#i hope everyone in the hive circle is having fun with it though

[warlordfelwinter]

i don't know how the hive interest completely missed me when it got literally everyone around me even my own sister but it is kind of funny because normally i'd hear tarot theme and get really excited and want to play because like. yeah. i love tarot and delphi's whole thing is like divination and stuff. but it's hive so i'm just like... i'm gonna play baldur's gate.

[mandoinevarro]

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @lola-wolf @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical​ @pascaliprincess​ @geannad​ @coaaster​ @frietiemeloen​ @yourbucky084​ @brynnstudies​ @elfwoodfae​

im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

[captainimprobable]

Part 3 of that thing I’ve been posting.  This is a first draft, once it’s edited I’ll put it on Ao3.  There will be five parts! Part1  Part 2  ~~

Amity has a plan.

She knows her girlfriend likes meaningful gestures, especially when it’s about something important.  So as she signs her name at the bottom of the pink paper, she wills herself not to be nervous.  She’s doing everything right, she knows, and besides, it’s Luz.  Luz is understanding and generous.  She’ll love this. 

(Amity hopes.)

Walking to school the next day is torture, and she’s brought back to a similar morning a few months ago, when she was clutching paper from the same notebook she used today.  She didn’t go through with it then, but everything is different now.  Luz will say yes.

So why can’t she stop shaking?

She walks into the building and immediately spots Luz.  Her stomach flips itself over, as usual, and she nervously walks over to her girlfriend.   

“Amity! I missed you!”  Luz sees her and runs over, catching her up in a hug.  Amity tries not to swoon.  

“Luz, I saw you yesterday,” Amity says, smiling as she’s picked up and swayed a little.  

Luz pouts as she puts Amity down.  “Yeah, but that was a long time ago,” she mumbles.  She looks down at the ground, and her eyebrows scrunch together.

“Oh wait,” she says, stooping down and picking something up.  “You dropped this.”

It’s the pink paper.  Amity wants to die.  “WAIT,” she says loudly, startling a couple of other kids down the hall, “DON’T LOOK AT THAT.”

She grabs the paper and then stops.  Wait.  Things are different now. 

“Actually,” she says, with as much composure as she can muster after an outburst like that, “this is for you.”

She holds out the pink paper. And Luz. Takes it.

If Luz recognizes the type of paper the note is written on, she doesn’t mention it.  Amity is shaking as Luz opens the note, inspecting every single change in Luz’s face, anticipating a possible rejection. 

But instead, Luz’s face morphs into a huge smile, and she turns the paper over so Amity can see the words she’s written.

“Luz, will you go on a date with me?”  

 There’s color high in Luz’s cheeks as she asks “Really?”

“Of course really,” Amity scoffs, her entire body relaxing at Luz’s reaction. 

“Ohmygosh of course I will!!!!!  Where are we going? What are we doing? Can we-”

Amity holds up a hand to stop Luz’s train of thought.  “I have it all planned out,” she says proudly.  “All you have to do is show up.”

 Luz smiles, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes getting deeper as she does.  “Of course you do,” she says.  “I’ll be there!”

~

Amity had thought she was nervous yesterday, but that’s nothing compared to today.

 Edric and Emira are trying to help calm her down, but they’re somehow making it worse.  “I’m sure she’s gonna have a great time,” Ed says sincerely, nodding to himself.  “Unless….she doesn’t,” he adds.  

 Emira hits her twin on the arm.  “Ed, not helping,” she scolds, and puts her hands on Amity’s shoulders.  “First dates are scary, but this is Luz.  You could take her to the dump and she’d thank you.”

 “I’m terrified,” Amity confesses to her sister.  

 “Don’t be!”

 “Thanks, Em, suddenly I’m totally fine.”

 “Glad I could help,” Emira winks.  “Now go get your girl.”

~

It’s time for her date with Luz.  Well, actually, it’s an hour before her date with Luz, but she’s leaving now anyway because she likes to be punctual.  

 As it turns out, she doesn’t have a lot of time to be nervous, because when she opens the door to leave Blight Manor, Luz is standing there with flowers.

 “Hi,” Luz says excitedly, laughing a little at the look on Amity’s face.  “These are for you.  I got you purple ones because they match your hair!”

 “You’re early,” is all Amity manages to say.  She takes the flowers from Luz and their fingers touch.  Normally, this wouldn’t be such a big deal anymore, but knowing they’re about to go on an actual date makes everything feel a little different.  Amity tries not to jump.

 “Yeah,” Luz says, hands behind her back.  “But I know you, and I knew you’d be early, so here I am!”

 Suddenly Amity feels like crying.  Being known isn’t something she ever thought she would get to experience.  Being known this well was never even a thought.  She is so, so lucky.

 She blinks the tears away and manages to direct a smile at her girlfriend.  “Thanks,” she says.  “I love them.”

 Luz beams.  Amity still marvels over the way Luz’s expressions are so open and extreme.  She’s smiling with her entire body, somehow, exuding so much happiness just because Amity liked the flowers.  

 “So you have an idea?” Luz asks.  

 “Oh, yeah!” Amity says.  “I have the perfect plan.”

~

Amity watches Luz’s face stealthily out of the corner of her eye the entire way through Bonesborough.  They’re holding hands, and it feels like magic, but Amity is so nervous that Luz won’t enjoy what she’s planned that she can barely appreciate it.  Luz looks unbothered, though, swinging their hands between them happily as she chatters on about something King did earlier in the day.  Normally, Amity would be paying rapt attention, but today she’s a little too wound up.

 “Okay, here we are” Amity says nervously, watching  Luz’s face carefully for any sign of rejection.

 Luz looks up and gasps.  “A bookstore?????? I didn’t even know there was a bookstore here!”

 “Yeah,” Amity says shyly.  “I just thought...well, the first thing we really bonded over was Azura, so I figured maybe we could wander and…” She trails off.

 Luz is jumping up and down on the balls of her feet.  “Yes! I’ve always wanted to go on a bookstore date! I wonder what kind of weirdness a Boiling Isles bookstore has! Unless it’s just, like, a normal bookstore.  Which would be disappointing but still cool!”  She grins and pulls on Amity’s hand.  “Cmon, let’s go!”

~

It’s going well, she thinks.  Luz looks like she’s having fun as she pulls book after book off the shelf, commenting on them each before putting them back.

 “I’ve been wondering about the Azura books,” Luz says at one point.  “Like, how come we get them in the human realm and the Boiling Isles? How is that possible?”  Luz scratches her head.  “Maybe the author is from here and somehow managed to get their books to my realm? Maybe they’ve got a really good publicist? Or maybe they’re human and their books accidentally made it here somehow, like, maybe Eda brought one back one day and someone bought it and-”  Luz stops.  “Oh my gosh, Amity, do you think Eda is responsible for the circulation of the Azura books on the Boiling Isles???”

 Amity considers that.  

 “You know, I haven’t really met any other people who like these books,” she says.  “I always wondered why they weren’t more popular.”  Her eyes widen, realization dawning.  “What if I’m the only one? What if Eda sold them to the bookstore and I bought them and-”

 “Woah,” Luz says.  “That is some crazy coincidence.”

 “Well,” Amity says bravely.  “Guess it just means we were always meant to be.”

 She gets a bright red Luz as a reward for her nerve, and she smirks.  It’s fun to make Luz nervous.  Knowing she has that effect on her makes her so happy.  

 Luz doesn’t say anything, just reaches out a hand for Amity’s.  Amity gets it.  Sometimes holding Luz’s hand is the only thing that makes sense.

 “Oh no way,” comes a voice from behind them.  Amity’s heart sinks.  Oh no, not now, why now, why here, why-

 They turn around and Boscha comes into view, scrutinizing their linked hands.  “You’re actually dating the human.  Wow.  I thought that was a rumor, like, one so ridiculous it couldn’t even be true.”  She smirks.  “And yet here you are.”

 Amity can feel Luz stiffen next to her, and she’s suddenly filled with rage.  Luz escaped her world to avoid being made fun of, she shouldn’t have to deal with that here, too.

 Amity raises her chin and looks Boscha in the eye.  “Aw, what’s wrong, Boscha, jealous that nobody wants to hang out with you?”  She looks around pointedly.  “Looks like you’re alone, huh?  Has everyone finally realized what a monster you are?”

 Boscha’s face turns a shade of pink darker than her hair.  “I’m not alone,” she spits.  “I came here by myself on purpose.  It’s exhausting, having followers all the time.”

 “Sure,” Amity says, turning to leave.  “Come on Luz, let’s-”

 “Can’t believe she went and got a girlfriend from another species,” Amity hears Boscha mutter under her breath.  And then, a little louder, clearly intending to be heard- “Guess shopping at the bottom of the barrel is easier than finding someone normal.”

 Amity stops.  She’s gripping Luz’s hand so hard it’s probably starting to hurt a little, but she can’t help it.  Luz seems to sense the storm coming, and she scrambles to stop it.  “Amity, it’s okay, let’s just go-”

 But Amity is done.  Done with Boscha and her stupid games, done with everyone making fun of Luz for things she can’t control, done with her girlfriend being treated lesser than because she wasn’t born a witch.

 She releases Luz’s hand, whirls around, and says, quiet as the dead, “Say that again.”

 Boscha seems to realize she went a little too far this time, but she’s not one to back down.  “What are you gonna do, Amity? Hex me? You don’t have the-”

 Before she can finish her sentence, Amity’s fingers are twirling in circles and Boscha is on the ground, angry hives crawling up and down her body.

 A security guard comes over, looking bored.  He gives Boscha a glance, unimpressed.  “Miss,” he says to Amity.  “I’m gonna have to ask you to go.”

 “Don’t worry about it,” Amity says.  “We were just leaving.”

~

Amity thinks her hands might be clenched permanently, now.  The anger (coiling, rampant, hot to the touch) she’s feeling isn’t new, but it’s somehow louder now, a line of static in her ears so loud that she doesn’t hear Luz calling her name until the third time.

 “Amity!”

Amity blinks herself out of her stupor and remembers, suddenly: she’s supposed to be on a date.  A date with her cute girlfriend.  A date that she messed up by getting them kicked out of a store.

 She knew she’d mess this up somehow.

 “Amity, are you okay?”

 Luz is looking at her with concern in her eyes, and Amity doesn’t deserve it.  She doesn’t deserve any of this.  She’s ruined everything.

 “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, not looking Luz in the eye.  She’d understand if Luz dumped her over this.

 “For what?” Luz asks sincerely, and Amity looks up in confusion.  “Um, for ruining our date?”

 Luz raises her eyebrows.  “How exactly did you ruin it?”

 “I hexed Bosca, I got us kicked out of the bookstore, I-”

 “What I’m hearing,” Luz says, taking Amity’s hand again, “Is that you got angry on my behalf and defended me from a bully”

 “But I got us kicked out of the store!” Amity insists.  She feels like she owes it to Luz to admit what a screw up she is, but Luz isn’t having it.

 “No, Boscha got us kicked out of the store.  Besides, it’s no big deal, we were basically done anyway.”

 This isn’t right.  She knows she should be happy that Luz isn’t blaming her, but something inside her insists that Luz needs to know, that Luz needs to understand that Amity messed up and will probably mess up again, that she had everything planned out perfectly and it went nothing like it was supposed to and Luz should probably break up with her and-

 “Break up with you?????” Luz sounds scandalized, and Amity realizes: she said everything out loud.  

 “You think I would break up with you over this?”

 “I..I don’t know,” Amity says, closing her eyes as though that will make her disappear.  “Maybe.”

 “Amity, I-I don’t like you because you’re perfect.  You’re only human- I mean, you’re a person, and people make mistakes, and that’s okay! I make mistakes all the time! Just today I missed a step and fell down the stairs.  It happens!”

 She takes Amity’s other hand and looks her in the eyes.  “You’re perfect to me.  But not because you never mess up.  Because you’re kind, and funny, and beautiful, and you do things like hex bullies because they make fun of me.  I don’t need the perfect date, Amity.  I just need you.”

 Amity is speechless.  Nobody has ever said anything like that to her.  She remembers what she told Hunter in that cave all those months ago: I grew up thinking everything was an opportunity to justify existing.  But there are people out there who won’t make you feel worthless.  You just have to let yourself meet them.

 It’s time she took her own advice.

 “Thank you,” she says quietly, smiling shyly.  “You’re the best girlfriend a girl could ask for.”

 “No, you are!” Luz says earnestly, and Amity realizes that, if she had the courage, she could kiss Luz right then and there.

 She doesn’t, of course, but now that it’s in her head, she’s not going to forget about it anytime soon.

[legolaslovely]

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A/N: Hello friends! Happy happy Fili Friday! I am very excited to share this story based on this ask that took on an insane life of its own! Thank you to the anon for sending the lovely idea in and for giving me permission to run with it! The Fili heart wants what the Fili heart wants.  This is based on this video = the dance scene from Tangled! I listened to this while writing if anyone wants to know! It’s fun!  Listen guys, my impatient ass is counting this as a slow burn because the end is just so comfortinggggggg and fluffffyyyyyy so I hope you guys enjoy! Thanks for reading!

Pairing: Fili x Reader

Word Count: 4,270

Warnings: ... none?

Summary: Based on an ask! I’m not telling any more!

Link to the photoset below

It was only after months of rough traveling that Thorin decided to stop and spend a full day and night in a village along the route of the quest to Erebor. This much needed break came just in time for you, and more specifically your pack, which had continued to wear with every step you took and at this point, started to look as though a warg’s teeth had got a hold of it. You had been waddling around with its one serviceable strap slung over your shoulder for days and if you didn’t buy at least a replacement strap soon, you were sure you’d end up shrinking- hunched to half your size by the journey’s end.

Luckily, though this village was quite small, it did have a rather extensive market. As soon as Thorin made clear the details of the company’s overnight plans, you set out to comb through the many tents in the square. Most of the crafters fawned over the princes and king, leaving you free to browse without distractions. It didn’t take long for you to find a leather shop that boasted gorgeous weaponry, armor and tools. 

You were running your fingers over a strong leather strap, enjoying the geometric designs so common in classic dwarvish craftsmanship, when Fíli spoke from just over your shoulder.

“Will this do? I know it’s a bit larger than the one you have, but I think it will serve you well.”

The pack he was holding was extremely fashionable and even from the outside, it was clearly quite handy. Though it was currently empty, the sturdy leather still held it’s strong boxy shape. From the top and sides fell straps and hooks for your bedroll, canteens, weapons, and tools and what’s more, the design almost perfectly matched the strap you’d been admiring. The leather was tastefully embroidered and stamped with sharp triangles that weaved and folded into one another to wrap all around the body of the pack. Such a commendable creation was overwhelming and left you silent. 

“I should have asked first,” he said. “I’m sure I can return this one and we-you can pick out one you’d like. I shouldn’t have-”

“Fíli,” you said, taking the pack from him. Despite its size, it was light in your hand. “It’s beautiful. But I’m sure it was expensive- I mean, not that you don’t have the... I just... you didn’t have to- oh! I’ll pay you back. Here.”

You wanted to crawl into a whole. Who were you to talk money with the prince of Durin’s Folk? All the same, you were sure he expected you to pay for it. Maybe he’d merely grabbed the best pack for you before it was gone, bought by someone else. He was simply doing you a favor, watching out for you as company members do. You dug into your ripped pack for your coin purse, though you knew you wouldn’t have enough money. Mortification was rolling through you and if you allowed it, tears could have gathered in your eyes.

Then a hand covered yours.

“No, (Y/N). I don’t want anything from you. This is a gift. Come over here, we’ll transfer your things.” He led you over to a bench on the edge of the square.

“I can’t accept such a thing,” you said, sputtering. “I- really, this is too much-”

He took your torn pack from your shoulder and set it open on the ground before he moved to the new, pristine one, holding it still for you. “(Y/N), you need a good pack. We still have a long journey ahead of us.”

“I can go buy one. Actually, I was just going to buy a new strap to mend this one-”

“(Y/N),” he said, lifting your fallen chin with gentle fingers. “Please accept my gift, hm? I want to do this for you.”

“Thank you,” you nodded, accidentally shaking away his touch. 

He hummed and gave you the soft smile he so often sent your way. As you transferred your belongings into your new pack, you marveled at the many pockets and layers you found inside. There was a place for everything you’d brought with you- food, bathing and eating utensils, blade sharpening and repair tools. Apparently, Fíli was entertained by your ogling and when you looked up to the sound of his low chuckle, he was shaking his head at you. But you knew it was fond.

“I suppose I’ll see you at the inn then,” he said. “I have a few more things to look for in the market, so-”

“May I come with you?” you asked. “Everyone else is driving me mad. Even your brother is haggling with the archery merchant! I can’t bear it.”

“Of course,” he said, holding a hand out to you and lifting you to your feet. “Did you hear Dwalin at the ax vendor earlier?”

“ ‘What am I meant to do with this blade? Do they think I have time to hack through a warg’s leg?’ ” you mocked.

“I said it would be a good challenge for him,” Fíli said, leading the way back to the tents. 

“What did he say to that?”

He leaned to your ear. “You don’t want to know.”

As Fíli studied the tables of the shops, running hardened fingers over knitted scarves, lifting bars of soap to his nose for a sniff, taking in the shine of intricately decorated blades, your attention was pulled to the other end of the market. A fiddle in the corner slowly creaked into tune before erupting into a jig that was wealthily accompanied by a lute, a whistle, and a cajon drum. The shoppers barely paid the musicians any attention, but your feet couldn’t help but tap to the deep thumping of the hand drum. 

The music reminded you of home, but instead of sending you into a bout of homesick blues, the tune lifted your spirits and brought back fond memories of dancing around a crackling fire during crisp summer nights. Even the dance steps that you hadn’t performed in years came flooding back to your mind and soon, your feet. Heel, toe, hop ‘n turn. Kick, ball change, circle round. Not a soul in the small village’s plaza around you seemed at all moved by the music and though you itched to dance, you turned your bopping head back to the tables.

It seemed your yearning to enjoy the music hadn’t gone unnoticed.

You let out a surprised noise when an arm wrapped around your waist and a hand yanked you to spin around. Only when the tents stopped revolving around you were you able to focus on a bright grin and messy, brown hair.

“Kíli!”

“I know you want to dance, lass. Come on.”

