.”

There’s rumblings from the generals in the background, but Wedge holds up a hand, and the low voices cease. You swallow, trying to push your shoulders back, give off confidence, but you’re not sure if it’s working. Wedge nods at you, and you feel relief spread through your whole body as he turns back to the generals. “Nova’s right,” he says. “There’s not enough of us left to adequately fight off Gideon and the troops he has.”

“He has a weapon, an awful one,” you say, stepping forward. “It’s called the Darksaber.”

No one seems to blink an eye at that one, but Wedge looks at you. “Is Gideon Force sensitive, too?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“No,” you answer, softly, “but this weapon isn’t like a lightsaber. It’s cruel, and ruthless, and its blade is black, vibrating with a ring of white around it. He can use it, and he has, and he’ll continue to until he’s been stopped—”

Suddenly, all the lights start blinking, sirens blaring. You jump back in panic as everyone immediately mobilizes, starts pulling weapons out of hidden places, running out of the room. Wedge beckons for you to follow him, so you do, and your legs scream with the soreness of trying to climb to the top of the seeing stone back on Tython.

“What’s happening?” you yell, following Wedge into another control room.

“We’re under attack,” he answers, grimly, his face paling. “You need to go.”

You blink, coming to an abrupt halt. “What?”

“It’s Gideon’s men,” Wedge says, turning around to face you. “It’s not Gideon himself. But he’s sent in three fighters, and they’re big ones. I assume they’re after you?” he asks, and your stomach twists. Wedge starts striding towards the hangar, and you follow him, immediately getting blasted in the face with Hoth’s frozen air.

“It’s three fighters,” you say, urgently, “I’ve taken out six of them before, Wedge, singlehandedly, let me get in the air and I can shoot them down—”

“No,” he interrupts, “we’ve got it. I promise. You have to go. There will be a decoy ship alongside you, one that looks enough like yours so they’ll follow it. Only when that ship is clear do you leave the atmosphere, and then you immediately jump into hyperspace.”

You’re frozen.

“Do you understand?” Wedge asks, and you exhale, letting go of all the seizing stress in the pit of your stomach.

“Yes,” you answer, and he nods. You’re at Kicker, so you grab the parka out of Wedge’s outstretched hand, starting to climb.

“Rebel girl,” he calls, and you go back a step to catch his face. There’s so much there. You can feel it the same way you see how worn his worry lines were when you were reunited back on Dantooine. It’s longing, loss, and, somewhere hidden, hope. You see the way he’s trying to convey everything—condolences for your parents, plans to get Din and the baby back to you, whatever was going on between him and Luke—but he can’t vocalize it. You nod at him, smiling softly. “Fly safe,” Wedge says finally, “and let me know where you land. No matter what,” he tacks on, at the last minute, and you see for a split second how concerned he is, “do not turn around. Do you understand me?”

You want to defy him. You want to say no. You don’t want to leave, you want to stay and fight. You promised Din all that time ago that you wouldn’t run, and here you are, deserting the people that you’re supposed to protect. Finally, though, because of the look in his eyes, you nod. “Don’t you dare let them touch you,” you manage, and your voice only cracks on the last word, which is an improvement. Wedge nods back, and then he’s gone, running through the hangar to his X-Wing. You watch him take off, and your eyes track the decoy ship that’s supposed to be yours, and as the three fighters go after it, you exhale and punch it. You’re moving fast, too fast, and your takeoff is sloppy, but you know Wedge wouldn’t tell you to book it if he didn’t mean it, so you fly recklessly and you fly fast.

When you hurtle out of the atmosphere, you catch one of the fighters diverting from the group to chase after you, so you don’t even bother punching in coordinates. You just floor it. “C’mon, Kicker,” you whisper, voice low and desperate, as she shudders and groans to hop into warp. “I know you want to go slow, but now is really not the time—”

And, like the rebel she is, she sputters down to nothing.

