#instead of once they’re in the rear view

[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter two

live to rise series

two: morning will come soon

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.2k

summary: As the Mandalorian makes himself a more permanent addition to the barracks, you get to know the elusive man a little more while grappling with the reality of the arena. [We get to know everyone a little better before things kick up a notch in chapter three :) ]

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, prisoner of war, slavery, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide & war, graphic descriptions of violence & injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, major character deaths, minor character deaths, angst, helmetless Din Djarin, themes of grief and loss, slow burn

Please heed the warnings.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

He doesn’t notice until his forty-eighth fight, but there are children in the stands. It’s not their mere presence that simmers his bile. 

It’s the glee.

Violence is a wet nurse for Mandalorian children. They witness the raw essence of life turned to food and know the gush of a foe’s blood early in life. But they respect it. 

They respect the fight and honor the lives they take. They weigh each kill and hang it from their ribs. They know what it means to be capable of exposing a being’s innards to the sun, what it means to hold a creature as blood froths in its lungs. 

These children are reared to crave it. They’ll never feel the touch of violence, he thinks, but they’re fed by it. They play with these lives like it's a game.

The distraction costs Din a chunk of flesh but gains him a rotted tooth on the edge of the gash. 

You’re in the barracks when they bring him back that afternoon. You go still and quiet, ducking into the shadows, but, as usual, they don’t bother to check the cells. He saw you, though. You’re inside C-6, and he has a clear view through his window into the cell opposite. 

Once the guards leave, you pick back up mid-sentence into what must have been an already brewing rant.

“—pride. So stupid. The only—punished when you resist—is you.”

The humanoid grumbles something Din can’t quite hear. 

“Yeah, well, —bacta, and I don’t, so—” you retort.

When you slip out of the cell, the automatic lock snaps shut with a resounding clunk. Your hands are wound up in the underbelly of your skirts and come back out dry, at least, if not spotless. 

Not that Din notices right away. His mouth had gone fuzzy when you hiked up the layers to reveal the length of your calf. He shoves the feeling away and watches as you check carefully around the corners before slipping into the chamber between the barracks and the rest of the facilities. 

He shakes it from his fingertips. It’s the post-fight adrenaline, he knows. Mandalorians are no strangers to fucking out their feelings as the world burns around them. He cannot—will not—entertain these thoughts of you, lest he become more of the monster they make him out to be.

And every part of him is too rough for the likes of you. He won’t be responsible for marring you with his too-tight grip and desperate cock. He wouldn’t press his pain into your cunt and learn to breathe again through your cries and moans. 

He wanted to preserve you somehow, press you like a flower between the pages of a book. Even his protection would see you crushed by his selfish desire. 

So instead, he funnels the feeling into righteous anger and determination, pushing himself in his exercises until his muscles ache and scream for oxygen. He slumps against the wall, not bothering to go to the cot, and dreams fitfully of his son.

He had made the call in his own chambers. The ship had left two hours ago, tracking along the path with no issues—yet.

“Who is this? How did you get this line?” snaps a voice he does not recognize. 

“He’ll know. Tell him we’re going forward with operation esk, and the package is on-route.” 

“Message received,” cuts in the voice he was waiting for. “May the Force be with you.”

“May the stars light your way,” Din returns, and cuts the line. 

Grogu’s fast asleep when Din tucked him into the pod. He slipped the stuffed blurrg under one of the baby’s arms. It’s to be a short journey, but there’s a canteen and a tin of snacks.

The rest of his son’s belongings are carefully packed in the small cargo hold of the StarSpeeder 1000 they’d managed to salvage, complete with an RX pilot. Din didn’t favor leaving the child’s fate to a droid, but it had been thoroughly reprogrammed to override its tourist-geared protocol. 

All in all, it’s an innocuous ship with a registered pilot and route. The chain code would suffice under basic examination, and the manifest is set with a handful of false identities. 

He may not understand the Force, but he has to draw faith that it will ferry his son safely into the waiting hands of Skywalker at some destination unknown.

Skywalker had sent the coordinates directly to the droid so they couldn’t be tortured from Din. 

A wise decision, Din thinks wryly, but they haven’t interrogated him yet. 

It makes sour hope bloom—perhaps they think there’s nothing to be gained. In the darker moments, he worries they know there’s nothing to be gained. 

As it was, each of the four of them only knew part of the plan. Din had the main strategy. Vizsla, the backup. Kryze, the route. And Fett—the rendevouz. For a man who claimed no ties to the Mandalorians, he was risking everything. 

Even the loneliest striil is loyal to someone, he supposes. 

He loses count after 60 fights or so. That’s about when he stops hating the idleness of his off days and starts longing for more rest. 

It’s not just the physicality. He does seem to be perpetually bruised and bleeding, but that’s not so much different than his bounty-hunting days. He’s loathe to admit that he’s perhaps beginning to feel the effects of aging. To grow old is an honor for Mandalorians. It means you’ve emerged victorious from your battles. He doesn’t feel he can wear that pride, though.

But no, his weariness is from the killing. He tried to see his opponents as quarry, but it was too hard to maintain. Not when he’d see their sallow faces and sunken eyes. Beings with broken tusks and battered limbs. Rebel starbirds. Shock trooper stripes. Prison numbers and slave brands. 

Yesterday’s fight had him facing a Miraluka who couldn’t have been much past her girlhood. And she wanted to live; oh, she wanted it so badly he could taste it. 