He led you, hopping in time with the speeding fiddle, to the center of the square. Together you circled through the gathering crowd with precision and speed like a pair of bumblebees through a lush garden.

“Kíli!” You heard Fíli’s voice. “Not so fast!”

But Kíli spun you around him, yelling, “She doesn’t need your protection all the time, brother!” 

You laughed- even now the brothers bickered! But it added to your amusement. However, as Kíli lost himself in the fun, he also led you too close to the market tables and captivated audience members and you soon wished Kíli would heed his brother’s advice. 

You squeaked his name in fear as the fabric of your trousers caught on the corner of a display table of glass trinkets. It was clear he paid your worries no mind. Instead of slowing his lead, he chuckled lowly in return and tightened his grip on you, balling your tunic in his fist before he whirled you around him once more.

“I gotcha, (Y/N),” he said. 

Then the music shifted. You raced out of his arms into the open, unobstructed space where he could stand across from you like an opponent ready to lunge. 

“I love this song!” you cried as the fiddle weaved into a familiar tune- one that filled your heart with melodies and memories of adolescence. Your nerves seemed to disappear, as did the years since you’d learned the traditional dance of the dwarvish culture, and every nuance of the jig came flooding back to your memory. 

“Kíli! Remember the steps?” you asked as you hopped around him, hands on your hips and head turning side to side. 

“Not a bit!” he said, attempting to keep up with you anyway. 

Your sight grew blurry with laughter as you watched his stuttering feet, but when you looked up, you saw you weren’t alone in the dance. Others from the village had joined in. You were now surrounded by a hive of hoofers, some forming graceful and evolving formations, others giggling and stepping on unsuspecting toes. All was just as it used to be when you celebrated feast days in your own home town.

The musicians played louder and faster, encouraged by the participation and indulgence they saw before them. The sound of echoing claps brought your attention to the edge of the crowd while you continued your dance with the well known steps. There, Gandalf was grinning at you, lifting his hands to applaud you. Beneath him stood Bilbo, hairy feet tapping, hopping, and stepping in place so as not to get trampled by the sturdy, and quite passionate dwarves. Even Thorin and Dwalin seemed a bit beguiled, but as your head swiveled round you couldn’t find the dwarf you were looking for. 

You leapt on top of the large stone fountain in the center of the square, skittering around its edge and looking for a golden head of hair. But it was nowhere to be found. Even your frolicing heart sank a bit at the thought of Fíli missing this fun. 

“Kíli!” you cried as he bounced past. “Where’s your brother?”

He gave no answer and instead knocked at the back of your knees, plucking your legs out from under you. You fell from the high fountain, too startled to scream, but not too surprised to give Kíli a good smack on the shoulder when he caught you. Through the village plaza he raced, carrying you in his arms like a dangerous bird through the whirlpool of bees. You hid your face in his vest as he narrowly missed a few of the villagers, only opening your eyes when he set you safely on the ground. Before you, Thorin and Dwalin shook their heads, sporting deep smirks and cocked brows. 

Lucky for Kíli, by the time you turned around to catch him, he had vanished, safely hidden in the crowd of dancing dwarves. A bright pat pat came to your ears, sounding just over the music and when realization of its origin dawned over you, you grinned. “Are those… tapping toes I see, Mister Dwalin?”

Dwalin shared a look with Thorin. “I see no such thing, little lass.”

“Come and dance,” you said. You took his hand, finding it before it could disappear behind his back, and pulled. He didn’t budge. 

“Find yourself a different dance partner, (Y/N). There are many here,” he said, sliding his hand from your grasp. 

“Come now, Mister Dwalin,” you said. There was a twinkle in your eye that he recognized. It seemed you had learned a few things from Kíli in your weeks of traveling together at the company’s caboose. “Don’t be boring.”

“Oh, I’m boring, am I?”

“Yes!”

You had no time to run from him. One moment you were standing firm on the ground, the next you were in his arms being spun like the wheel of a wagon. The sky reeled, puffy clouds blurring into long white circles and dancing dwarves into blears and blobs of color. You screwed your eyes shut to save your frenzied mind, but it plainly made the dizzying effect worse. 

“Dwalin!” 

You screamed over the music, but the sound seemed to evaporate into the swirling air around you. Even when your feet eventually touched the flat ground, you were still twirled by your hands, shoulders, and waist. Just when the tormentor had finally relented, a familiar, smooth voice distracted you just enough for one foot to trip over the other and send you hurdling to the ground. Luckily, someone caught you.

“Are you all right?”

You opened your eyes to a blur of gold. It was Fíli who had caught you and you now lay in his able arms, helpless to stand. 

“I called Dwalin boring.”

“Oh, not your smartest idea, lass,” Fíli said, slowly moving you upright. 

You held his shoulders as your head continued to spin. “I think I may need a moment,” you said.

Fíli chuckled. “Let’s go sit, hm?” He led you to the fountain, watching just one of your wobbly steps before deciding to lift you in his arms once more and carry you to the stone seat. It was a smooth wave of movement you didn’t at all mind enduring. Once sat, he smoothed your hair behind your ear, marveling at your lips that were still grinning, even as you rocked back and forth in the aftermath of Dwalin’s “dancing.”

“Where were you?” you asked him. 

“Why? Did you want a better dance partner than Kíli?” he asked. You just saw his wink.

“Your brother is a good dancer!” you said with a slap to his shoulder. “He just dances to his own beat.”

Presently, Kíli was arm in arm with Bofur, skipping and hopping through the other dancers with precious little grace. You waved as they passed. Bofur barely made it past the fountain with Kíli’s dangerous lead. You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“If you can call that dancing,” Fíli chuckled. His form had finally stopped swaying in your vision. “When you can stand on your own again, I’ll have to show you how it’s really done.”

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “Why do you think I was looking for you in the first place?”

As the afternoon passed, other members of the company shopped through the market with notably lifted spirits. However, as the sun slid through the sky, it stretched gangly shadows of the pair who still made their perch on the fountain in the middle of the village plaza. Though you protested, sure Fíli had many other things to do rather than sit and listen to the music with you, he remained by your side, clapping to the beat as his feet collided with your swaying boots every once in a while. 

It wasn’t until the sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon that Kíli ran back into the square calling for his brother.

“Fíli! Have either of you moved all afternoon? We’ve been waiting for you at the inn.”

Fíli sputtered and stood, pulling you to your feet. “No, I lost track of time.” He sandwiched you between him and his brother as you followed Kíli through the small streets to the inn. A heavy hand on your new pack kept you close when dwarves filled some especially crowded pathways. 

When the inn came into view on the far end of the lane Kíli turned over his shoulder and said, “There are taverns full of beer and food all over this village and you two spend the entire day sitting on a rock in the sun!”

You shook your head. “I would much rather spend the day outside in the sunshine than in a dark bar, getting a sore belly from too much ale and smelly dwarves.”

Kíli, of course, had something to say about your reaction but you didn’t hear his reply. You were too distracted by Fíli leaning to your ear and running his fingers past your hand. 

“And I’d much rather spend the day with you than anyone else,” Fíli said.

Before you could discern his exact meaning, his hand found your back and led you through the door to the tavern. The moment you stepped through the threshold of the bar, he seemed to disappear, joining his uncle and helping to make the arrangements for the company’s overnight stay.

He stood tall next to Thorin- shoulders back, hands on his belt before one rose to shake that of the inn owner as Thorin dropped a few coins on the counter. Despite the months of travel, his clothes and hair were neat, even shining in the low light of the dark tavern. He turned over his shoulder and immediately found you watching him, giving you a high browed look as if he caught you stealing a treat from the kitchens. 

“That’s a nice pack, (Y/N).” Kíli’s voice interrupted your long distance facial feature conversation with Fíli. 

You hummed. “Thank you.”

The first thing you did when you reached your private room was bathe. You were given a large tub full of steaming water and fresh soap- no fish, plants, sharp rocks or sweating dwarves in sight. It should have been the most soothing event to occur in the past weeks. However, instead of relaxing and sinking deep into warmth and peace, your mind whirred and your body remained tense. Before the water had even run cool, you leapt out of the tub and dressed to run across the hall.

The hair by your neck was still damp and curling by the time you knocked on Fíli’s door. But it was Kíli who answered. You should have known they’d be sharing a room.

“Is Fíli in here?”

“Yeah, he’s in the bath. You want him?”

“No,” you said, jealousy rising and peaking above even your frustration at your endless jitters. “Will you just tell him I wanted to speak with him?”

“It’s not about the pack, is it?” Kíli asked.

“What? No-”

“Because he just wanted to give you something he knew you needed. It doesn’t even really count! He’s told me how badly he wants to make your gift, but there aren’t exactly any forges he can take advantage of while-”

Fíli’s voice stopped him. “Kíli! Who are you talking to, brother?”

“(Y/N)!” Kíli answered.

“(Y/N), our (Y/N)?” On the other side of the open door, you could hear water slosh onto the floor accompanied by Fíli’s incomprehensible grumbling. Then he peeked around the door with a sheepish smile. You could just see the soaked ends of his hair sending streams of water down his bare chest. “What were you two talking about?”

“The pack-”

“I just wanted to speak with you,” you said over Kíli. “Not right now. Later. When you’re… ready. I’m across the hall.”

Fíli nodded, forcing a smile that looked more like a wince. It didn’t reach his now stormy eyes. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Take your time,” you got out as he slammed the door shut.

Before you stepped back into your own room you heard Kíli cry out, “What! What did I do?” 

You closed your own door quickly, not wanting to eavesdrop any more. But it didn’t stop you from thinking about what Kíli had said. Had Fíli wanted to make you a pack once Erebor was reclaimed? Why would you need it then? Maybe Thorin was planning to ask you to travel back to Ered Luin once it was safe to lead the people back to the mountain. Imagine a trip free of wargs and orcs, you thought. 

You jumped when the door vibrated with his knock. 

“Come in, Fíli.”

You had never seen his hair loose and untied before. Its waves fell around his face like sweet rays of sun and the dripping ends left sheer wet clouds on the chest of his tunic. Did Kíli usually braid his hair? Had their mother taught them the traditional styles? Or did Fíli do it himself, never needing to ask for help with something so trivial? You were sure you could manage it. The braids weren’t so intricate and they were similar to yours if you thought about it. Which you often did.

He was looking at you with that “caught ya” grin again. “What did you want to talk about, lass?”

You turned, digging through your pack that was laid out on the bed. “Not so much talk,” you said. “I wanted you to have these.” In your hands sat the strap you had been admiring from the market. While you were alone in the morning, you’d paid to have it fashioned into a scabbard and a matching pair of bracers. It was simply coincidence that the pattern on your new pack happened to match these gifts you’d picked for Fíli. “I saw the engraving and immediately thought you’d like it. I know your bracers were torn by the trolls a few weeks back.”

He looked at you before he took the gifts. You couldn’t quite place his expression, you were sure that even after months of traveling together you’d never seen it before. He flipped the bracers over and could have seen his reflection in the shine of the buckles. They were immaculate and new- obviously made this morning- however they seemed comfortably broken in as if they’d been worn for days previously. He could imagine what custom gifts like these would have cost you.

“I can’t take these.”

You waved his hands away. “Fíli, please accept my gift,” you said, repeating his words from earlier in the day.

He ran his rounded fingertips over the familiar triangular etchings and hummed. “Thank you, (Y/N). They’re perfect.”

“You like them?” you asked. Your nerves were starting to build again, as you took one of the bracers from him. “Are you sure? I was wondering if these straps were long enough. I can go back to the seller in the morning and get them adjusted-”

His hand covered yours. “They’ll fit fine.”

“And you like them? They’ll be of use?”

“I love them.” He set the leather pieces in the seat of a chair by the door. “However, I believe there is still one thing you owe me.” His eyes shined. Mischievous. He too had learned a few things from his little brother.

“Oh?”

You let him lace his fingers in yours and wrap an arm around you. “I never got my dance.”

“Ah,” you said, melting into his embrace. “And I suppose you’ll tell me we don’t need music?”

“You read my mind.” You could just feel his thumb waving back and forth against your tunic as he seemed to tuck you into the crook of his elbow. “And just for you, I’ll go very slow. Can’t have you getting dizzy again.”

“My hero.”

He hummed and held his cheek to yours. His skin was so warm- not from the bath, not from his soft, thick beard blanketing the side of your face, but just from Fíli. He glowed. Finally, you were close enough to feel the beams radiating from him and you couldn’t stop yourself from burrowing into the heat, eyelashes tickling his skin, nose nestling into silky, clean hair. You bathed in his sunlight, blinded to anything other than his arms around you and chest supporting you, his lips caressing the side of your head. 

“Dizzy?” he asked.

“A little.” 

“Me too.”

He only just rocked you back and forth, barely swaying as if to merely keep up the pretence of dancing. Safe in his arms, he led you along to the melodies of your beating hearts, steady breaths and unspoken confessions. You leaned your head on his shoulder and that tiny movement seemed to break a spell. Fíli’s voice, however, brought a new kind of magic.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what Kíli meant?”

You breathed out a laugh, sending cool air over his neck that made him shiver around you. “I was going to let you tell me when you were ready.”

“(Y/N), I’ve been ready.” You lifted your head, but he tightened his grip on you, keeping you close to him. “The pack was meant to be a courting gift- a proposal. But you deserve much more than that. I want to make something for you with my own hands. Something grand and gorgeous that you could love forever and would possibly begin the greatest adventure of our lives.” He swept tender fingers through your hair and held your cheek, feeling his own warmth still radiating from your skin. “But I don’t know how long it will be before I can do that for you and I don’t want to wait that long. I don’t want to wait another moment, so I’m asking you now. Will you allow me to court you?”

“Yes.” You nodded. “Yes.” You turned your face into his hand and kissed his palm. “But Fíli, of course I want to treasure something you’ve made for me and have it with me always, but what matters to me is being with you. I don’t need gifts. Only you.”

You saw his radiant smile before he pulled you close, pressing his forehead to yours. The tip of his nose nuzzled yours and then settled. The two of you shared the same air for long, peaceful moments, before he went digging into his trouser pocket. 

“Wait,” he said, drawing away. He pulled out a hair piece, the one he wore on the bottom of his backmost braid, and held it flat in his palm. “I have this. I can secure a courting braid with it, though it’s a tad unusual.” He took your chin in his fingers, running his thumb back and forth. “It can be a placeholder.”

Pride bubbled in your chest. You kissed him. “A placeholder.”

Taglist: @emrfangirl​ @misslongcep​ @raindancer2004​ @ladybugg1235​ @xxbyimm​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @fire-flv​ @nerdbirdsworld​ @dashesofink​ @teagarages​ @dreams-of-wander​ @winchesterandpie​ @bluebellcotton @tumblinglringlring @fxngsfogxarty @specialagentsnark @afeistyfairy12 @queenofmankind @karlthecat15722 @sagabriar @marymegger @daydreamer-in-training @aidan-kili-mitchell-forever

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Six

Ao3,   Masterpost,   C.1   C.2   C.3   C.4   C.5

Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality. platonic dukeceit, creativitwins, and dlampr.

Yet again there are no italics. its new years eve sue me. oh also happy 2021 nobody question my priorities thanks <3

Warnings: so much softness, implications of self-isolation, swearing, Lots of Feelings, sympathetic everybody, descriptions of the sides having non-human features.

Word Count: 3,962

Something Remus came to realize was that he, a bit paradoxically, was not used to people being in his space.

It was weird. Not weird in the way that people usually felt when he was the one interrupting- he wasn’t scared by it, or disgusted, or even really annoyed. It was just… surprising, to have somebody else hanging around him, unprompted by anything. 

Remus wasn’t known for having boundaries- or respecting them, for that matter- but he’d at least been attempting to restrain himself just a bit after being accepted by the others. Out of courtesy, if nothing else. 

And apparently he didn’t need to. Not after what happened with Patton, anyway. Now that Patton had deemed the two of them ‘close’- something he was absolutely happy to agree with, for the record- Remus’ world had flipped sort of around. Back to no boundaries, only he wasn’t the one crossing those lines, and nobody was running screaming. Least of all Patton!

Remus ran the thoughts over in his head, feeling like that day was shaping up to be a great example of the change:

He and Patton were sitting side-by-side in the living room, content, with the rest of the sides spread around in different seats and configurations just the same. The unlikely pair were at the fringe of the circle, close enough to be part of things but far enough to zone in and out at will (as both were prone to do). It was nice, amiable.

 But minutes before- forty of them at most- Remus had been up in his own room, happily dissecting some gooish creations and only vaguely aware that there was a meeting that day. His attendance to group meetings varied from week to week- sometimes he was bored and could use an argument, and other times he was having fun on his own and knew that it wouldn’t be all that important if he ditched. He joined more often than he used to, sometimes he was even asked for, but he was optional still. A favored option, suggestions taken now, sure- but still not mandatory. 

He was going to stay upstairs for that one, but Patton had come to get him. Had dragged him down in that sweet, puppy-dog way of convincing that worked so well and, knowing him, was totally unintentional. And even if Remus didn’t care about arguing his way through content production right then, Patton had promised that it was important for him to be there.

That was the word he’d used for Remus. Important.

How the hell could Remus say no to that?

At least the meeting was going by without a hitch, for once. He assumed it was- Remus was honestly paying very little attention- but the lack of anger or tension was practically palpable. These things were usually so spiteful that even Remus, renowned lover of chaos, could almost taste his headache when everybody started shouting and hissing and fighting. It just got sad.

But not that time, apparently.

As Logan went on his third ramble of the evening, smiling widely at a surprising lack of interruption, Remus turned to Patton. He whispered:

“Okay, when are they gonna snap? Did they all finally get lobotomized?”

Patton frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean where’s all the screaming and crying? Specs and Prince Priss haven’t had a single one of their horny yelling matches, what gives?”

Patton smiled in a way that said he was trying very hard not to laugh, rolling his eyes.

  “These meetings have calmed down a bit, I guess,” he shrugged.

Remus glanced around the room with narrowed eyes. While that certainly seemed like the truth, he couldn’t buy it. 

“Yeah, I give it until one of them vaguely insults the others,  and then everybody’s gonna shut down for the next week. That kinda tension doesn’t just go.”