“Fuck!” you scream, loud, too loud, it hurts your own ears, but you get up and start pounding on the dashboard while the fighter’s getting closer and closer. You look out the window as you flip switches and slam on buttons, and now you’ve got their attention, too, and you watch in panic as the ships flock to you, firing, trying to hail you on your comm.

“This is an order from Moff Gideon. Turn of your shields and lower your blasters.”

“Like hell,” you spit, “Kicker, I’m serious, I need you to work now—”

“This is an order from Moff Gideon. You have been warned once.”

“Warn me again, then,” you seethe, closing your eyes as you disconnect one of the wires and try to spark it with the other.

“This is an order from Moff Gideon. You are resisting capture. If you disobey one more time, we will fire on you instead of taking you prisoner.”

You ignore them. If this works, the ship will finally hop into warp, and you’ll be in the clear not only to evade, but to shoot back at them. If it doesn’t, you’re about to die in a fiery explosion, and all of your promises to Wedge would go—very quickly—down the drain. You cross your heart and pray to the Maker that you did the right thing, and then there’s nothing, just three very large—and very scary—TIE fighters about to surround you and take you prisoner at best, and then, finally, the glorious rebel she is, Kicker thunders to life. “Yes!” you scream, buckling in, cracking your neck, putting one hand on the accelerator and one thumb over your blasters. You have a second to do this, and you need to do it right.

“This is your final warning. Either board our ship or die.”

“Die,” you answer, your voice calm and not much like yours. As you speak, you push the accelerator forward, hit warp, and fire. You catch the biggest fighter right on the wing, not a hard hit, but enough to knock it back into the other two.

“Get back here, scum—” the pilot shouts, but you’re already in hyperspace.

“That’s Rebel scum to you,” you say, and the grin that swallows up your whole face is worth every bit of the close call.

You don’t know where to go. You don’t really care, because the farther you get away from the Alliance, the safer they’ll be, so you just set Kicker to coast through warp and lean back, seeing how far she’ll take you. Maybe she’ll dump you on a desert planet, or maybe she’ll crash land you on Nevarro again. Your heart feels daggered, impaled. There’s no way you could go back there. Sure, maybe Din wouldn’t be there, but Cara would be, and Greef Karga, and all the other people you met in the Guild. They’d ask questions, for starters, and Cara might go after Din and kick the shit out of him, and it would just leave you on the verge of tears. You want to go somewhere populated, you think, like Dantooine was, even though you know you can’t go back there yet. It’s too fresh, and Gideon’s men might come looking, and, besides, if Din wants you back, he’s going to have to chase you a little.

“Novalise,” you whisper to yourself, echoing the time almost a decade ago where you only had your name out here to hold onto, to bring you back to life. It still sounds like yours—no matter Din knowing it, no matter how you shared it with Arlen, no matter that it’s what everyone in the Alliance calls you now, after you told Wedge you prefer it to your original name. It’s yours, and right now, your own self feels like home.

So you coast. You hop out of warp every few hours to make sure that no one’s after you, but no one seems to have tracked you anywhere. It’s quiet out here, but it’s not the kind of shattering silence that it used to be. You sleep sometimes, huddling under the next of blankets for warmth, and then you go back to your chair to spin and look out at the stars.

You’re not sure how long it takes, but it feels like a few days when you finally decide to hop out of warp for good. You’re not sure exactly where you are, but you need food, and you need fuel, and you don’t think you drifted into the Mid Rim. It takes a little searching for anywhere that looks populated, but when you drift into the middle of an asteroid field, you realize you’re in Polis Massa. You’ve never been here. It’s not as filled with people as it used to be, once you break through the atmosphere on the rock that holds the research base, but it’s large and it has food and fuel. This is where your dad would go, before he joined the Alliance. Here and Coruscant, or what was left of it, had the most history about language and linguistics, and he’d take day trips from Yavin to collect as much research as he could to bring back and share with you.

It feels familiar here. Even though it’s not home, or anything close to it, you know that there’s something pulling you here, and something anchoring you too. The city is dense, but there aren’t a lot of people out and about. It’s dark here, darker than you imagined, so when you park Kicker in a landing bay, you bring a small flashlight with you. People don’t pay you much mind out on the street, even while you’re dressed in glaring orange, which is comforting after the close call you just had back on Hoth.