Patton didn’t say anything. Half-gazing at the carpet, he didn’t look like he’d even heard. He was smiling, but it was one of those jumbled up expressions, the type that tried to span a hundred different feelings. He had so many expressions like that, that seemed bottomless and swirling and so intricate on a humanoid face that, in reality, wasn’t built to display something like that. It was uncanny- not like an eerie doll, but like something with unearthly beauty. This face, though, had tones of upset.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been around everybody,” Patton said.

It wasn’t a question and it didn’t need to be. While Remus wasn’t exactly known for keeping to himself, he couldn't be called sociable either. He dropped in to say something, usually random, and then he was gone as soon as he’d visited. Even before the first Patton incident, fuck, it had been weeks since he’d actually stuck around through something.

Since The Acceptance, now that Remus thought of it, he’d been spending more time alone than ever. Not all of  his time- he remembered being surprised at Logan talking to him, willingly, like friends, and after that had even come Virgil and Roman. He saw people, talked to them, yeah. The time spent was friendlier, more welcoming, but it was so much less. 

Well, it was obvious why: they visited him, but- like he’d mentioned, he’d been trying to give them some space.

“Sure, it's been awhile,” Remus admitted, “But I never expected shit to change so much around here, still.”

The haze on Patton’s face thickened like fog on the moors, a soft and sympathetic mist over his eyes that Remus knew was aimed at him (even if it was pointed more to a sort of middle distance). 

“I don’t think I did, either,” Patton’s mouth barely moved, his voice less of a whisper and moreso a fragile breath. “I was hoping for it, but… I’m still trying to get used to stuff being allowed to change, you know?” He picked at a loose thread along the seam of the couch. “I haven’t done this stuff in a while, either.” 

Remus’ head shot up, and he almost forgot that they weren’t the only two in the room. Somehow, he stopped himself from shouting:

“You- it has?”

A tiny smile. Something built up behind Patton’s eyes; a wave, dark and lonely and filling his bright blues with cloudy gray. “I just needed some alone time, after everything changed so much so fast. I still feel, I dunno, weird. I don’t know what’s wrong with me- but…” he swallowed, his head lifting. “I’m really happy for them,” he was staring- so very loving- first at Logan, then Roman, then Virgil and Janus. It was a wonder none of them felt his gaze on them, Remus thought, because he was sure if anyone looked at him that way, he’d burn up like a fae upon iron. “They deserve it so much. I know that not everything is perfect still, but, I’m just so proud of us anyways. I- I think maybe-”

He cut himself off, blinking rapidly. Remus gave the room a quick once over to make sure nobody was looking their way- and nobody was: Virgil was very resolutely trying to get everyone to stay on topic despite Janus and Logan’s continued tangenting, and Roman was scribing furiously on several different pieces of paper- before he inched close enough to curve his arm around Patton. Touching like that had steadily become familiar to both of them, and it didn’t take long for Patton to fall untense against his side. He leaned into him, muttering: “I mean, they’re all doing a lot better than me, that’s for sure. I- I don’t even know what I’m for anymore. Maybe that’s why I’ve been… ditching, really.”

Remus squeezed his shoulder. There were so many things he could’ve said and done, but all of them loud and fervent and definitely not subtle enough to go unnoticed by everyone. So, for the sake of Patton’s privacy, he settled on this:

“That makes two of us, Morey.”

 The meeting that was planned to take two or three hours took the entire day, just as always. Hours and hours were spent in a room filled with excited conversation, of which the subject oscillated wildly between relevant topics and complete nonsense- which Remus and Patton did, eventually, tune back into (and contribute to as well, mainly in the nonsense department). Eventually, even Virgil gave up on trying to keep anything in order. 

But the meeting ended on a good note anyway. Lots of good notes, actually, if the stacks upon stacks of paper they’d scribbled up were any indication. Mess, the sides had come to believe, was usually a measure of their productivity: if crumpled pages were strayed across the room, if forgotten pens and pencils balanced on every surface from coffee table to TV stand, and if- in the process of snacking- they’d accumulated enough dishes to fill the sink for days on end? Shit. Got. Done.

Remus stared over the chaos with unfocused eyes. He felt distantly proud of the stormish state the living room was in. Draped over the back of the sectional, he gnawed idly on a wood pencil, stripping its yellow into beige. The paint fell off in bitter chunks, and the taste made him think of grabbing some non-acrylic dinner before closing the night off. Maybe he’d steal some of whatever saccharine sweet Patton usually made in the late evenings, and then spend the rest of the night with him, anyway. Remus debated what would be the most fun (or if he was tired enough to sleep yet), partially aware as he did so that he’d chewed and swallowed the metal-eraser end of his pencil.

“Ugh,” a drawn out groan broke his thoughts, petulant and whiny. “Do you have any intention of helping us clean up this, the common area?” 

Roman was kneeling beside Janus on the carpet, the pair surrounded by papers and binders and trashbags, the former of which they were sorting into either of the latter two, depending on how useful each page was. Roman had stopped working, however, to stare up at Remus indignantly. Remus glared right back.

“I’ve never had an intention in my life,” he answered.

Janus shrugged, smiling in that I-told-you-so way at Roman. But Roman, ever the nuisance, wasn’t letting it go. 

“Come on! It’s not like you’re even doing anything!”

“I’m doing something,” Remus’ words were wide and wobbly as he stripped another line of paint off the pencil, breaking some splinters off into his teeth.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” another chunk of wood, down the hatch. “I’m flaying all these leftover pencils until they’re lead-sticks.”

Roman hopped up from the floor and dropped himself onto the couch, shoving himself into the way so jarringly that it reminded Remus of himself. 

“Well, now you’re going to help us clean.” 

Janus rolled his eyes, not even glancing up. “Roman, just leave it alone, we-”

“We are all parts of this whole now, including him! Remus-” Roman rounded on him again, “If you’re going to come down here and help us make all this mess, with all of your numerous contributions that we have to write down, you’ll help clean it like anybody else. Do you think that I like any of- of-” he gestured, flamboyantly, at the room, “This? Ugh, please, I’m a prince! But, fair is fair, and fair means everybody.” 

And that was the point of the conversation in which Remus would cackle, push Roman backwards off the couch, and proclaim how much it’d go against his very being to clean a mess instead of cause it. He’d tell Roman how funny it was that he thought he could boss him around, because it always had been- that full-of-it Older Brother kind of attitude that had never worked. The Prince had never once managed to get him to do anything, and each attempt only got funnier than the last. 

He didn’t say any of that, though. 

Roman was bitching at him, not to go away this time, but to stay. Stay and help the group, because he was a part of said group. So he was asked to help them, the group that he was a part of, because he was part of it. That group. 

“Okay,” he blurted, “Okay, I’ll- alright.”

Roman blinked at him, a look of disbelief spreading across his face. “You- oh!” he smiled, utterly baffled. “That was- very easy?”

Janus, too, was looking up at Remus with bewilderment, his task of paper-sorting all but forgotten. Remus couldn’t blame either of them, but he still huffed, trying very hard not to be embarrassed by that whole… moment.

He shook it off, rolling off the couch and standing up, jittery. 

“Whatever, just- tell me what to pick up, okay?” 

They seemed not to hear him, the gawking continuing on until he started working unprompted, and longer than that still. Each time he (begrudgingly) shoved something into a trashbag, it earned him another Exchange of Glances from the pair. 

They got over it eventually, though, because there was a fuck-load more to clean than there was room to stare. So they cleaned.

Remus thought it would get old after a minute, and he’d finally gather up the guts to bail on them, but it just… never happened. It felt unnatural to be getting rid of a mess- like an animal having its fur brushed the wrong way, continuously- but by some point the sensation was distant. The rest of him was still busy processing, experiencing, maybe possibly overthinking this kind of recognition he’d never gotten before. It was handed to him now like it was something normal. The three of them worked together, and it was normal. 

Acceptance, as it turned out, wasn’t synonymous with ‘soulless assimilation’. In fact, it was pretty fucking great, getting to watch his brother and best friend find documents from the floor with his ideas on them, then tucking them into a binder marked important, instead of a trashcan marked to burn. It was… surreal. 

But the tidying was over in just an hour and a half- oh wow, never in a million years would Remus have thought an hour and a half of cleaning would be too little for him. He made a note to absolutely destroy something big and important later, to balance the universe out again. 

Roman sank through the floor as soon as they were done, complaining loudly about how very exhausted he was. Remus teased him on his way out, but it was just for the habit- he was way too mushy to think of anything properly mean at the moment. 

Janus watched him go, silent. He sat beside Remus on the couch, and despite his obvious tiredness, he waited a good few minutes before saying anything. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

Remus shivered. Janus pulled him up into a hug (one that maybe dragged on for a little too long, but who was counting?), and it spelled out all the pride and care that he’d never been good at verbalizing. With that, he gave Remus a short nod, and then was gone as well. 

Which made everyone else upstairs, probably in their rooms and halfway asleep. Then there was Remus, antsy in the living room, itchy with feelings. 

Everyone but Patton, of course, who could still be heard humming in the kitchen; who never went up until he knew everyone else was in their rooms, true to the protective parent persona. Remus suddenly didn’t think he wanted anything else but to see Patton after what had happened, to talk to him, to… 

He walked to the kitchen.

“Pat.”

Patton looked over his shoulder at Remus, up to his elbow in sudsy sink water. A smile fell naturally across his face.

“Hi,” his voice was low, delicate. “You about to head up?”

Remus watched his friend work, trailing into the room slowly.  He grinned, “Are you kidding? I could stay up all night, if I wanted.”

“Do you want to?” Patton asked him.

Remus thought on it for a moment. He shrugged, iunno, leaned against the counter by the sink. Patton turned away again.

It was so quiet. No wind. No footsteps. Not a muffled voice upstairs, even- just the sound of water and ceramic hitting ceramic. Everything was still.

Remus hated it. Silence was fragile, and he crawled with the need to break it. He felt it get tense as it stretched out, and he just wanted to tear the air apart with sound. It felt like nothing mattered anymore, when peace was so easily able to drown it all out. Cold and alone. He hated it.

Sometimes, Remus imagined that if the silence went too long, he’d never be able to make a noise again. There were few things that made him so unhappy, but the quiet… 

“What’s on your mind?” Patton asked.

Remus jolted. Patton was staring, concern gathering in his eyes the longer he did. Remus took a deep breath- he remembered something, something small and unimportant that Janus had told him once. 

When one is so intensely happy, they can fall to agonizing upset even quicker than if they’d been mildly perturbed in the first place, because of the ferocity of the feelings. Something like that. 

“A lot more than I’m willing to throw on your shoulders, Pops.”

Patton pouted. Actually. Fucken. Pouted. The worst part was, his puppy-face was actually working.

“Ugh,” Remus rolled his eyes, “Just- could I- I dunno, have a hug, or some shit?”

If Patton was surprised, he hid it well. God knew, that wasn’t exactly the kind of thing Remus would ask for. He almost never asked to get attention- taking it was much easier, and much more entertaining. Besides, if he’d ever asked before that point… well, he already knew what answer he would’ve gotten. 

Patton’s smile only widened, until it was positively melting. “Of course you can,” he shut the sink off. “Of course.”

He reached haphazardly for a hand towel, to dry his arms. Remus, riding the high of that enthusiastic permission, absolutely could not wait that long. He latched his arms around Patton’s middle before the side had even finished talking, burying his face between his shoulder blades and hugging tight. 

Patton went still, like he didn’t know what to do. After it became clear that Remus had no intention to move, Patton laughed, dreamy and soft, and shook his hands as dry as he could. He patted Remus’ forearm; bead-bracelets clattered under the Duke’s sleeves. 

“Hey,” Patton said.

“Mmh?”

“Not that this isn’t lovely,” he laced his fingers with Remus’, squeezed them, “But I’d like it better if I could hug you back, ya know?”

Remus let go, reluctantly. In the true fashion of intrusive thoughts, there was a second he was so convinced Patton would run, now that he was freed. Make an escape from him, an escape from his claws.

He didn’t. He spun right around and pulled Remus against his chest- one arm linked around his torso, the other winding into his tangled hair. Anyone, at a glance, could see that Patton was huge- but up close the difference was dizzying: his wide chest, encircling arms that seemed to be made of nothing but muscle and padding, and that height, all made him so… comforting. Big and strong, a body that disguised power in soft edges and fat. If he squeezed just a little too tight, in fact, Remus wouldn’t be surprised if Patton could make splinters out of his bones. Which Remus definitely, definitely wouldn’t mind, but the knowledge that Patton not only could do that but also wouldn’t ever do that- that was what really did him in. 

And he’d hugged Patton before- months ago, and somehow Patton had seemed so small then, when everything had started- but being hugged? Properly, too, not underwater while one of them was drowning- it was a world of difference. No panic, no breakdowns, just a real, solid hug.

He could just ask for this and then have it. He could smell sugar cookies and candle wax, and feel somebody- a willing body- pressing in. It was weird. He thought that someday, he might get used to it. He wanted a chance to get used to it. 

“Do you wanna talk now?” Patton prompted, forcibly reminding Remus that he had a bloodhound’s nose for emotional distress. 

“I don’t know.”

Patton hummed, his fingers scratching through Remus’ hair. “Today went better than I thought it would.”

“You didn’t have to bring me, if you thought it was gonna be bad.”

“I wasn’t worried because of you! I was worried because of me. Things have been… a lot for me, lately.”

“Oh,” Remus angled his head to the side, looking up at him. “Yeah. I feel ya.”

“But they were all so much more patient, weren’t they,” Patton’s eyes went a little misty, the way they always did when he talked about his family. “Everything’s different now, and I guess that scared me, but I think that now… it’s a good different, you know?” 

“Like us, right?” Remus laughed, “This is the craziest difference, if ya think about it.”

Patton chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest so that Remus felt it more than heard it. 

“I don’t think I would’ve gotten through with today without you, you know that?” 

It was deeply honest. There was a beat. 

“I-” Oh fuck, Remus was choked up, when did that happen? “I wouldn’t have even had a day like today, without you, so. Do with that what you want.” 

Remus buried his face in Patton’s sternum, just to avoid the sad understanding in his eyes. 

He- he wasn’t exactly made for the care he was getting, not the kind of softness in that face. Not when Patton was still patiently untangling his matt of hair while they hovered in the stillness of the dark, empty kitchen, and Remus desperately didn’t want to cry. 

Patton gave him a minute to breathe, at the very least, before:

“They like you, though. Janus loves you.”

“Yeah, okay, but it’s not-”

“I know how you feel,” said Patton, and did. “Like they couldn’t actually care about us, even though it doesn’t make sense for them not to. It’s one of those things that’s easy to forget,” Remus could hear the smile in his voice. “So it’s good we have each other, when we need to get out of our own heads. At least, it’s like that for me, I don’t know if you even-”

“No,” Remus curled his claws in the back of Patton’s shirt, something dark and emotional flooding like tar through his chest. “Nah, you’re right, Morey. This is good for us.” 

Remus shook his head at nothing in particular. He forced his hands unballed, pulled back, and wormed his way out of Patton’s hug after way too long. 

His skin felt like paper from the affection, like he’d been electrocuted, and while that was fun- was amazing- for a while, he didn’t think he could handle much more in one sitting. 

Patton let him go, smiling warmly, leaning back against the counter. His eyes were shiny and wet, but he was content. 

“Thanks,” Remus said.

“What for? The hug?”

“No- I mean, that too, but I was saying ‘thanks, for caring’. For giving enough of a shit about me to try and help.”

Patton smiled, solemnly.

“I told you so,” he breathed, “I promised I would like you when I got to know you, and then I did. I do!” 

Remus felt a grin returning to his face, sliding across his lips more naturally than anything else he’d had to deal with that night.

“Yeah. You aren’t too bad yourself, Pat.”

Chapter Seven

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls  @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob 

[vake-hunter]

Acceptance into the House of Chimes results and which Master is playing Chimes in those results

this is fun and cute little details about the Masters

An innocent (Pages)

A fresh face among the jaded horde! No doubt you will achieve great things one day. But watch yourself: in Fallen London, innocence is a commodity like any other. 

Mr Chimes glides across the floor and grasps your hand in a spotless white glove. It feels like shaking a branch wound with spider-silk. 'Most optimate friend!' it whispers. 'Welcome to our Chamber of Delicacies!'

An Extraordinary Beauty (Apples/Hearts)

Persuasive 20

That skin! Those eyes! That delightful nose! Nobody can resist you!

Mr Chimes glides across the floor and surveys you up and down. 'My dear, my dear,' it says. 'How very appetising to have you here with us. Will you tilt your head to the right a little? Just so. Just so.'

A Player of Games (Iron)

Watchful 20, the Boatman's Opponent 1

You are an emperor of the chess board. You shuffle tiles and playing cards with dazzling speed. Rumour has it that you have diced with Death itself.

Mr Chimes approaches: the clicking of its boot-heels on the floor is like bone dice thrown on marble. It hands you two mah-jong tiles. Engraved on the back of the Winter tile is the single word 'WELCOME'. On the back of the Plum tile, you read 'LUCK IS THE PREROGATIVE OF VICTORS.' 

A noted trainer of Weasels (Apples/Hearts)

1 x Araby Fighting Weasel

The weasel-fanciers of Spite speak highly of your expertise with the genus mustela.

Mr Chimes is suddenly at your elbow. It inhales deeply. 'Oh, toothsome, my dear,' it says. 'Toothsome. Let the little fellows run free, by all means. Someone will manage the results, I assure you.' 

A true patriot (Wines)

1 x A Copy of your Patriotic Adventure

Your writings inspire the youth of Fallen London to a frenzy of patriotism!

Mr Chimes takes your arm and guides you into the lobby of the House. Its grasp is like the clutch of a winter tree. 'We respect loyalty to an ideal,' it says. 'One of the more austere forms, perhaps. But a true realisation nevertheless. No?'

A masterful cat-chaser (UH I ACTUALLY DONT KNOW? Veils maybe?)

Shadowy 30

You have honed your skills in pursuit of the city's most evasive felines. They speak your name with respect, if not quite affection.

Mr Chimes steals up on you from behind, but you turn just before its gloved fingers touch your shoulder. It chortles. 'Who can stalk the stalker, eh? Welcome to my House. Ware the Bell!' 

Not to be crossed (Iron probably)

Dangerous 20

There is something disquieting about your appearance. It's hard to pin down, exactly. An aura of suppressed violence.

Mr Chimes strides toward you. It holds up a hand in greeting. Or in warning? It nods once; it turns to go. That is all.

A crown in shadows (Wines)

1 Fate

Royal blood? Can it be true? On the wrong side of the blankets, no doubt. But that's what they say.

Mockery or respect?

Mr Chimes steps aside for you and makes the gentlest inclination of its head. 'We will bring you a bottle of something a little special,' it avers. 'We are delighted to add another crownable head to our collection!' Hm. 

Allergic to brass? (Spices probably)

1 x Nevercold Brass Sliver

The touch of the stuff hives your skin and blears your eyes. It makes you weep tears of blood. This makes you an object of some fascination at parties.

A bewildered Master

Unthinkable!' the hooded Mr Chimes shrieks. 'Impossible! Unprecedented!' It seems quite cheerful about it, though. It does insist you demonstrate the weeping-blood business, unfortunately.

Exceptionally Talented (Cups/Mirrors. Possibly Hearts/Apples but almost definitely Cups/Mirrors)

10 x Confident Smile, Persuasive 100

Both ladies and gentlemen pause immediately before speaking your name. There is a quality to that pause which is not easily described.

A friendly thing

Mr Chimes' hand spiders along your arm. 'My dear,' it coos. 'If only my tastes ran to... well, perhaps if your blood was a little cooler. No matter, my dear. You will be treasured.' 

The Rooftop Dancer (Veils)

Shadowy 60, Route: The Flit 1

You know the ways of the Flit like few others. They say you can reach the summit of All Christs' spire in the space of a single breath. They say you stole a feather from the Topsy King's hat. They call you 'Pussyfoot', but in a good way.

An avuncular approach

Mr Chimes drifts up like a scrap of silk on the wind. 'Good evening! Good evening indeed! You're a swift and circumspect maker of ways, aren't you? You are indeed! How very much to be admired.' 

An Unparalelled Grotesque (Maybe Wines because it has blue eyes)

10 x Hard-Earned Lesson

In the decades since the Fall, no-one has ever looked quite like you. Thank God.

A long silence

The bluish glimmer of Mr Chimes' eyes is steady, but you sense an obscure emotion. 'Well,' it says at last, 'why not? Why not indeed.'

A Visionary (Wines. Not Pages due to wording. Royal we makes it Wines)

A Person of Some Importance: A Significant Individual

You have made the Square of Lofty Words your playground. You have cowed the women and men of the University. Your ideas are simple in outline and intricate in implication. They will be remembered, perhaps, when everyone in this room is dead. Except Mr Chimes.

A debatable honour

‘Dear friend,' Mr Chimes murmurs confidentially. 'We have often read the surveillance reports on your speeches. We have commended your texts to the Ministry of Public Decency. We look forward to hearing more of your thoughts.'

A Prisoner of Despair (Fires)

Melancholy 4

Can your misery be so deep and unrelieved that even Mr Chimes has taken pity on you? Or does it simply hope you'll be a diverting mascot?

Mockery, or Hope?

Mr Chimes bears down on you, robe flapping like a tent in a hurricane. Its voice is an alto shriek. 'Come along upstairs! It's warm enough. It'll steam the chill out of your heart. And, here - ' It hands you a candle. 'It'll light you to bed.'

A Speaker of Truth to Power (Iron)

Forceful 3, Subtle 3

You've said the wrong thing to the wrong people once too often. You're going to be a lot of fun.

An ambivalent welcome

Mr Chimes perches on a high carved chair like a black gull on a cliff. A footman approaches with a silver tray bearing a single card. It reads: 'SILENCE'. An announcement? A suggestion? An instruction? Or is Mr Chimes just being difficult for its own inscrutable entertainment?

A Possessor of Impossible Table Habits (Who knows. One who knows table manners I guess)

What are you - no. No! Such things were not to be dreamt of! A fork cannot be put to such uses! Close your mouth! Close his mouth! For the love of all that is holy! DON'T TOUCH THAT SPOON!

Mr Chimes arranges an audition of sorts. You are served a hearty meal of beef-steak and winter vegetables, and provided with all the cutlery you might require. You perform the operations for which you have become notorious. After a suitable time for the onlookers to recover their composure, you are admitted to the House.

Orphaned in a Grisly Accident (I want to say Veils due to what we know of its collections)

Mr Chimes likes tales of blood and terror. It likes tales of butter and whimsy too. Tales of blood, terror, butter and whimsy are like music and water to one dying of thirst in the Desert of Cymbals. The tale of your parents' death at the hands of the Dairy Kings will bring breathless listeners to the fire for a hundred nights.

Not a dry eye

You tell the tale, long and horrible as it is. Mr Chimes convulses with... Mirth? Pity? Fear? Black-liveried footmen watch impassively while its shoulders writhe and roll, and its eyes shimmer like topaz deep in its hood. At last it subsides and you are admitted to the House. 'Step carefully,' Mr Chimes flutes.

An Artist in Ivory (Wines was the Khan of Dreams, but this could be Spices talking. Or Cups/Mirrors.)

a Scholar of the Correspondence 1

You have carved flutes from femurs and trinkets from tibia. Your sigil-circled skull sits in the grandest gallery of Veilgarden. They whisper that when you die for the last time, Mr Cups itself will come for your bones.

A pale horse

‘A little gift,' Mr Chimes informs you. 'Something to recall the Khan of Dreams by. Since you seem so keen to commemorate him.' Do you? Or has Mr Chimes misunderstood the nature of your project?

A wanderer of Parabola (Mirrors)

7 x Memory of Light, A Game of Chess 9, Is Someone There? 10

In your dreams you have seen the Mirror-Marches, the Menagerie of Roses, the Castle of Forests, the nests of the Fingerkings... even though you may forget them when you wake. But there is a light in your eyes.

A light in the darkness

‘Yes,' says the Master quietly. 'The mirrors know your name. The serpents have your scent. The rivers of roses will not drown you. The apples of glass might lie quiet in your hands. If you burn, you burn like a candle. If you die, you die like dawn. You are very delicious.' 

A zub-mariner! (Spices from voice but sounds like Fires from excitement about boats)

1 x Zubmarine, An Experienced Zailor 3

You are charting the unknown leagues beneath the zee.

Mr Chimes lopes towards you across the stone floor. 'Marvellous!' it shrills. It pumps your hand excitedly. It's like grabbing a nestful of velvet spiders. 'You'll fit right in here. Grab a seat.'

A killer of renown (Iron)

A Bringer of Death 1, 1 x Ravenglass Knife

Even in Fallen London, where bloodshed is as common as glim-fall, your name is whispered with apprehension. 

Mr Chimes approaches in utter silence. It hands you a rostygold knife, hilt-first. Engraved on the blade is the word: MEET. That is all.

A font of devil's tears (Want to say Cups due to smell but could be any)

Connected: Hell 20

Did your masterwork really make a devil weep? It must be true. Mr Chimes has the tears there in a little bottle. Wait. Is it drinking them?

A chuckle in the hood

Mr Chimes drapes a companionable arm across your shoulders. It smells of dust and winter starlight. 'Devils despise that kind of humiliation,' it confides in you. 'I laughed for days. Come on upstairs.' 

An Oenologonaut (Spices)

1 x Greyfields 1868 First Sporing, 1 x Greyfields 1879, 1 x Greyfields 1882, 1 x Black Wings Absinthe, 1 x Morelways 1872, 1 x Broken Giant 1844, 1 x Strangling Willow Absinthe, 1 x Fourth City Airag: Year of the Tortoise, 1 x Cellar of Wine

No-one has plumbed the secrets of the grape, the hop and the blood-apple more deeply than you. You can identify the products of vineyards that have no name in any human tongue.

Fond Sighs

Dear one,' says Mr Chimes warmly. 'Pleasure is a wilderness. We are its cartographers. Let us embark, you and I, on the catalogue of delight! Our journey begins here.' 

A Liar among Liars (No idea)

1 x Appalling Secret, 1 x Uncanny Incunabula, 1 x Extraordinary Implication, 1 x Searing Enigma, 1 x Whispered Secret, 1 x Cryptic Clue

Who can ever believe your stories? Truth is mingled with falsehood like blood in milk. You are a prince of rumours. Or is it a princess? Who can ever be sure?

An impassive audience

Mr Chimes listens to your stories of star and sea and shadow. It neither nods nor shakes its head when you suggest certain relationships between the Mountain of Light and the troubling thesis of Mr Darwin. It is motionless when you venture a hypothesis as to why only six symbols of the Correspondence can be written together on one paper. When you begin to discuss a matter of wells and candles and the Third City, it raises a finger. 'This is false,' it murmurs. 'Let us ensure it remains that way,' 

A Legendary Calumnist (Apples/Hearts)

Scandal 7, Persuasive 100, Watchful 100

Your barbs and insults and the twisting satires you've spawned have been the bane of the lowly and the great alike. All fear the savage edge of your tongue.

A cautious welcome

‘My dear,' Mr Chimes whispers. 'Be kind to the little ones, will you? Not all have your advantages. I admit you only on condition that you choose not to bite.'

‘I know a man.' (Probably Wines)

Connected: the Masters of the Bazaar 5

If it can be called a man. Step aside, peon. I am already welcome here.'

A hearty welcome

Come in, come in! A place by the fire is prepared for you. The table is set. The brandy rises from the cellar like the laughter of friends! Forget the petty troubles without. You have earned this night of peace.' 

I will scream until your House rings with the Words of the Thunder! (Probably Wines)

Stormy-Eyed 5, having Recurring Dreams: What the Thunder Said 10

I am the storm, I am the wind, I am the rain! I demand admittance! Defy me and I will blow your House down! 

The cloaked thing bows before me!

I fling gusts of squalling rain at its head! Then I race through the dusty corners and crannies of the House of Chimes with a cleansing breeze! I bid lightning spring from its spire in celebration! The Master insists I hang my oilskin on the hatstand before I drip on the carpets! 

The Inescapable Arm of the Law (Spices I believe)

investigating the Rubbery Murders 12, ascending the Reliables list of Mr Pages 3, Connected: The Constables 50, Connected: The Great Game 50, Watchful 100, 1 x Antique Constable's Badge

Your eye pursueth the malfeasant as the wrathful eye of God pursued Cain across the desert. You have returned wedding rings to costermongers, cats to dowagers, and stolen hearts to sorrowful tomb-colonists.

A nervous flutter?

We are most pleased to see you here,' Mr Chimes shrills. 'You are an ingeniate of great note! But perhaps you should limit your investigations in this House, eh?'

A Blood-Cousin to Predators (Veils probably)

1 x Ancient Hunting Rifle, a Procurer of Savage Beasts 1, 1 x Fairly Tame Sorrow-Spider, 1 x Bengal Tigress, 1 x Araby Fighting-Weasel, Dangerous 100, Watchful 100, marked by the Eater-of-Chains 3.

You have brought the great beasts low and walked in the footsteps of the fierce. You have turned fang and cunning, spine and venom and brute strength, against the monsters who wield them.

A peculiar passion

Mr Chimes inclines its head to you. 'Beasts. Beasts beasts beasts! So many beasts, such little time. Perhaps you could turn your energies to the pursuit of troublesome humans, hey? Why waste your time hunting those who cannot speak? Or sing? But welcome welcome!'

[thiswasinevitableid]

Picture Perfect (Indruck)

A friend on discord @morganeashton asked for this meet ugly for Indruck: 09. we’re strangers who meet at a bar, get drunk, and wake up to announcements of our new engagement all over our social media - what did we do???

Duck’s woken up with worse hangovers. He’s also woken up with far worse people in his bed. The man next to him is slim and angular, silvery hair falling across his face as he sleeps. Yep, just as cute today as he was yesterday. 

Now if only he could remember if they slept together. 

He groans quietly as he climbs out of bed; he’s in a fluffy hotel robe with nothing beneath it. So one point in the “we fucked” category.

Duck tugs the curtains, already mostly closed, all the way shut to block out harsh daylight. The man, Indrid, makes a chirping noise and rolls over, still asleep.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I was not aware this was that kind of bar.”

“It’s, uh, I mean, it ain;t, but, uh, you, uh, you looked kinda lonesome and , uh, well, fuck, nevermind, sorry-”

“It’s alright” the man grins reassuringly, setting a hand with black painted nails on Duck’s arm, “it would be good for me to spend the night with something other than my own thoughts.”

Duck hops onto the stool next to him, signals the bartender for drinks

Padding out into the next room, the suite is just as impressive as last it was last night. Whoever Indrid is, he’s loaded. 

“So, uh, what do you do?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“Really? Damn, I, uh, I dabble in it as a hobby, mostly nature stuff, and I’m fuckin’ amazed by anyone who can do it as a job. Shit’s hard.”

“It is rather challenging at times, though I enjoy it. What do you do?”

“I’m a ranger in the national forest. Live in Kepler, that dinky little town by it, came the half hour here for a work conference.”

“That sounds fascinating, tell me everything” Indrid leans closer, grinning.

“Uh, okay. Usually folks are itchin to make some joke about trees. Or Smokey the Bear.”

“I suppose you are bear-like.”

“Heh-”

“I like it.”

“Guh.”

He finds a room service menu on the table by the T.V the size of his first car, reads it over as he wanders back to the bedroom. Peeking into the trash, he doesn’t see any condoms or condom wrappers. One point in the ‘we didn’t fuck” category.

“That was last call, sugar.”

“No, unacceptable, I want to hear the bear-box story you, hic, --excuse me-- promised me.”

“And I wanna tell it, jus’ can’t be here.”

“Come, come back to my room. It’s big, we can talk, please come?”

“Course, darlin, whoa, damn, think we better take the elevator, little drunker than I meant to get.”

“I’ll, hic, admit I was paying more attention to you than my, hic, drink quantity, my sweet.”

He sets the menu down, wanders into the bathroom but finds no pain killers. Settles for filling two glasses with tap water and carrying them to a side table. When he slides back under the blankets and rests against the headboard, Indrid sighs, wiggles closer and snuggles so his nose is bumping Duck’s thigh.

“Morning?”

“Yep.”

“Ugh.”

“Here, this’ll help.” He hands Indrid the water as he blearily sits up. The taller man downs it in one, handing the empty glass back to him with a smile.

“Thank you. Such lovely southern manners.”

“You’re welcome. And, uh, speakin of manners, do you remember if we…”

“No, we did not. There was some kissing, I recall, but we decided we were too drunk. A wise decision all told, though the temptation was great.” Indrid slowly looks him over, smile turning from sleepy to sultry.

“Well uh, this was they day I set aside for sight-seein. Think I could be persuaded to see some sights right here.” His phone buzzes. He ignores it.

“Really now.” Indrid purrs, leaning in to kiss his cheek. On the other nightstand, his phone dings. He ignores it. 

“Oughta get some breakfast in us first, fuckin on a hangover stomach ain’t fun.” Another buzz.

“Mmm, very wise. Their breakfast is quite good, you can order whatever you like.” Indrid is nearly in his lap. His phone dings twice more. 

“Ain’t you the polite host--for fucks sake.” Duck reaches over and grabs his phone, Indrid sighing and mirroring him when his dings three more times. 

He has texts from Juno, Aubrey, and Ned, two calls from Jane, and one from Joe, and all seem to be about…

“Oh no” Indrid covers his mouth with one hand, brown eyes wide, “oh no, oh Duck, oh I’m supremely sorry.”

“Married? What the fuck? We didn’t get married, we cant, there ain’t a spot for it here, what the fuck-”

“Why do they think this, it must be oh, oh dear” he turns his phone. It’s an Instagram profile, at the top of which is a photo of the two of them in  their robes in this very bed, lounging together with goofy smiles as Indrid kisses Duck’s cheek. The caption is even worse.

“Best man ever. Internet, say hello to my husband. Isn’t he handsome?” Duck reads aloud, Indrid making a prolonged noise of alarm as the phone continues dinging. 

“I’m so sorry, I, I don’t know, I must have been trying to type future husband? Which is still hyperbolic, I was drunk, but it would have been more salvageable.”

“Okay, right, we all done some boneheaded shit havin’ had a few too many, but why the fuck does everyone and their goddamn uncle know?”

“I....I never said my last name last night, did I.”

“No.” Duck’s stomach sours.

“I’m Indrid Cold.”

Duck blinks at him, and even in the midst of the panic he smiles a little.

“I didn’t get the sense you knew of me, which was part of your already considerable charm. I, I am the man you call for your Rolling Stone spread or your Vanity Fair cover, the one magazines fight over to have cover the MET Gala or the Oscars. My social media followers meet the same number as some countries populations, and I am notoriously reclusive and private about my life. Hence the uproar.” He rubs his forehead, “I am fairly certain I just wanted a picture of us; I was having so much fun, you, you made me feel so wonderful and I assumed this would be a fling, and I, I wanted a memento. In my compromised state, I must have misjudged where to put it.” 

“Huh.” Duck stares at his phone, still lighting up with new messages. He’s torn between being flattered and being really, really pissed. 

“I, ah, I will call my publicist and sort things out now. Excuse me.” 

Duck watches Indrid leave. His phone is buzzing with unfamiliar numbers now, and when he answers one it’s a reporter from a fashion site he’s never heard of. 

Indrid is handsome, and intriguing, and Duck desperately wants to see as much of him as he can. But there’s no way in hell he can handle this kind of attention, even if it’s misplaced. So while Indrid speaks, hurried and hushed, in the other room, he slips on yesterday’s clothes and disappears out the door. 

---------------------------------------------------

He almost doesn’t look at the phone when it buzzes. For starters, he’s at work, but also the last two weeks have made him never want to speak to another living human again. When he pulls it from his pocket and looks at the message a half-dozen emotions hit him at once.

Indrid: I’m fairly certain we exchanged numbers, so I hope this is the right one. Duck, if this is you, I hope you’re well. And if you’re interested, I was wondering if you’d like to meet again.

Duck: Yeah, it’s me. And my answer might be different if I hadn’t spent the last two weeks being hounded by fucking reporters.

Indrid: So my clarification did nothing.

Duck: convinced them there’d been some kind of drama, so now they all want to know if it was a money grab or I’m an escort or some shit like that.