You wander. For a while, until the city starts getting lighter on the horizon line. Soon, the cafes and small markets on the street open up, and you sit outside, still wrapped up in your parka, glad to not be shivering. You eat, eventually, and have a steaming mug of caf, which helps. You don’t live the way it makes you feel, all jittery and nervous, and you don’t love the taste, either, but you’re happy for the warmth. Eventually, people filter in and out of the streets and you start to make your way deeper into the heart of the city.

You trip over the cobblestones at one point, practically launching yourself into the person ahead of you. You wince at his dirty look. “Sorry!” you call after him, and you hear him grumbling, but he acknowledges you with a nod. When you stand back up, you see where you are—the research institute your dad always talked about, where he’d go and spend hours reading about the different languages in the galaxy, to write them down and bring them back to you. You hesitate, for a second, and then you’re climbing the stone steps, driven by ache and longing.

It’s massive in here. It’s gorgeous, but huge, and the shelves are stacked all the way up to the ceiling. You have no idea where to start, but you pick an aisle at random and start browsing. You’re not sure what you’re looking for, if it’s something to connect you with your family or to connect you to this new life you’re haphazardly building for yourself, but you stumble again and nearly knock over the librarian.

“I’m so sorry,” you manage, seeing how tiny she is, how frail. “I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s quite all right, dear,” she answers, kindly, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses on her face. “Can I hep you find anything?”

“The…language section,” you say, decidedly, eyes still caught on how many books there are here, how many years it would take you to read every one. “Linguistics.”

You follow her deeper into the labyrinth of bookcases, and when she shows you where the linguistics shelves are, you thank her excessively, your gaze buried deep on the titles on the spines. Most of them are in Basic, likely for inclusive access to anyone who ventures here, but there’s so many that have unfamiliar letters, the way they jut out and curl around themselves, and when your finger finds one, it falls open.

You don’t know what it is at first. You just feel called to it, opening it up and poring over the pages, and then a familiar word catches your eye. Kar’taylir. To know. To hold in the heart. Your own heart catches in your throat, stomach twisting itself over in impossible knots. You slam the cover closed to look closer at the text, and you realize it’s a dictionary of Mando’a, and all its translations.

There are tears in your eyes. You came here, to be closer to your father, sure, but also because you wanted to build something new. And you walked through these doors that held millions of books, and the one you picked out was a dictionary of language that your fiancé shared with you. It’s too much. You choke back a quiet sob, hoping everyone else here for research can’t hear your silenced wailing. Against your better judgement, you tear through the pages, looking for the familiar syllables, and when your finger finds the word cyar’ika, you have to close your eyes and desperately beg your heart to stop beating so horrifically, to slow the pulse down.

You follow the word over to its translation in Basic. Cyar’ika, it reads, sweetheart, beloved.

Beloved. Beloved. It says beloved, it doesn’t just mean sweet thing, it doesn’t mean that you’re kind and close to his heart. Din had been calling you his beloved for months, and then he fucking left you.

It’s too much. Everything is hot and fuzzy. You slam the book shut, heart pounding a staccato in your chest. Immediately, you get up and run. You don’t know where you’re going. In hindsight, you should have put the book back, but you didn’t. You’re running. You promised Din you’d never run, but he promised you forever and then stole it away, so you don’t owe him a damn thing anymore. You’re crying, loudly, openly, and when you rush by the same librarian you toss her a halfhearted apology.

You trip going down the steps, bang your knee up something horrible. It makes your eyes flash white hot for a second, but you pick yourself up and just keep going. You only have a vague idea where Kicker is, but you run in that general direction, blood dripping down your scraped knee, and then you’ve found the landing slot. You hurry up the ladder, not even bothering to get out the bacta kit that you stowed in the hull of the ship, just desperate to get out of here, to go somewhere else. It doesn’t matter.

You have history with Din on so many planets, it’s impossible to pick one where he won’t be hanging in the air. But something feels horribly right about heading to Tatooine, considering he hates desert planets and you can hide in plain sight. Maybe you’ll go to Mos Eisley and pick up bartending, maybe you’ll be a hermit that lives in the sand, maybe you’ll learn to speak Tusken and really never be seen from again. But before you breach the atmosphere, you call Wedge.

“Rebel girl,” he sighs, coming in almost immediately. “I was worried. You didn’t respond earlier.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. That seems to be the only thing you can utter today. “I—I went into warp for a while, turned off my comm. I was just on Polis Massa, just for the day, but it’s not—”

“Safe there,” Wedge interrupts, and you want to tell him that’s not what you meant, but he’s still talking. “We intercepted the comms of some of the people sticking close to the Empire. There’s enemies there, I’m glad you got out.”

“Me too,” you say quietly. “I’m going to Tatooine. Not forever, just for a bit. I figure I can ditch Kicker—the ship—somewhere safe and get some sort of job for a few weeks, throw people off my trail.”

“Good call,” Wedge says, then he sighs. “Luke’s from there, you know.”

You swallow. “I know. Listen, don’t tell anyone else where I am, but if he asks—”

“I’ll tell him where you are,” Wedge assures you. “Can you get word out to your fiancé?”

You gulp, slowly coating towards the atmosphere line, watching how your whole vision fills up with sun and sand. “I’m not sure,” you say, barely anything at all. “Listen, Wedge, I gotta go. Thank you for checking in on me. I’ll tell you if I’m headed anywhere else.”

“Do that,” he agrees. “Lay low. Unless you need to go after Gideon. But if that happens, you call me. You have to promise you’ll let me help. Not the full Alliance, if you don’t want our guns and ships. But you have to call me. I’m not letting you go in there alone.”

Your eyes fill up with tears. You don’t have the energy to argue, really, so you don’t. You just nod, slowly, finding a safe place to land. “I promise,” you say eventually.

“Nova?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.” You hear the line go dead, but you nod again against your own company in the cockpit. “

“I will,” you manage, low and deliberate.

It’s hot out here. It’s a no-brainer, you know how relentless Tatooine’s suns are, but it’s even worse than you imagined. You shed the parka, most of the jumpsuit, and tie your hair up on the top of your head before you step out into the sand, but even then, in just your tank top and light pants, it’s ridiculously hot. You struggle for the first few klicks, and then the suns slowly start to go over the horizon, and it’s a bit more bearable. You drink the last of your water, and keep stumbling closer and closer to a settlement.

It’s not Mos Eisley, but it’s a cantina. Smaller, probably lower profile, and you stagger in with your empty water canteen and your bag full of the few credits you have left, and you pick a small table out of the way to sit down upon. The wall is cool, and you press yourself up against it as you signal the waitress.

She’s definitely not human, but you’re not sure what race she is, because the dark in here is such a stark contrast against how blinding the light was outside, and your eyes haven’t fully adjusted. “Hi,” you say, your voice coming out cracked. “Can I please get some water, and—and something to eat?”

“What would you like?” she asks, and you balk at the menu, all of which has meat on it. The thought of putting anything made out of mat in your mouth makes your stomach roil, so you shake your head.

“Is there anything you offer—um, that doesn’t have meat?” you ask, and your words come out small.

“We have a plate of vegetables,” she answers, “but they’re not the freshest—”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt, warmly, “that’s fine, thank you.”

She gives you a soft smile and offers you a whole pitcher of water. You should pour some in your canteen, but you just start drinking straight from the jug, gulping it down as fast as you can, trying to get rid of the dry heat in the back of your throat. When she comes back with your food, the water it totally drained, and you ask for a refill as your stomach grumbles.

“Can I get anything else for you?” she asks, and you shake your head, and she starts walking away.

“Wait,” you call after her, mouth full of food, “wait—uh, do you happen to have any positions open? For a job? I can’t offer much, but I’m a good cook, or I could clean, I’m good at that too—”

“What’s your name?”