Indrid: I’m sorry, Duck. I’ll make things right, somehow. 

Duck: Don’t do it thinking it’ll get you a second date. Because the thought of that much attention all at once again give me fucking hives.

There’s no response, so Duck jams the phone back into his pocket and trudges up the trail.

------------------------------------------------------------

Alright, maybe following Indrid’s Instagram was a bad idea. Because, unlike any other celeb on the platform, he never posts pictures of himself. Duck just wants to see his face again. 

He looks down, notices four new notifications; an account with only five posts and an icon that’s just two red circles followed him a few days ago, and whoever it belongs to really likes his photos. 

Refreshing the app brings a new post from Indrid, black background with red text.

Mr. Cold invites members of the press to learn how they can gain access to exclusive images and information. 

“Good for him.” Duck mutters, before rolling over and shutting off the light.

---------------------------------------------

Duck sits on the pebbled shore by the lake, skipping stones without counting their jumps. He’s off shift, could go home, but some evenings what he likes best is sitting here, watching the world change from afternoon to dusk. 

Someone is coming up the trail and he sighs; hardly anyone comes to this lake, and yet someone has to at the exact same time he’s trying to decompress. 

“It’s even lovelier in person.” 

Pebbles scatter as he spins.

“Indrid, what the fuck are you doing here? Uh, I mean” he scrambles for his words when he sees Indrid wince at the tone, “not that I ain’t happy to see you but...why?”

“I wanted to ask you if you were still being bothered.” The lilt is shy, nearly drowned out by the cicadas.

“Nope. Stopped about a week ago.”

“Ah good. That means my plan worked. You see I, ah, I offered every large press and small freelancer the chance to access never before seen pieces of my work, all for free. In exchange, they signed a contract that they would leave you alone indefinitely, regardless of your relationship to me, and that any writing on me and a partner would only be done with permission from both myself and them. Anyone who violated those clauses would face a very painful lawsuit.”

“You realize that didn’t do much to make people think I meant nothin to you.”

Indrid shrugs, “That was not the point. I wanted them to leave you alone.”

“Oh.” He looks back across the water, watches an Osprey skim the surface, “how’d you know I’d be here?”

“It’s a spot you shoot often, so I showed your friend at the station the photos and she pointed me the right way.”

“...You’re the person who’s been likin all my pictures, ain’t you?”

“Yes. I, ah, you post plenty of yourself, or your friend the Lady Flame tags you, and I, ah, I missed you, I thought about you so much that I wanted to see you. Perhaps that’s, ah, creepy. I thought it better than constantly trying to contact you.”

“Yeah, good call.”

Indrid shifts, awkwardly, “may I sit?”

Duck nods, and Indrid sinks onto the ground next to him.

“You really ain’t dressed for hikin, are you?”

“No. It’s not something I do often, though you make it sound very appealing.”

“We oughta go together then.” He sets his hand, upturned, on the warm rocks in between them.

“I would like that.” Indrid takes it, “perhaps we could go to lunch afterwards.”

“Sounds real nice.” Duck scoots closer, setting their joined hands on his thigh and resting his head on Indrid’s shoulder.

“To be certain I do not make a fool of myself again; are you saying you would like to try dating me?”

“That I would. But you gotta promise one thing.”

“Anything.”

“No pictures until the third date.” He grins and Indrid chuckles, leaning in for a kiss as warm and slow as the setting sun. 

[howtohero]

#206 Rural Superheroes

When most of picture superheroes they picture brooding men and women with capes draped around their shoulders and standing on buildings doing their best gargoyle impressions. Or you see them swinging and slinging around crowded streets using buildings as anchors. Or you see them hunched in a sewer eating pizza with their sewer-gator sidekicks after a long day of fighting crime. You definitely don’t imagine them standing next to a big pile of hay and holding a pitchfork and wearing overalls. (Guys I’m talking a huge pile of hay. Like the kind that looks like it’d be amazing to be dropped out of an airplane onto.) If you’ve never imagined a superhero stopping some disgraced middle school guidance counselor from rewriting reality and then going back home to milk the cows and tend to the corn then you’re just part of the problem. You need to reevaluate your personal biases. That’s right people, you heard it hear first! Superheroes can be countryfolk! And that’s a fact!

For some reason, lots of people think that the only reason any superhero would be in a rural area was if they were like, I don’t know, hiding their secret family on a secret farm. But that’s simply not true! In fact, that’s a terrible idea! Rural areas are not a safer place for your family to be, you know what kind of crimes go down in rural areas? Really weird ones. I’m talking like cow-related crimes. (Once the evil Cowcatcher built a giant cow robot to roam about rural Kansas just mooing really really loudly and scaring the stuffing out of everyone! That was a heck of a Thursday!) That’s just not normal! Don’t set up a secret farm to keep your family safe, just have a normal secret identity like everyone else and your family will be fine. 

So if you live in a rural area and have been looking around at all the insane cow-crimes that happen in your neighborhood and felt that you had no choice except to throw your hands up, shake your head, and exclaim “Aw shucks, if only there could be superheroes in rural areas!” Then you’re in luck! There can be superheroes in rural areas! I’m serious, we had our interns check the laws and there’s nothing saying that it can’t be done! (Except for the laws about vigilantism and stuff but they’ve got those laws in the cities too and nobody seems to care!). 

If you’re going to be a rural superhero though, you need to know that you’re going to have to operate a little bit differently than an urban crime fighter, but that doesn’t make you any less super! (What makes rural heroes less super is the fact that their are just less toxic-waste corporations in Middleofnowheresville, USA than there are in Heartoftheactionsville, USA.) For starters, you’re going to have an entirely different wardrobe in the country. Instead of grays and blacks you’re going to want to go with beautiful verdant greens and some mud-like gritty browns. If you’re going to be prowling around vast empty fields patrolling for cow-tippers and and goat-suckers, you’re going to want to look like a field. Glue bits of grass onto your costume, tape a live pig to your back, roll around in some manure. If you’re going to protect the farm you need to become the farm. 

Living in a rural area also drastically changes the options for both superhero hideouts and supervillain lairs. While urban heroes might find their superhero adventures taking place in corporate offices with mysterious secret floors or abandoned subway tunnels that have become home to an evil rat hive mind, for rural heroes it’s gonna be all barns all the time. Barns make for rather spacious superhero hideouts, there’s plenty of room for any gear or computers you might need for crime stopping and conducting illegal investigations, you can convert any stables into holding cells or trophy cases, and if any civilians wander on by all you need to do is cover everything with a layer of hay and no one will be the wiser! Rural supervillains are also very likely to use barns as their lairs, their’s will just be littered with disemboweled animals and fake cobwebs from the halloween popup store because they have a taste for the creepier things in life. While a barn might not be as glamorous as a time-displaced spaceship or a high-tech cave, they are competent and cost-effective hideouts and are good enough for any countryside-crusader. The only think you have to look out for is Jhonny McBarnburner whose entire thing is burning barns and would probably be more than happy to set a superhero’s barn on fire. That’s like a double-whammy, and such opportunities are rare in Jhonny McBarnburner’s life. Honestly, you should’ve been there when he first discovered that some barns were actually secret superhero hideouts. It was actually kind of adorable. His whole entire face lit up, it was as though he’d finally be validated for his extremely niche modus operandi after all these years. So honestly, I say you capitalize on his newfound enthusiasm for barn burning and frame uninhabited barns for being superhero hideouts. This can be as simple as just putting a sign in the ground that says “superhero hideout” in front of random abandoned barns. That should throw him off your scent for a while.

Getting around rural areas is very different from getting around crowded cities. There’s not a lot of people around so you’re not likely to run into a lot of traffic, but at the same time, populated areas are very far from each other. Even the distance between individual houses is much larger than the distance between any manmade structures in a big city. There are also a lot less superheroes per capita. All of this means you’re going to be responsible for protecting a very large open area. Which means you’re going to need a very specific kind of super-vehicle. You need something that’s fast, something bright so people will see it on poorly lit country roads, something that’s doused in cow-repellant or whatever to keep animals out of your way. It needs to have off-road capabilities, because if there’s a crime being committed in the middle of a farm or on top of a mountain, you don’t want to have to ditch your vehicle and jog to the crime. That’s a great way for crimes to happen. You really should not put so much faith in your jogging abilities. You can’t jog up a mountain, but you can drive an obscene vehicle up one. That’s what makes it obscene. You also might as well drive something fuel efficient, something that runs off of vegetable oil or something, there’s plenty of it around. 

Rural superheroes are also often, believe it or not, the first heroes on Earth to encounter alien invaders. Aliens just love alerting mankind to their presence through carving crop-circles and stealing cows. Depending on the species this can be anything from a harmless prank to a signed declaration of war. (Often the cow thing is because to most alien species, cows appear to be the most intelligent species on Earth. I mean, they live in their food, that’s just smart.) So you need to be prepared to single-handedly fight off an invading force at a moment’s notice. So I hope you’ve got some corn-powered laser blasters at your disposal, because you’re gonna need them sooner rather than later.

When it comes to crime fighting partners, you may find yourself in short supply. Heroes like Old MacDonald-Man or Crop-Top describe the loneliness as the most difficult part of rural crime fighting. In big cities you can’t walk more than five feet before bumping into someone who spends their nights wearing spandex and laying the smackdown on evil puzzle enthusiasts or finger-puppeteers. But in the country you’re likely to never run into another superhero in your neighborhood. That’s why you need to take on an animal sidekick. Fortunately, rural communities are a great place to find some domesticated animals that would be down to come fight crimes with you. In order to determine which farm animals would be the best crime fighting partners we actually took a husbandry course. (Ok, you got us, Dr. Brainwave got engaged and we all chipped in and paid for him to go to a husbandry course so he could learn how to be a good husband and the rest of us went for emotional support but it turns out none of knew what husbandry was and we were not in the right place but we learned a lot and had fun and it turned out that Dr. Brainwave’s engagement was fake and part of some villainous scheme to poison the concept of weddings or something so it didn’t matter anyway.) During this course we learned a lot about the breeding of crops and animals and we have scientifically determined that the best possible animal sidekick for a rural superhero is a goat on roller blades. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Are you idiots joking? You guys go on and on and on and on about how roosters are the best animal sidekicks and now you’re going to come at me and say that goats are the best animal sidekick for a rural superhero? Are you kidding me? Is this a joke?” First of all, yeah, everything we say is a joke. This is a comedy blog. And second of all, hey tone back the attitude why don’t you? Gosh you’re being real hostile about this. Roosters are the ideal superhero sidekick for urban or space-faring superheroes. But they’re useless for rural superheroes. Roosters are great for waking you up? Rural-superheroes already wake up with the sun to tend to their crops, don’t need a rooster. Roosters can fly? No crimes are committed in the skyline of a rural community. There is no skyline. Anybody can scramble to the roof of the local post office or pitchfork wholesaler, don’t need a rooster. Roosters can attack your enemies with their sharp beaks and talons? Uh, hello, pitchfork wholesaler? There’s no shortage of sharp farming tools that rural superheroes can use in lieu of a beak or talons, don’t need a rooster. A goat on roller blades on the other hand, can thoroughly mess a criminal up. Imagine all the rage and power of a common goat, but with the speed of roller blades? You rural criminals may as well just pack it in, you’re not getting away with anything with Thunderbolt Cannonberg, goat superhero, on the scene. 

Crime is everywhere, even in the idyllic countryside. So don’t be afraid to be the change you’d like to see in your community and start fighting back against the chupacabra or Terrence, the kid who steals pigs. If you follow these tips, and take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the land and sky around you every once in a while, you should have a wonderful and productive career as a sylvan superhero.

[sage-selfships]

Sage H. D. - Bully Self-Insert

This is my Self-Insert for Bully/Canis Canem Edit! I made the art myself and would appreciate if you didn’t use it! The Template was created by Silkvale and found here! I will post updated versions to @kitty-selfshipping so uhm yeah, follow that blog to read it when it’s totally finished or edited.

If you are interested in reading the current info about my Bully Self-Insert, please read under the cut!

Biographical Information Full Name [& Pronunciation] - Sage Holland Drage ( S AI J ) ( H AW - l uh n d ) ( d r ai j ) Meaning - Herb or Prophet, Ridgeland, Dragon Set Age - 14-15 Certified Birthdate - 12 January 1992 (not my real birth year, but shh) Astrological Sign -  Capricorn Pronouns - They/them or He/Him Aliases & Preferred Nicknames – Dumbbell - Sage might not actually like the nickname, but Mandy WIles insist on calling Sage it whenever Mandy sees Sage, so Sage is  Dragon - As some people may not be able to pronounce Sage’s surname, Sage just call themselves Dragon to make it easier for everyone. Ms. Shy - Even though Sage prefers to go by he/him or they/them pronouns, people insist on calling them ms, and many people consider them shy because of how they seem terrified of new people Puppy - A nickname Sage got from Kirby Olsen, that they claim matches their general personality Ethnicities Distant Descendants : American, British,  Dominant Descendants : Norwegian, Swedish, Danish Physical Description Hair Color - Brown Eye Color - Blue Weight – Height - Typical Clothing Wear :  Maroon or pink vest, purple skirt, blue bow, purple bow, pink shoes - School   uniform  Red stained dress and blonde wig - Halloween costume, that is supposed to resemble Carrie White from the movie Carrie Faux fur coat, faux fur ushanka - Winter attire Figure/Build - Distinguishing Features/Scars/ or Birthmarks – A mole just over their lip Explain: Tattoos: Piercings: Frequently Worn Jewelry: Choker belt around their neck Personal Information Current Living Arrangements - Sage currently lives with three of their American relatives, but also they technically live at Bullworth, in the girl’s dorm Originated from - Vestfold, Norway Traveled Territories - Hobbies -   Fears – Spiders, snakes, insects, heights, scarecrows, most of the jocks Religion/Beliefs – Atheist Why?: Sage grew up in an atheist family, as simple as that. Health Behaviors Physical Ailments/ Disabilities/ Issues – Addiction(s) [Sex, Drugs, Smoking, Alcohol, Other]  Why?: Any regular medication taken? – Medication for their Iron Deficiency and for their Hives Chronological Information Profession - Student Likes - Dislikes - Goals/Ambitions – Most Instructive/Painful/Memorable Experience - Story behind experience: Weapons/Equipment - Sage mostly fights using their hands but can use a baseball if they need to Personal Attributes Personality - Strengths - Weaknesses - Good Habits - Bad Habits - Fetishes/Strange Behaviors - Stereotype - Shy kid with few friends As you know them better(and you like them) : As you know them better(and you hate them) :   Ratings on Personal Qualities (don't go overboard make reasonable stats for your character) Physical Strength : 4/10 Sage might not regularly train, but surprisingly Sage is stronger than they seem Attractive : 5/10 Sage doesn’t consider themselves the most beautiful and mostly blames it upon their parents and grandparents for how they look Honesty : 7/10 Sage hates lying in general, but still does lie if they need to. Rule Abiding : 3/10 Sage thinks certain rules are to be broken and others are to be broken. Sociability : 3/10 Sage is quite shy when it comes to meeting new people, but if they muster up enough confidence they can make new friends. Bullworth Academy Information Reason for enrolling: Sage has lacked disiplince and Sage’s parents had relatives that lived close Bullworth, so they decided on sending them to a Clique - Standing and Rank in Social Circle  - Room Number – 4 Roommate(s)-  Zoe Taylor & Beatrice Trudeau Favourite Subject(s) – English,  & Art Why?: Sage loves English because they’ve felt so motivated and  Least Favorite Subject(s) – Why?: Favourite Teacher – Mr. Galloway & Mrs. Philips Why?: Mr. Galloway - Sage takes a liking to Mr. Galloway, mostly because he encouraged and gave Sage a warm welcome to the school, during Sage’s first day at Bullworth Mrs. Philips - Sage got a few compliments Least Favorite Teacher –  Mr. Slawter Why?: Sage is quite afraid of Mr. Slawter, mostly because he yelled at Sage during their first class Knowledgeability Language(s) – Norwegian, English Schooling Level - Grade 8-9, Expertise – Chemistry - Math - English - Geography - Sage knows a few things, like where certain European countries are, but after that, nothing more Politics/Law - Economy - Cooking/Culinary - Shop - Botany/Biology - Mythology - high / Sage knows a lot about Norrøn Mythology and enjoys learning more and more about it Art - high / Sage highly enjoys Art and feels that they know a lot about the rules about realism and perspective Photography - Sage knows how to use a camera, and what settings look good or not, so they consider themselves at a 5/10 Reading Level - Overall Intelligence Level(s) - Interpersonal and Naturalistic. Relationships Statuses   (once you list characters here, delete them from the other list near the end of this information sheet, makes things less confusing) (Also, please describe the relationships of your character with other characters) Trusted Companions Closest Friend(s) –   Milliz - “I trust her with my life. Nothing more or less to say. And might I add that her and Earnest are really freakiNG ADOREABLE?” (Jeg beklager ikke for at du er satt på denne lista, Milliz) Friend(s) -   Kirby Olsen - Despite Kirby being a jock and Sage being afraid of most of the jocks, Kirby and Sage are pretty close and    

Hated Rivals Worst Enemies – Intolerable Students - Harmless Acquaintances Tolerated Students - Tolerated Townsfolk - Hot Encounters Hinted Attractions - Crush(es) - Lover(s) - Gary Smith, Jimmy Hopkins and Petey (Ey, don’t judge me please or make comments about this please, I just ship myself with all of them :( I will also make like another post or tweet where I just describe everything from lore to headcanons about this ) Ex(s) - None Extra Information Eating Habits Omnivore/Carnivore/Herbivore – Favorite Food(s): Favorite Drink(s): Disliked Food(s): Disliked Drink(s): Added Information Proclaimed Theme Song(s) - Either Dancing Queen by ABBA or Scent – Favourite Color: Favourite Season: Favourite Animal: Sage  Favourite Music Genre: Sage can’t really choose, but they are very fond of country and Pop Most Memorable Quote – Various Quotes Through Interaction :  “ Walking around – “I sure hope Mandy was joking when he called me a dumbbell...” “I don’t know jack dritt about math, how am I supposed to get a good grade?” “Gary mentioned something about rats, wondered what he was on about.” “I’m considering joining a clique... but which one?” “ “ “ “ When the fire alarm goes off – “Stuff like this always happens when you least expect it.” “Sure hope this isn’t a drill, I don’t want my slippers to get wet again without reason.” Greetings Good Terms: “Hiya!” “Hey there, best friend!” “How ya doing, sweetie?” “How are you doing, buddy?” “Hey, anyhting fun happen recently?” “Bro! What’s up?” “Heisann!” (Norwegian for ‘Hey there’) Bad Terms: “Please leave me alone” “I rather not talk.” “Ew.” “Get out of my face!” “Leave me alone!” “Continue being around me and I’ll beat you up! Or cry!” Saying goodbye – Good Terms: “Have a good day! “See you later!” “Hope you have a good night!” Bad Terms: “”See you in Hell, I uhm mean class.” “Leave already.” “I’m getting a headache, gotta go.” “Byyeee, see you never.” When Flirted With – Good Terms: “I uhm...” “Thank you....” “Well I uhm, thank you so much! I uhm haha, we should hang out or something!” “I feel flattered. I’ll uhh have to go over there until the blushing stops.” “Continue acting this sweet and you’re going to be getting ladies really quickly.” “ “You’re such a sweetheart!” “If I were of age, I would marry you right here on the spot, but I’m still too young.” Bad Terms: “I wouldn’t say I don’t like you, but I’m not that interested.” “Not to be rude, but no.” “That better not be trying to make me blush, because it didn’t work at all.” “ “

Watching a fight – “I know I shouldn’t watch this crap, but damn it feels so right, right now!” “ Attacking – “I’m sorry!” “I have no choice in this situation, so I apologize beforehand!” “I learnt this one from my friend!” While Fighting – “I really wish it didn’t have to end with one of us being hurt!” “Ouch! Thanks, I guess!”