You swallow around your mouth of food. “Novalise. And I usually have much better manners than this, I’m sorry.”

She smiles. “I’m Kuna,” she answers. “We only have pick-up jobs available around here right now, I’m afraid. It’s not steady pay, but it’s something, and at least it’s out of the heat.”

“Yes,” you say immediately, “yes, I would love that, whatever you have for me. Thank you.”

Kuna nods. “Dinner’s on the house,” she says, voice still lowered, “and you can come back sometime tomorrow to start, if that works.”

“Yes,” you nod. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you so much.”

You sleep better that night than you have in the last week, which isn’t saying much, but at least the hulking silence of being alone in the ship is satiated with the knowledge that you’re not going to be easily accessible to anyone that doesn’t wander into the cantina, and after you hike back to Kicker, you fly her closer to the hangar on the edge of town and cover most of the ship with a tarp you find rolled up in the hull. As long as stormtroopers or anyone associated with Gideon doesn’t stop in the hangar on the outskirts of town, you’re safe.

The work is hard, and slow, but it’s rewarding. It gives you that same distracted feeling that working with Arlen at the hostel did, and something to show for it. You mostly clean, sweeping out the freshers and scrubbing down the bar, but you get the stools spotless and you’re able to polish the backs and seats of some of the other cluttered chairs, moving tables back and forth to best optimize the space. After a few weeks of working a handful of days, Kuna lets you back behind the bar. Mostly, you’re making small drinks, no big cocktails or anything fancy, but you like it. It’s nice to interact with people, even if you don’t share a language with them, and it keeps your mind off the book of Mando’a and Din stranding you on Dantooine after promising you an eternity.

You don’t care that it’s temporary. There’s nothing momentary about heartbreak, nothing compartmentalized enough for you to simply forgive him. Not now. And maybe not ever. But your heart yearns for Grogu. Whenever you let your mind wander, you tap into the Force as much as you can, searching for him, or searching for Luke Skywalker, trying to figure out if they’re okay, if Grogu is still under Gideon’s grasp, and in the corners of your visions, you look for Din.

It’s involuntary. It hurts, and it leaves you reeling, heart spinning out into an abyss you can’t cartograph your way back from. So you try to stay distracted, try to keep busy. Days pass, and you’re not sure for how long, but they’re filled with work and you sleep at the end of them, restless, with nightmares, but you’re still getting sleep, and that’s all that matters right now.

Kuna lets you start serving drinks unsupervised, which isn’t much, but it makes you feel accomplished. The whole cantina looks better every day you’re here, and it’s something to be proud of, especially since you haven’t done anything to call attention to yourself other than being a woman in the middle of a skeevy bar in the desert, which just means you attract creeps instead of stormtroopers. It’s a good bargain. One night, you serve a regular, a Twi’lek with green skin, not purple, and you can look at her without seeing Xi’an, her dead body, or Din. She’s kind, and she asks about you as much as you ask about her, and you walk out of the bar to clean up the mess one group of people left behind, letting the rest of the people filter out for closing time.

When you hear your name, you think you’re hallucinating it. It comes out of nowhere, and the voice that it comes from is familiar, trusting, warm. And there’s the kicker: it’s unmodulated. You’re pretty sure you’re imagining it, because you’ve spent so many nights playing over Din’s voice in your mind, his promises, the way he broke them. And still, you freeze, turning around, feeling completely suspended on the space-time continuum.

Standing there, unmasked, heartbreak written all over his face, is your Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian. As your heart hammers, drowning out every impulse to run towards him and jump into his arms, you have to remind yourself he left you, and even though he found you, he’s not yours anymore.

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I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!! thank you all for being patient and bearing with me these past few weeks!! i promise more is coming, and we still have the whole last arc to go, so SM isn't ending soon ;) and when it does? i already have plans for a sequel in the works!

so sorry again that this is a day late!!! i hope you loved it anyway <3

xoxo, amelie