Chasing someone – “You can run, but you can also hide!” “Come back here! please...!” Out of breath – “This always happens....” “Why do I have to have iron deficiency? When hidden from – “ Knocked out – “ Stinkbomb explodes – “I can’t see shit!” “I should be happy I can’t smell anything from before!” Opinions on students who reside at Bullworth Academy– (in alphabetical order) Bullies   Davis White: Ethan Robinson: Russell Northrop: Tom Gurney: Trent Northwick: Troy Miller: Wade Martin: Zoe Taylor: Greasers Hal Esposito: Johnny Vincent: Lefty Mancini: Lola Lombardi: Lucky De Luca: Norton Williams: Peanut Romano: Ricky Pucino: Vance Medici: Jocks Bo Jackson: Casey Harris: Damon West: Dan Wilson: Juri Karamazov: Luis Luna: Mandy Wiles: Ted Thompson: Nerds Algernon Papadopoulos: Beatrice Trudeau: Bucky Pasteur: Cornelius Johnson: Donald Anderson: Earnest Jones: Fatty Johnson: Melvin O'Connor: Thad Carlson: Non-Cliques Angie Ng: Christy Martin: Constantinos Brakus: Eunice Pound: Gloria Jackson: Gordon Wakefield: Ivan Alexander: Karen Johnson: Lance Jackson: Melody Adams: Pedro De La Hoya: Ray Hughes: Sheldon Thompson: Trevor Moore: Preppies Bif Taylor: Bryce Montrose: Chad Morris: Derby Harrington: Gord Vendome: Justin Vandervelde: Parker Ogilvie: Pinky Gauthier: Tad Spencer: Opinion on Adults who teach and patrol at Bullworth Academy – (in alphabetical order) Miss Danvers: Miss Peters: Mr. Galloway: Mr. Luntz: Mr. Matthews: Mr. Wiggins: Mrs. Carvin: Mrs. MacRae: Mrs Peabody: Ms. Phillips: Neil: Prefects – Edward Seymour II: Karl Branting: Max MacTavish: Seth Kolbe: Opinions on People in the cities of Bullworth – (in alphabetical order) Townies Clint(aka Henry): Sage doesn’t like saying it, but they’re quite afraid of him and  Duncan: Edgar Munsen: Gurney: Jerry: Leon: Omar Romero: Otto Tyler: Residents in the city of Bullworth – Bethany Jones: Denny: Dr. Bambillo: Krakauer: Mihailovich: Miss Abby: Mr. Brekindale: Mr. Buckingham: Mr. Castillo: Mr. Doolin: Mr. Huntingdon: Mr. Johnson: Mr. Martin: Mr. Ramirez: Mr. Salvatore: Mr. Smith: Mr. Sullivan: Ms. Rushinski Mrs. Lisburn: Osborne:

[kittyboones]

Sage Holland Drage - Bully Self-Insert

This is my Self-Insert for Bully/Canis Canem Edit! I made the art myself and would appreciate if you didn’t use it! The Template was created by Silkvale and it can be found here! I added an extra, maybe not as necessary category in the Hot Encounters category, just for fun!! And I added a few teachers! This is the finished version of this OC/self-insert! if you want to see previous versions, please go through this tag to see previous versions!

If you are interested in reading the current info about my Bully Self-Insert, please read under the cut!

Biographical Information Full Name [& Pronunciation] - Sage Holland Drage ( S AI J ) ( H AW - l uh n d ) ( d r ai j ) Meaning - Herb or Prophet, Ridgeland, Dragon Set Age - 14-15 Certified Birthdate - 12 January 1992 (not my real birth year, but shh) Astrological Sign -  Capricorn Pronouns - They/them or He/Him Aliases & Preferred Nicknames –   Dumbbell - Sage might not actually like the nickname, but Mandy WIles insist    on calling Sage it whenever Mandy sees Sage, so Sage is kind of used to this  nickname   Dragon - As some people may not be able to pronounce Sage’s surname,          Sage just call themselves Dragon to make it easier for everyone.   Ms. Shy - Even though Sage prefers to go by he/him or they/them pronouns,    people insist on calling them ms, and many people consider them shy because of how they seem terrified of new people. This nickname was first given by          Gord Vendome.   Puppy - A nickname Sage got from Kirby Olsen, that they claim matches their general personality and as Kirby claims, matches the fact Sage has puppy eyes ‘that could melt the coldest of hearts’.   Handsome Holland - because of an incident with the greasers, Ricky started calling Sage handsome and man does Sage blush every damn time   Dragonborn – Because of Sage secretly is a bit of a nerd, they obtained this nickname from the nerds when they found out they enjoyed roleplaying games like   Freddie Mercury - Mostly because of how much of a drama queen Sage can act like when they feel like it, some of the Preps have realized Sage fit the description of Bullworth’s Freddie Mercury and maybe it’s because of the fact that Sage, just like Mr Mercury, is Bisexual   Posh Spice – Maybe it’s because of how posh and ladylike Sage gets when they are dressed extremely nicely, or maybe it’s because of how Sage is not such an innocent girl like Victoria sang herself back in 2001 Ethnicities  Distant Descendants : American, British, Italian Dominant Descendants : Norwegian, Swedish, Danish Physical Description  Hair Color - Brown Eye Color - Blue Weight –  Height -  Typical Clothing Wear :  Maroon or pink vest, purple skirt, blue bow, purple bow, pink shoes - School   uniform  Pink silk dress and blonde wig - Halloween costume, that is supposed to   resemble Carrie White from the movie Carrie  Faux fur coat, faux fur ushanka - Winter attire  Plaid pink pyjama pants, striped yellow and black crop top - Pyjamas Figure/Build -  Distinguishing Features/Scars/ or Birthmarks – A mole just over their lip Explain:  Tattoos:  Piercings:  Frequently Worn Jewelry: Choker belt around their neck Personal Information  Current Living Arrangements - Sage currently lives with five of their American relatives, but also they technically live at Bullworth, in the girl’s dorm Originated from - Norway Travelled Territories -  Hobbies -   Fears – Spiders, snakes, insects, heights, scarecrows, most of the jocks Religion/Beliefs – Atheist Why?: Sage grew up in an atheist family, as simple as that. Health Behaviors  Physical Ailments/ Disabilities/ Issues –  Addiction(s) [Sex, Drugs, Smoking, Alcohol, Other] As stupid as it sounds, Sage is kind of addicted to eating sugar icing. Why?:  Any regular medication taken? – Medication for their Iron Deficiency and for their Hives Chronological Information  Profession - Student Likes -  Dislikes -  Goals/Ambitions –  Most Instructive/Painful/Memorable Experience -  Story behind experience:  Weapons/Equipment - Sage mostly fights using their hands but can use a baseball if they need to. Personal Attributes  Personality -  Strengths -  Weaknesses -  Good Habits -  Bad Habits -  Fetishes/Strange Behaviors -  Stereotype - Shy kid with few friends As you know them better(and you like them) :  As you know them better(and you hate them) :   Ratings on Personal Qualities  Physical Strength : 4/10 Sage might not regularly train, but surprisingly Sage is stronger than they seem Attractive : 5/10 Sage doesn’t consider themselves the most beautiful and mostly blames it upon their parents and grandparents for how they look Honesty : 7/10 Sage hates lying in general, but still does lie if they need to. Rule Abiding : 3/10  Sage thinks certain rules are to be broken and others are to be broken. Sociability : 3/10  Sage is quite shy when it comes to meeting new people, but if they muster up enough confidence they can make new friends. Bullworth Academy Information  Reason for enrolling: Sage has lacked disiplince and Sage’s parents had relatives that lived close Bullworth, so they decided on sending them to a Clique -  Standing and Rank in Social Circle  - Room Number – 4 Roommate(s)-  Zoe Taylor & Beatrice Trudeau Favourite Subject(s) – English,  & Art Why?: Sage loves English because they’ve felt so motivated and  Least Favorite Subject(s) –  Why?:  Favourite Teacher – Mr. Galloway & Mrs. Philips Why?:  Mr. Galloway - Sage takes a liking to Mr. Galloway, mostly because he encouraged and gave Sage a warm welcome to the school, during Sage’s first day at Bullworth Mrs. Philips - Sage got a few compliments Least Favorite Teacher –  Mr. Slawter Why?: Sage is quite afraid of Mr. Slawter, mostly because he yelled at Sage during their first class Knowledgeability  Language(s) – Norwegian, English Schooling Level - Grade 8-9, Expertise –  Chemistry –   Math –   English  –   Geography – low / Sage knows a few things, like where certain European countries are, but after that, nothing more Politics/Law – low / Sage doesn’t really find any reason to take interest in politics and doesn’t really understand it Economy –   Cooking/Culinary –   Shop –   Botany/Biology –   Mythology – high / Sage knows a lot about Norrøn Mythology and enjoys learning more and more about it Art – high / Sage highly enjoys Art and feels that they know a lot about the rules about realism and perspective Photography – medium / Sage knows how to use a camera, and what settings look good or not, so they consider themselves at a 5/10 Reading Level –   Overall Intelligence Level(s) -  Interpersonal and Naturalistic.  Relationships Statuses   Trusted Companions  Closest Friend(s) –    Milliz - “I trust her with my life. Nothing more or less to say. And might I add that her and Earnest are really freakiNG ADORABLE?”   Friend(s) -    Kirby Olsen - “Damn, I consider him my best friend out of most of the students at Bullworth.” Despite Kirby being a jock and Sage being afraid of most of the jocks, Kirby and Sage are pretty close   Beatrice Trudeau - “She might be a nerd, but I’m lowkey a nerd so we gotta stick together” Sage might not act like it, but they’re a big nerd and therefore easily became good friends with Beatrice.   Pinky Gauthier - “excuse me? She’s one of my best friends!” Sage and Pinky quickly became friends, mostly because of how Sage was wearing Aquaberry when they first came to Bullworth and the fact that Pinky was friends with Sage’s cousin from before.

Hated Rivals  Worst Enemies –  Intolerable Students -  Harmless Acquaintances  Tolerated Students -    Zoe Taylor -       Tolerated Townsfolk - Hot Encounters  Hinted Attractions -    Bif Taylor - Sage finds Bif a bit charming and he surprisingly acts slightly kind to them, but he’s dating their cousin so😔   Tom Gurney - Sage realized really quickly that Tom was the least violent one out of the bullies and found him a slight bit charming and funny, but they don’t really hang out that much so..   Ricky Pucino - Sage found Ricky a small bit scary in the start, but quickly developed a small crush that they seem to forget about really easily Crush(es) - Gary Smith, Jimmy Hopkins and Petey Kowalski, before Sage started dating them Lover(s) - Gary, Jimmy and Petey, after they started dating them Ex(s) - Just some Norwegian guys they used to go to school with that Sage happened to like Admirer(s) -   Ivan Alexander -    Bucky Pasteur - Sage, only really being friends with Beatrice and    Casey Harris -    Dan Wilson -  Extra Information  Eating Habits Omnivore/Carnivore/Herbivore – Omnivore  Favourite Food(s): Sage likes pizza, but they just like just food in general Favourite Drink(s):  Disliked Food(s):  Disliked Drink(s):  Added Information  Proclaimed Theme Song(s) - Either Dancing Queen by ABBA or Dum Og Deilig from Knutsen Og Ludvigsen Scent –  Favourite Color: Sage can’t really decide between pink, maroon or beige. Favourite Season: Winter Favourite Animal: Sage can’t decide, so they usually just say dogs Favourite Music Genre: Sage can’t really choose, but they are very fond of country and Pop Most Memorable Quote – “ Various Quotes Through Interaction :  “ Walking around –  “I sure hope Mandy was joking when she called me a dumbbell...” “I don’t know jack dritt about math, how am I supposed to get a good grade?” “Gary mentioned something about rats, wondered what he was on about.” “I’m considering joining a clique... but which one?” “ “ “ “ When the fire alarm goes off –  “Stuff like this always happens when you least expect it.” “Sure hope this isn’t a drill, I don’t want my slippers to get wet again without reason.” ”OH SHIT!” ”I owe whoever did that my life!” Greetings Good Terms:  “Hiya!” “Hey there, best friend!” “How ya doing, sweetie?” “How are you doing, buddy?” “Hey, anything fun happen recently?” “Bro! What’s up?” “Heisann!” (Norwegian for ‘Hey there’) Bad Terms:  “Please leave me alone” “I rather not talk.” “Ew.” “Get out of my face!” “Leave me alone!” “Continue being around me and I’ll beat you up! Or cry! Or even both!” Saying goodbye –  Good Terms:  “Have a good day! “See you later!” “Hope you have a good night!” Bad Terms:  “”See you in Hell, I uhm mean class.” “Leave already.” “I’m getting a headache, gotta go.” “Byyeee, see you never.” When Flirted With –  Good Terms:  “I uhm...” “Thank you....” “Well I uhm, thank you so much! I uhm haha, we should hang out or something!” “I feel flattered. I’ll uhh have to go over there until the blushing stops.” “Continue acting this sweet and you’re going to be getting ladies really quickly.” “You’re such a sweetheart!” “If I were of age, I would marry you right here on the spot, but I’m still too young.” Bad Terms:  “I wouldn’t say I don’t like you, but I’m not that interested.” “Not to be rude, but no.” “That better not be trying to make me blush, because it didn’t work at all.” “Get lost!” “I ain’t interested!” “Yikes, no thanks.“ Watching a fight –  “I know I shouldn’t watch this crap, but damn it feels so right, right now!” “ Attacking –  “I’m sorry!” “I have no choice in this situation, so I apologize beforehand!” “I learnt this one from my friend!” ”Either you run away or I keep hitting!” While Fighting –  “I really wish it didn’t have to end with one of us being hurt!” “Ouch! Thanks, I guess!” Chasing someone –  “You can run, but you can also hide!” “Come back here! please...!” Out of breath –  “This always happens....” “Why do I have to have iron deficiency? When hidden from –  “We aren’t playing hide and seek!” Knocked out –  “This sure does remind me of my first day...” Stinkbomb explodes –  “I can’t see shit!” “I should be happy I can’t smell anything from before!” “I envy ducks: they wouldn’t have the ability to smell this!” Opinions on students who reside at Bullworth Academy– Bullies   Davis White:  Ethan Robinson:  Russell Northrop:  Trent Northwick:  Troy Miller:  Wade Martin:  Zoe Taylor:  Greasers  Hal Esposito:  Johnny Vincent:  Lefty Mancini:  Lola Lombardi:  Lucky De Luca:  Norton Williams:  Peanut Romano:  Vance Medici:  Jocks  Bo Jackson:   Damon West:   Juri Karamazov:  Luis Luna:  Mandy Wiles:  Ted Thompson:  Nerds  Algernon Papadopoulos:  Cornelius Johnson:  Donald Anderson:  Earnest Jones: Sage has a strange friendship with the leader of the nerds: There are times where Sage find him the most annoying person and would love to beat him up and there are other times where Sage can relate a lot with him and talk about video games to him Fatty Johnson:  Melvin O'Connor:  Thad Carlson:  Non-Cliques Angie Ng:  Christy Martin:  Constantinos Brakus: Sage has a strong grudge against Constantinos because he snitched on them when they were sending notes to Kirby in class. Eunice Pound:  Gloria Jackson:  Gordon Wakefield:  Karen Johnson:  Lance Jackson:  Melody Adams:  Pedro De La Hoya: “Doesn’t he like, pee his bed and get bullied a lot? I guess he’s okay, just too weak and manipulative for his own good.“ Ray Hughes:  Sheldon Thompson: “Oh look at me, I am Sheldon, all the teachers love me! I hate that kid. Annoying and desperate.” Sage has a literal grudge against him and just like everyone, thinks he is a teacher’s pet Trevor Moore: Sage has no general opinion on  Preppies  Bryce Montrose:  Chad Morris:  Derby Harrington:  Gord Vendome:  Justin Vandervelde:  Parker Ogilvie:  Tad Spencer: "Big fat ego. He’s the least best prep, after my cousin of course!” Opinion on Adults who teach and patrol at Bullworth Academy – Edna: “She’s... interesting. Underrated, but I wouldn’t consider her the best. She’s kind of rude.” Dr. Crabblesnitch: “Well, he might be my principal, but he sure isn’t much of a pal. I mean, he isn’t friendly, you know?” Miss Danvers: “She might not have done anything towards me, but she gives Derby special treatment and she kind of was a bit rude to Jimmy like last year, so I don’t whether to be respectful towards her or not.” Miss Peters: “She forced me into doing a show I didn’t want to be a part of, so she isn’t getting no respect.” Mr. Galloway: “Can I just say: Best teacher, obviously. He might be an alcoholic, but I don’t judge.” Mr. Luntz: “Strange but nice guy. I respect him.“ Mr. Matthews: “I am sorry, but I don’t know who he is because I might uh be skipping some of my classes.” Sage skips their geography classes, so they have no knowledge of who he is. Mr. Slawter: “He yelled at me on my first day, so I guess I’m kind of scared of him, because he has a booming voice.” Mr. Watts: “Strange man. Strange, very strange man.” Mr. Wiggins: Sage can’t find a reason to find Mr. Wiggins an interesting teacher to listen to. Mrs. Carvin: “I don’t really know her, but I know she’s the librarian so..” Mrs. MacRae: “That woman freaks me out.“ Mrs Peabody: “I don’t have anything against her, but she shouldn’t be so old fashioned.“ Ms. Phillips: “Favourite teacher! She’s great! She encourages the students to do their best and she isn’t against any kind of art!“ Neil: Sage doesn’t really know who Neil is and doesn’t bother learning, as they don’t have. Prefects –  Edward Seymour II:  Karl Branting:  Max MacTavish:  Seth Kolbe:  Opinions on People in the cities of Bullworth – Townies  Clint(aka Henry): Sage doesn’t like saying it, but they’re quite afraid of him and Leon Duncan:  Edgar Munsen:  Gurney:  Jerry:  Leon: Sage is scared of him and Clint. Omar Romero:  Otto Tyler:  Residents in the city of Bullworth –  Bethany Jones:  Denny:  Dr. Bambillo:  Krakauer:  Mihailovich:  Miss Abby:  Mr. Brekindale:  Mr. Buckingham: Sage thinks he isn’t that special compared to other people but thinks he is one of the nicest residents of Bullworth they have met. Mr. Castillo:  Mr. Doolin:  Mr. Huntingdon:  Mr. Johnson:  Mr. Martin: Sage sympathizes him and often can relate to what he is saying. Mr. Ramirez:  Mr. Salvatore:  Mr. Smith:  Mr. Sullivan:  Ms. Rushinski  Mrs. Lisburn: Osborne: 

[mercysought]

📜 pls

📜 for plots! (ACCEPTING) // @cantoinmaschera​

Gaia I’m never going to leave…… this is going to be long. I’m  also going to add some npcs that I might use usually with my ocs, simply because I can and nobody is here to stop me.

For Gereon Alexius, was thinking maybe Valens for before his allegiances with the Venatori became obvious? Not have him as a pupil but maybe as the pupil of someone that works closely with him? Maybe even know each other because Alexius knew Faustus? In the same vein, maybe with Maxima? After he’s brought to the gallows of Skyhold during one of her stays? Maybe talk about the future and what the Inquisitor is going to do with him. This considering that Maxima doesn’t agree that the inquisitor should be the one dispensing justice when Alexius is a Tevinter citizen. Aus ahoy? Maybe, who knows!

In the same vein still, Ruber Sanguis I know nothing about him but please let me love him. Maybe Valens’ mentor? A family friend? Someone that is studying/helping with Felix and Caius? Tell me all about him please and thank

Please give me Fabien and Maxima. Still when she was Daphné? Only as Maxima? I don’t care. Have him invite her to Serault, add an assassination attempt and we have already something cooking. Or have her invite him to Tevinter since he is the scholarly type and since Maxima eventually opens a sort of theater/opera house, he would likely be among the guests.

Also with Fabien, have him be friends with Abel and Émilie? Maybe childhood friends so that they were to meet long before Émilie was even taken to the circle and both of them still had dreams of becoming chevaliers? Have them meet after everything goes down? So with Abel before the war of the lions but after the fall of the circle. With Émilie after the war of the lions? Have her go to Serault and talk to him and with some help she remembers who she is? Or maybe an au where her plan and the rest of the mages actually works and she escapes and heads to serault? Idk this is rambly but haVE IT 

The Architect and Loane only because that would high key make her shit her pants. Low key asking if he’s also gonna open a hole in the sky and have more demons spitting out, we already have one crazed darkspawn doing some serious bs on wardens we don’t need 2 pls Architect…….. pls

Clarel and Loane, because one is a warden commander and while Loane is one of the headscouts she also probably gets on Clarel’s nerves. Either that or Clarel finds her endearing. One of the two. Clarel was either one of the people that Loane had to basically badger to let her become a warden or she badgered so many people and annoyed them to no end that it would have eventually gotten back to Clarel that a dwarf from the north really wants to become a warden.

Pietrus and Loane something something related to being casteless? Well, Loane was never casteless but she has the brands tattooed on her hands. The only time she had to deal with the carta was probably when some dwarfs were brought to the wardens. Still feel like they could have some common ground? And talk?

On the other hand Bhelen and Loane. Maybe she was asked to go down to orzammar to deal with some darkspawn bs and Loane probably absolutely hates it. 1. because her grandparents left for a reason. 2. caves. 3. her grandparents left for a reason. It would definitely be the first time that she would be around ‘real’ dwarves and the culture around it and it would probably give her the biggest hives. Both of them somehow get stuck in the deep roads? Everyone’s worst nightmare? y/y?

Clarimond and Loane on their way to Skyhold to pass on judgement to Erimond? This because Skyhold is in actual Orlesian territory and who better to help out than a scout? Also slowly realising about the false calling and shit hitting the fan?

I was going to say Clarimond and Anora but realistically, she is married with Alistair (not happy), her father has been conscripted (more happy than if he was dead) and if she finds out about the dark ritual she will likely have a flat out aneurism. Not sure if this would work well or if it would just be a collection of ‘anora is fucking silentely fuming again’. BUT seeing how she is, I feel that Anora would actually like her a lot. Or depending on this quietly respect and be annoyed by her.

Bhelen and Anora could also be a thing. Not sure what thing, but maybe Anora coming to visit? Not sure if Bhelen would leave Orzammar considering the culture implications that it has. Maybe to talk about the possible invasion of Orlais if Gaspard becomes the Emperor? This depends how their relationship would be, of course, only if they were in friendly terms in order for him to understand ‘her plight’ would she talk about this. Considering he’s ‘underground’ he might as well see it as ‘surfacer problems…. anyway….’

Thrask and Maxima. THRASK AND MAXIMA. tHRASK. AND MAXIMA. He’s the closest to a father figure she has gotten and to have an actual templar treat her like a living breathing person? A concept that gives her hope to the world and an order that often feels just full of drones. In that one verse where you splash me full of pain (you know the one, don’t even try me) or just in one that he realises that Maxima lies. a lot™. Just give it to me. Thrask and Adeleide (Émilie and Abel’s mom) could also be interesting. Both of them lost their children and Adeleide grows very bitter about the chantry and everything related to it, especially when the Montsimmard circle allows for mages to be let out while she can’t see her daughter since she was nothing but a girl. Could also put Émilie into the picture, either during one of his visits to the White Spire or after. Maybe both!

Feynriel with Maxima? Probably as a friend of Valens to be introduced. I just find it interesting because of the obvious: both being elf-blooded though his status is out there and hers isn’t. It could be interesting to see how that affects his stay in tevinter and what doors are closed to him/slowly open and what Maxima could do to help him and actually slowly gain hope for elf-blooded people in the world. Actually see that people like them have a place in the world.

Keeper Zathrian and the priestess; maybe when she’s looking for people for the Faithful? Maybe when she’s with the Inquisition? Anyway I think it would be fun, two old people being old and annoyed together. Also he could definitely help her fill in the gaps and she could, in exchange, provide him knowledge that she hasn’t given anyone (she would likely do it begrudgingly but… you know)

I honestly didn’t say anything about Gaius because I haven’t read the comics yet, I should but I haven’t so…. I also wanted to think about things for the rest of your characters but nothing too clear came up and also….This got… really long.I’m not even sorry, sue me.

[hivecitywinterball]

As the sun dips low on the edges of District Mu, the sound of sleigh bells faintly fill the air. Dozens of open carriages appear from the depths of the forest, perfectly lined up and waiting to transport the eager crowd along the trail that had been meticulously carved just for this purpose--a small present from the wood itself for the holiday season.

As the trees fly by and passengers ride along, glimpses of the winter wonders to come can be spotted for those who look hard enough. White stags with horns seemingly carved from crystal and visions of tiny creatures dressed in reds and greens: those were just some of the things that marked the festive occasion. But they paled to what awaited the guests as they arrived at their final destination.

The grounds of the Manor were a glittering display of the yuletide season. Twinkling lights shone over a perfectly-manicured lawn. Trees trimmed in gold and silver lined the path to the door proper, but as the guest proceeded up the walk, it was easy to spot the areas where friendly faces smiled near the attractions the place planned to offer. 

The cobblestone walkway became an alabaster staircase, which lead to a grand door that opened all on its own, welcoming every guest in from the cold. Curious attendants with horns and furry legs with cloven hooves took hats and gloves and birds seeming made of light made off with overcoats and cloaks after assurances were made the items would be returned and the guests were ushered along the dimly-lit walkways.

Eventually, as they passed through the halls dressed with faintly glimmering trees and candles and shining ornaments, the guests make their way to a handsomely-dressed ballroom, luxurious and large enough that one could easily think it could fit the entire city. Festive wreathes, fully-decorated trees with presents piled beneath, and tables set with gilded cloths and fine china lined the sides of the hall with a wide floor suited for dancing. And at the very front was a two-sided stair that descended down to a massive stage, already set with various instruments waiting to be played.

The hall remained dim as the guests filed in. Not long after the last guest had arrived, though, a single voice cut through the gloom.

“Hello to all my friends who have gathered here tonight.”

A figure appeared at the top of the stairs, bathed in the only light in the room. It couldn’t be traced from on high: it was as though she herself was its source--or rather, the gown she wore. If she was aware of it, though, she gave no sign as she simply smiled to the crowd below as she carefully began her descent to the stage.

“This year has been marked with a lot of strife. Though so many of us go through our own problems day by day, this city has put us through our paces this year. We have been tested and had our fears laid bare and we have cried in anger and in grief. There’s no denying that this year has made its impact in all our lives here in Hive City.

“But tonight is different. Tonight is a night of celebration. Because we are still here. We are among friends at this, the most special time of the year, to celebrate what is good and to set the magic of this special season in to motion. So I have only one request tonight: make good, strong memories that can carry you through the hard times. Eat and drink and be merry. You’re in good company. But most of all, have fun. Welcome... to the Winter Ball!”

The young lady threw her arms open wide and suddenly, the butterflies that had been adorning her dress flew away and streaked through the room, cutting into the gloom. Trails of light appeared in their wake until they had circled around every bit of it, casting the room in sparkling illumination. Cheerful bells began to ring and music played throughout the hall, signaling to everyone the opening ceremony had commenced.

The Winter Ball had now well and truly begun.

Welcome to the 2017 Hive City Winter Ball! We certainly hope everyone has fun with the festivities this year. Attempts were made to offer more than just dancing and free food, so hopefully there’s something for everyone!

Please feel free to look over our Activities page to find out what other things you can do at the Ball. Suggested tags are included so you can find people who are interested in the same thing!

Speaking of tags, please use our official tag, #ca winter ball 2017, to tag all your related posts for easy blacklisting.

Additionally, please be aware that this is not an official event, and therefore, participation in it will not count toward Savior-equivalent ranking. This is just a member event for some fun!

Though this is not an official event, there are still some rules and guidelines to be followed.

No weapons are allowed inside the Manor or on Manor grounds. If your character mistakenly brought theirs, it was taken either at the coat check or when your character arrived at the Manor. Any weapons taken will be returned upon departure.

No powers will work anywhere on the property. A special state has been put into place by the Scientists that prevent any and all powers from being used. This field effectively covers all routes to and from the Manor, as well as the Manor itself, and goes at least 100 feet above the highest point on the property.

If your character participates in one of the activities, be fair with other players. Talk it out and have fun.

Finally, the Winter Ball will run from Dec. 3 to Dec. 9 this year. There are no plans for an extension presently, so be sure to at least make your starters during that time period!

We hope you have fun with the setting and the festivities. If you have any questions or concerns, please send them to this blog and we’ll be happy to answer.

Thank you for your interest and enjoy the Winter Ball!

[bucketofchum]

Alright. So I napped hardcore yesterday. If you guys don’t know I’ve basically been getting about 4 hours of sleep a night every night for the past 4 weeks or so (maybe more?), and I guess in combination with some other stuff led me to finally just crash yesterday. I had kind of a rough day at work where I was unable to focus at all, and when I got back home at like 4:30pm, I just. Hit the bed. Work clothes and all. I woke up to find I even still had my work badge attached to my pants. But I had a pretty weird dream, so that’s what this post is about. Dream under cut.

I forget the original premise, but I was in some sort of very damp cavern, exploring (probably trying to find a way out) with a small party of individuals. We eventually get to the opening of the cavern, but we are obstructed by some foes. It is perhaps some members of our party who do not want us to leave for one reason or another.

The floor of this cavern entrance is basically all puddles, to varying degrees of depths, so our feet are almost always in at least a little water,  if not our ankles. This becomes important for the next part.

To keep us from leaving, the adversaries have some sort of taser mechanism that only conducts debilitatingly in tainted waters. Incidentally, we had just been watching them taint these puddles. One guy in our party (let’s call him Barry) is hoping the water we are currently standing in is safe (because we are further back from the entrance - where they are and where all the tainted water is). He tests this by lighting the water on fire. It ignites. That’s bad news. That means we’re basically fucked - the water we’re in is contaminated and they can basically kill us almost on the spot.

But the current of their tasers take a little while travel, so technically we would have a few hundredths or tenths of a second to react before the charge reached us.  Even though I am weakened from injury and starvation (I was hungry, okay – so it translated into the dream),I wildly decide that I can somehow sprint from where I am standing (all the way in the back end of the cavern) to the outside – past the enemy individuals and over the charged water (or if I step into it, I imagine I am able to power through despite the shock).

There was a kid I know who is an avid outdoorsy type, Jeremy, who had made a comment about how if you put your mind to it, you can do anything – even I, the weakest person in our group, would be able to get out.

 I was hearing his words but only as a blur, as they were all discussing how this would go down, I made the sprint. I caught them so off guard that they weren’t even able to charge the water til I was almost out and I just stumbled on the final leg of it, but fortunately, my momentum carried me out.

Next scene: it’s only moments after that but somehow everyone got out and everyone is all chummy with one another again (clearly I missed something, okay) and we’re in a parking lot ready to go somewhere. One of the guys (I don’t really know him, but he’s younger than me, a bit of an entitled bro-y type with short dirty blonde hair) wants to catch this super strong CP pokemon on Pokemon Go and asks if anyone else wants to help (like he drives around while the other person catches the pokemon). Apparently everyone in this group plays Pokemon Go and they are doing this sort of thing as a group. Like he offers again when no one bites and says like “Oh, so no one wants to help the team out in trying to find where this super strong pokemon is” (idk what it was but it was one of those beginning evolution ones but the power level was like 925 or something high – so that if it evolved or whatnot, it would be…SO STRONG). He seems to be getting exasperated, so I offer to ride with him. It’s weirdly just him in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger seat, and a bigger buff guy who doesn’t say much riding right in back of him (a henchman friend??? What.). I don’t know either of them so it’s a little awkward; I just didn’t want him to feel like no one wanted to do this with him.

So we’re driving around and I’m on his phone doing pokemon go (you know what – idk why his large henchman friend isn’t sufficient for this…) and I gotta pause every couple seconds cuz I keep feeling this sharp, stinging, burning pain around my lower body. It’s just so small, but so sharp and it hurts?? Like I got a sharp thing in my shoe or something. So I wipe at my foot and it goes away for a sec. But then it’s back. I can ignore it for a bit cuz I know catching this rare or strong pokemon is important to this dude, but at some point, the sudden stinging pain gets so bad – and so much – that I can’t ignore it. I look down to swipe away at whatever it is – and it is FUCKING BEES. Well, not like bees bees. Those flies that look like bees? (Like Hoverflies, but I know hoverflies don’t sting – they felt like horseflies and it was pretty awful). Every time they stung me – or bit me?? I think they took a small circular chunk out of me and I had almost like a honeycomb texture (but with circles instead of hexagons) of fucking shallow holes in my flesh from their bites. Realising there is a whole …like nest of them? On me? I freak out a bit and I tell the driver dude he has to stop – like, RIGHT NOW. He’s a little surprised, like why. But he does and I open the door and just roll out, and I roll and brush myself off and walk a bit around to get all the bee-flies off of me.

 Eventually, I don’t seem to be getting stung anymore. I take a breather by leaning on the trunk of the car, and the dirty blonde boy brings over a dried up looking curled up leaf them – apparently that’s their nest and I had somehow accidentally gotten it attached to my pants? Shorts?

 Mind you, I’m not afraid of bugs or anything – in fact I like them a lot. But I should also say that I’m allergic. Not to the point where a single sting or bite will send me into shock but like. I’ll have a full body allergic reaction if I am stung multiple times – which is definitely what happened here. Last time something like this happened (where someone walking in front of me kicked a hornets’ nest and I walked through a hive of very angry hornets), I ended up with full body hives and in the hospital haha. So I start getting worried that because of the sheer volume of bites/stings I sustained in such a short amount of time, something similar would happen, and probably because of those thoughts, I start having difficulty breathing.

 I wake myself up from the anaphylaxis happening in real time cuz my throat is closing up and I can’t breathe.

So that was a weird and fun way to wake up from a nap.

[fantroll-purgatory]

Name: Etteki Petila

Meaning: I just wanted her to have a bubble theme so one of the names means bubble

Oh I’m so excited to play around with a bubble themed character. I can’t find these words related to bubbles on google, though… GTranslate at least says Etteki means A Meal and Petila only brings up articles about moths? So if you have sources about one of these names meaning bubble I’d love to know! But barring that, I’m going to recommend a new name just in case. 

I’m recommending Gorami Bobeln. Gorami comes from Gourami, a type of fish that builds bubblenests! She could have a couple of them as pets that keep her hive suspended mid-ocean by bubbles! A bubble castle for a bubble-themed character sounds pretty good. 

Bobeln is pretty simple and comes from one of the etymological roots of Bubble- Bobelen. 

Universe: alternate Alternia

Blood: Fuchsia

Sign: Piun

Lusus: glygodyb

Weapon: Bubble wand shaped trident

That’s so cuuuute.

Troll tag: haven’t thought of anything

God my first thought was bubblineQueen but then I remembered bubbline is a ship name…. I think it can work well anyways but let’s see what else… maybe princessPopper as a princess & the pauper joke. glycerinGurgle. effervescentEmpress. Any one of these would be good.

Fetch modus: I don’t know

Hmm, since she likes soap maybe she should have to like… They’re All Stored Inside Bathbombs and she has to release the bathbomb and wait for it to fizz out before retrieving the item, but she is just kind of randomly grabbing unless she memorizes what the scent/colors for each item Are. 

God tier: Witch of Breath

Land: I’m not good at sburb stuff…

Well, let’s see… the Witch of Breath aims to change the wind, actively. So for her quest, she probably needs to learn to lead, either metaphorically or literally. Which means we can probably give her a quest in a ssssimilar but different vein to John’s. How about like, the Land of Pestilence and Foam. There’s a Disease On The Wind and she’s gotta stop it. 

Personality: Etteki is very bubbly, but confident in herself. At times she can whine when she doesn’t get her way. She has no problem with getting others to kill for her, and if necessary, she will get down and dirty herself and kill others if needed. She’s afraid of spiders, so she ordered for all arachnid like lusii to be culled and fed to her own. She’s highly enjoys killing and being in control, and can be quite giddy when doing so. However, she does have a more serious side to her, knowing when things are more dire for her.

Interests: crafting interesting mixes of bubble soap to cause different effects,

Haha I love this character, a bit bratty, good at bossing others around. Definitely pretty witch of breath, steering the course for everyone around her. Bubbly is also fun and Good. I don’t have much to add personality-wise! Aside from Possibly suggesting making her competitive, because gouramis can be competitive and it’d be a nice tie-in. 

As for interests, you could probably add some more. You could make her like bubble-blowing, make her do soap carving, make her like Bubblegum, maybe make her interested in trying to compose a Permanent Bubble to get a lil bit of chemistry interest in there. 

Design time!:

Horns/crown/hair: The horns were positioned a little awkwardly so I moved those. I also edited the crown a little and added a bubble wand shape for funsies. I made the hair a lil more Bubbly/round!

Eyes/outfit: I gave her eyes an additional shine to make them look like bubble shines. The tan was an interesting color but I felt didn’t quite work with her themeing? So I moved it back to black so I could put some light blue circles on the bottom of jacket both to mimic bubbles and to reference the spot patterning of a lot of fish tails. 

Thank you for sharing! I hope you liked the review!

-CD

[junker-town]

The ‘Bachelorette’ finale: I can't believe how bad that was

Peter broke Rachel’s heart so she ended up with Bryan and everything is awful.

Welcome back, Sports Bachelor Nation. This is it — our Super Bowl, our World Series, our NBA Finals, our NHL Playoffs.

THIS IS: THE BACHELORETTE FINALE!

I’m usually pretty excited about the final episode, if only because it means I’ll get my Monday nights back once the damn thing is over. But the show hasn’t been super fun this season. The producers used racism as a main source of drama throughout the doldrums (which is what I call episodes 3-7, where no one really cares that much), and Rachel is clearly more into Peter than she is into any of the other guys. However: The last time we left them, Peter couldn’t tell Rachel he would, with 100% certainty, be able to propose to her, so things are looking precarious for him.

I still think Peter wins, but I’m not super excited about it. Because he’s not, like, the best (he is very attractive, but he has dabbled in casual racism, and he does speak like a midwestern robot). However: the other option is that Bryan wins, and Bryan wore an ombre outfit in public where humans with eyes could ACTUALLY SEE HIM.

I’m serious:

Is it Monday yet?? #hometowns #miami #305 #thebachelorette

A post shared by Dr. Bryan Abasolo (@thebryanabasolo) on Jul 14, 2017 at 12:21pm PDT

That’s a crime against humanity.

With all that said, let’s do the damn thing.

WAIT, THEY’RE MAKING HER LIVE-TWEET THE SHOW, BUT WITH HER WORDS ON A STAGE IN REAL LIFE?

Oh my god. This is a level of uncomfortable I have seldom seen in all my three seasons as a Bachelor/ette sportswriter: they’re making Rachel watch the finale in front of a live studio audience. She has to talk to Chris “Crest White Strips” Harrison about what’s happening as it happens. The questions he poses sound like he just read Therapy for Dummies and wants to give psychoanalysis a try (“And how did that make you feel, Rachel?”).

This reminds me of the time they ambushed her with four of her suitors on live television at the beginning of her season. She’s like, “Why do you keep doing this to me?” and Chris “Airbrush Makeup” Harrison is like, “Because you’re so good.”

So the lesson here, folks, is: if you’re the Bachelorette, be boring and not cool. Because if you’re charismatic and charming on live TV, then they make you do shit like having your ex-boyfriends in the room as you re-watch yourself break up with them.

PETER KEEPS MESSING THINGS UP

We’re still in Spain. We left Rachel and Peter on their fantasy suite date, a.k.a. the first time they’re allowed to bang. Rachel is crying because Peter says he isn’t sure he can propose, and Peter is sad because he can’t tell her he could propose after two months of dating. This feels like the beginning stage of the merry-go-round ride that is an unsolvable arguments with a significant other. You know those ones? Where you talk and talk and talk and argue and argue and argue about the same thing endlessly in a horrendous circle of sameness until one of you pulls the level, hops off the ride, and pukes from dizziness?

“I hate Peter,” says my roommate, who has walked in and sat down on the couch after never having seen an episode of this show.

Peter says he’s still fighting for this, and Rachel says she is, too. She cries. He says that her crying and showing emotion about his not wanting to propose makes him feel like he’s closer to being able to propose. I think that seems a little manipulative. Rachel gives Peter the fantasy suite key because she clearly wants to sleep with him. He accepts. The morning after, they’re both like, “Yeah, that was a step forward,” and it seems like Peter is still in this. Which I take to mean the sex was good.

“How can he say nothing in so many words?” my roommate asks. I tell him that’s a dish known as Bachelorette Word Salad and it’s best served cold. He shakes his head.

I still think Peter wins.

Just another beautiful good morning in Spain! #TheBacheloretteFinale http://pic.twitter.com/2zDqeXEUey

— The Bachelorette (@BacheloretteABC) August 8, 2017

BRYAN’S FANTASY SUITE DATE

Rachel is clearly super into Peter, because she phones it in with Bryan on this date. Bryan is wearing a henley that’s too big for him, because of course he is.

My roommate is confused. He only just figured out that Bryan and Peter aren't the same person. On the TV, Bryan is like, “Why are you being weird?” and Rachel says something that I miss completely because I’m too busy telling my roommate that Bryan and Peter aren’t the same person.

Bryan says, as they head into the fantasy suite, that he’s excited about “that last wall to break down,” which is a weird way to describe sex.

The trouble with awkward...#TheBacheloretteFinale http://pic.twitter.com/ru5p6lvrEQ

— The Bachelorette (@BacheloretteABC) August 8, 2017

ROSE CEREMONY

Rachel sends Eric home, which sucks, because Eric is a better dude than both of these jabronis. But we all knew this would happen, mostly because we forgot about Eric while all of this drama with Peter and smarminess with Bryan was going down.

They bring Eric out on live TV. He looks great! He tells Rachel that he’s grateful she helped him open up to the possibility of love. She says he’s a beautiful person. I agree. Good luck out there, Eric.

"Take a moment. Say your goodbyes." Eric is pure class. #TheBacheloretteFinale http://pic.twitter.com/c4zg0YISCi

— The Bachelorette (@BacheloretteABC) August 8, 2017

We cut back to the rose ceremony, where Bryan and Rachel and Peter are all drinking wine and looking depressed. Bryan, to the camera, is like “Now I have to win her heart,” and appears as though he would like to murder Peter. Peter doesn’t really seem that threatened by Bryan, because Bryan is a sleazy chiropractor, and Peter is a hot personal trainer. What if Bryan just takes out a knife and stabs Peter at the rose ceremony? That would be so wild.

THE LAST TWO DATES BEFORE THE REST OF RACHEL’S LIFE

Rachel rides horses and goes on a hot air balloon ride for her last date with Bryan before the Big Decision. I don’t understand how hot air balloons work. How do you land these things?

Huh. Interesting! But I digress.

Bryan’s kisses are gross. He’s trying to swallow Rachel’s whole face. He’s wearing that watch she bought him in Geneva as they make out in the air. Hmm, okay, maybe Bryan wins.

Ugh, what if Bryan wins!?

“I would spend the rest of my life loving you,” Bryan says. He’s laying it on pretty thick — he gives Rachel a Spanish dictionary full of words like, “wife,” “forever,” and “leap of faith.” I’d be breaking out in hives if someone gave me that, but Rachel so badly wants a ring after all of this that she seems into it.

Bryan tells her she’d be making a mistake if she didn’t choose him. I hate when men say that — it’s like, uh, that’s not your call to make, dude. You’d be making a mistake if you weren’t cool enough to make me want to stay.

This show is bananas. My roommate shakes his head and leaves the house.

PETER ROYALLY SCREWS THE POOCH ON THIS ONE

Rachel and Peter go to a monastery for their date, which seems unfair, given that Bryan got to go on a hot air balloon ride. A monk says, “It is very important not to give importance to things that are not important.”

The wires in my brain get so crossed as I try to figure out if this means anything or not that my head explodes and this recap is over.

JUST KIDDING, I’M STILL ALIVE, LET’S KEEP GOING

Peter goes into a tailspin after the monk date. He tells Rachel that he didn’t expect to truly care about someone when he went on this show and that it’s all happening really fast. He says he’s serious about her but he just can’t commit that fully yet, though he hopes to someday. Rachel is crying — she’s like, “You talk about a dog, and what kind of bed we’re going to get, this future with a wife, but when it comes to the reality of this and where we are right now, it’s like you don’t want to face it. It’s like steps are skipped.”

This really may be the most dramatic moment in Bachelorette history. #TheBacheloreteFinale http://pic.twitter.com/XRT8fQBYFr

— The Bachelorette (@BacheloretteABC) August 8, 2017

“I do, I want to make those steps, but in time,” says Peter. Rachel says she can’t trust this because all of her past relationships have ended when the guy couldn’t full commit. I think this is a bit different, though — I know the point of the show is to go on it and propose, but if you don’t truly think that’ll happen, the way Peter didn’t, I can’t fault you for balking when you realize how real it gets at the end. I mostly say this because I can see myself totally freaking out if I went on the show as a joke and then accidentally made it to the point where there was a good chance I’d win the whole thing.

On the other hand, if Peter really does want to keep Rachel, he should’ve figured out that an engagement is what it would take. They could sort out the details later and just pretend they’re dating for a few years, except she’s wearing a ring. Because that’s how the show works, and Rachel has proved that she follows the rules of the show.

THEN PETER STARTS BEING A MANIPULATIVE DICK

My sympathy flies out the window when Peter tells Rachel that if she can’t accept that he can’t propose, she can “go find someone to have a mediocre life with.” This may be true, given that her other option is Bryan, who has an embarrassing Instagram account and mommy issues. But still — that’s a mean thing to say, and Rachel is sobbing, and Peter is making this seem like her fault. It’s not. She has the weight of a narrative arc on her back. It’s everyone’s fault. It’s America’s fault. It’s the producer’s fault. It’s my damn fault.

Things escalate. They’re both sobbing. Rachel leaves and Peter goes, “What is wrong with me?” She walks down the street in Spain in the pouring rain and I’m pretty sure this is it for Peter.

"What is wrong with me." ⛈#TheBacheloretteFinale http://pic.twitter.com/4CP4ktqR4g

— The Bachelorette (@BacheloretteABC) August 8, 2017

NOOOOOOOOOO does this mean Dr. Bryan With-a-Y wins the show!?

Oh my god.

No.

This can’t be happening.

Bryan can’t win.

Peter’s not great but, oh my god, Bryan can’t win.

Back on the live stage, Chris “Tailored Within an Inch of His Life” Harrison is like, welp, you guys had a weird breakup, huh? And Rachel, who looks shell-shocked, is like.... yeah.

The cameras cut to Peter, who’s sitting backstage crying, and NOW THEY’RE BRINGING HIM OUT, OH MY GOD, I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY'RE ABOUT TO MAKE RACHEL AND PETER TALK TO EACH OTHER ON LIVE TELEVISION FOR THE FIRST TIME AFTER THAT BREAKUP, THIS IS A NEW LEVEL OF CRUEL.

Is there a chance there’s a huge plot twist and Rachel ends up choosing Peter after all? I’m stress eating so much granola, which is very stale, because I’ve been on vacation for two weeks and haven’t had a chance to buy food yet.

PETER AND RACHEL TALK TO EACH OTHER FOR THE FIRST TIME ON LIVE TELEVISION AND I WANT TO DIE

“It was incredibly difficult,” says Peter, when Chris “Let’s Use ‘I’ Statements” Harrison asks him what it was like to watch that. “I knew this was going to be a hard experience. To go from the way that we parted to complete silence was hard. It brought me all back into it, full go. I’m shaking like a leaf right now. I’m terrified.”

Peter apologizes for saying he hopes Rachel has a mediocre life. Rachel says, “I’m living my best life,” but she looks miserable. The color has drained from Peter’s face, and I’m reminded of this tweet:

i feel bad for our country. But this is tremendous content.

— Darren Rovell (@darrenrovell) October 20, 2016

Rachel tells Peter she was frustrated with him, and it seems like they’re about to hop back on that pointless argument merry-go-round, but then Peter tells Rachel that he felt attacked when she told him just now that she was frustrated. I’m like, WTF dude? He keeps trying to turn the argument around on Rachel, who’s being very prickly, because of course she is, because this must be extremely painful for both of them.

Peter also says that he had to step over the false eyelashes that she cried off in his room for two days before he could leave Spain because the producers wouldn’t clean them up, and “he wasn’t about to.” I hope he means that he didn’t want to part with them, sentimentally, rather than just not bending down to pick something up.

Somehow, he's managed to turn "I'm not ready to marry someone I've known for two months" into an indefensible position.

— Jeff Weiner (@JeffWeinerOS) August 8, 2017

BLAH

We leave the live set and we’re back in Spain, where Rachel is getting ready to tell Bryan she wants him to propose to her to day after her devastating breakup with Peter. She’s like, “This feels a little soon off the heels of that break-up with Peter,” and I’m like YA THINK!?

Bryan proposes and spews some smarmy garbage. Rachel acts like she’s happy but there’s no real light in her eyes, and it seems more like she won a sports game than just made a huge life decision that she feels truly joyful about.

After seeing those super real feelings with Peter, this feels SO FAKE.

— Lindsay Gibbs (@linzsports) August 8, 2017

I can’t believe that Rachel has to pick Bryan just because Peter won’t agree to marry her immediately. She clearly wants Peter more than she wants Dr. Miami, but she also says this:

“It’s the damaged connections that have offered me the chance to always run away. When I met you it seemed too perfect. And I was trying to find cracks in what seemed like the perfect foundation. I really, really had to do some soul-searching, deeper than I ever have before to find the courage to challenge myself.”

I get that. But I refuse to believe that relationships exists on a binary scale where your options are someone you’re super into who’s unavailable vs. someone who’s fine, you guess, but dependable. I think that there are people out there who you will be crazy about, and who will be crazy about you in equal measure without being dicks.

Maybe that’s overly hopeful. But while there may only be two fish in this reality show pond, there are many fish in the big world sea. In other words: RACHEL THERE IS STILL TIME, YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS!

Which is why this show is so stupid — the woman ends up feeling cornered and like she must come away with a ring, even if none of the guys are truly a good option, because that’s how these things work. If she doesn’t, she won’t get to be on the cover of People Magazine and put up the sappy post-Bachelorette Instagram posts (which, as of Tuesday morning, Bryan has done, but Rachel still hasn’t). This might be entertainment, and they might “know what they’re getting into,” but it’s also people’s real lives, and that will always feel strange to me.

On cloud 9 ☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️ #NY #CT #DAL #MIA #✌

A post shared by Dr. Bryan Abasolo (@thebryanabasolo) on Aug 7, 2017 at 10:45pm PDT

The comments on this are pretty good:

Rachel has said “journey” enough times this season to prove that she totally drank the Bachelorette Kool Aid (her Instagram bio even says “Kool Aid in a wine glass”), so I guess we lost her to the madness a while ago. It’s like watching someone get brainwashed.

Also you can tell he's not in the culture of #TheBachelorette as deep as she is. She calls it a journey and he calls it a process.

— Jonquilyn Hill (@jonquilynhill) August 8, 2017

SOME QUESTIONS

What about her family who hated Bryan and what about Bryan’s mom who hates any woman who comes close to him?

Is Bryan’s mom hiding behind the couch with a knife held between her teeth right now?

Ugh.

THE BOTTOM LINE

This made me sad. I had such high hopes for Rachel’s season; I was thrilled they’d finally cast a black lead, and I loved Rachel’s sense of humor and her charisma. But the producers went for cheap drama using racism, and she ended up getting sucked into the vortex of the mind-meld of the show, believing that this is real because you don’t have a phone, you don’t have a job, and you don’t have a life other than figuring out who to marry.

Rachel — an intelligent lawyer — chose Bryan by process of elimination. He’s smarmy and doesn’t seem particularly smart or funny. This feels like our heroine lost the game. Like our team blew a 25-point lead in the Super Bowl. I hope that if she wakes up one day and is like, “Oh, god, what have I done?” she leaves him.

It’s even sadder when you look at Peter’s Instagrams over the past few months knowing he was posting these without being able to talk to Rachel, and she just had to see them, like some social media torture machine:

Au Revoir Genève!! It's time to head on back home ✈️ I'll let ya know when we're there Rach, don't worry;)

A post shared by Peter J Kraus (@peterkrauswi) on Jul 16, 2017 at 8:32am PDT

On the flip side, if I’m being cynical and terrible and Rachel and Bryan are truly happy: Mazel tov.

And good luck, Rachel, dealing with your mother-in-law.