She didn’t know a thing about fighting. Worse yet, their weapons for the day were flails, something even he hadn’t much experience with. He could wield it, but instead, he let it fall to the sands. 

What a terrible way to die.

He saw it before it happened. Telegraphed in the arc of the chain, his brain completing the motion before it became real. She swung her arm out hard, trying to strike him in the chest, but he pushed back on his heel and easily dodged. Without something to crush, the momentum carried.

She grappled at the chain, trying to stop it. If only she had dropped it and moved, Din thought. If only, if only. 

Instead, it wedged itself in her back, spikes between her ribs. She gasped, wavering for a moment in shock, and dropped to her knees. The crowd moaned a collective “ooh” at the turn of luck.

He knelt in front of her, grasping her shoulders. 

“Just finish it,” she said, the trace of a whimper on the end. 

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Biala.”

“Biala, is there a prayer I can make for you? Any rites for your journey?”

She shook her head and coughed. Blood dribbled, and they both knew.

“I’m so sorry, Biala,” he murmured, cradling her head in his hands. 

And then it was over. He laid her body down as the bell rang and rose to his feet. Stomps and cheers from the stands fell muffled around his shoulders, and he sneered into the crowd. 

It only made them chant louder. 

He’s brought back to the reality of today at your entrance, voices buzzing as trays clattered back and forth.

“Come here, girl,” calls a voice from across the way. Din watches as you pause, his own tray of food waiting in your hands.

The gruff old Devaronian in C-4 is reaching his large hand between the bars of the window. 

“One sec,” you tell him, making your way to Din. You go to knock before you spy his shadow between the bars and avert your eyes. 

“Good evening,” you say, sliding the tray through the slot against the floor. “Need anything?”

It’s the same old song and dance. “No, thank you,” he says. 

“Okay, have a good night,” you tell the door politely. 

He doesn’t grab the tray right away. He watches instead as you go back across the hall. 

“Whatcha need, old man?” you tease. Vrar is your favorite, mostly because he’s been around for nearly a year, and you’ve had a chance to know him.

But something about his expression gives you pause. 

Din feels suddenly intrusive as you step closer and let the warrior touch your cheek, his palm much larger than your face. 

He can’t hear what’s said, but something terribly sad comes across you as you close your eyes and shake your head. 

“No, you can’t just give up,” you say, loud enough that Din can hear. 

His heart sinks. He had wondered how many were lost to hopelessness. 

“I’m not giving up,” Vrar tells you. “I’m an old man. I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired.”

“No,” you say, a harsh but quiet protest. You want to yell, but the guards will make you leave if they hear you. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes. 

“You can’t change my mind. I just wanted you to know before it happens. To know that I made this choice, that I will be at peace. You’ve been the one spot of kindness in this life.”  

Your voice is softer, breaking, crescendoing at the end as it pitches alongside your urgency,“—how much more you need; I’ll trade another year, please.”

“Absolutely not,” Vrar says. “When your time is up, get out and never look back. Look at me.” He waits for your focus. “You can’t save us.”

You break down into tears. Din feels something sharp pricking at his eyes, too. He shuts them and sits down on his cot, food forgotten. 

He doesn’t need to look to know you stay at Vrar’s door until the guards make you leave for the night. You sit against it, skirts splayed out around you like the rising sun, and talk to him, listen to his stories, even the ones you’ve heard over and over before. Especially those, as you try to commit them to your memory, to carry him with you. 

When you bring Din his breakfast in the morning, your eyes are bloodshot, and lips cracked from biting back your grief. For the first time, you don’t say anything. You rap your knuckles and slide the tray under. 

You stay until they come for him. You wait and stand with your hands wrapped around the bars of his window. When they take him to prepare for the arena, you watch down the hall until he’s gone. As he passes Din’s cell, he looks straight in. 

Neither man says a word, but their eyes meet, and Din nods. Vrar returns the gesture, satisfied. 

When Din looks back, you’re gone.

When you return two hours later, as his own turn in the arena nears, he doesn’t have to see your face to know. 

You’re not crying. But you move so quietly, held so tense, as you open the cell and scrub it clean, fitting it with new bedding. It’s the same routine as a deep cycle, but there was just one yesterday, and your sadness, though smothered, is palpable. 

They take him up before you’re done. Din lives to fight another day. He scrubs clean of his opponent’s blood in the cold fresher and tugs on the stiff, starched clothes left behind for him. When they take him back to his room, it’s been cleaned, but you’re gone, and there’s a new prisoner in C-4.  

You’re quiet again when you bring dinner, and though you do speak this time, it’s void of your usual softness. 

“Need anything?” you say, muted tone bristling his spine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, in lieu of an answer. 

You look up at the window out of reflex before quickly looking away. He’s not close enough for you to see, anyway. “What?” you say. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “for your loss.”

Your eyes close tight, and you cover your mouth for a moment. “I—thank you,” you whisper. Your voice cracks a little, and he feels terrible, like he shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have upset you. 

But you hesitate there, outside his door. You swallow hard against the ache. “Thank you,” you repeat, but it’s stronger, now, and laced with the heaviness of recognizing oneself in another. 

Which is why, when you pass by the newcomer’s door, and he tells you to smile pretty for him, Din snarls, “Shut your fucking mouth.” 

You freeze and look back at his dark door. The man is saying something idiotic, but Din can’t hear it from the pulse throbbing in his ears and his single-minded focus on you. 

You shake your head minutely, and he accepts the request to stand down. Before you turn and leave the barracks, you give his door a small, sorrowful smile. 

He worries a little about the newcomer. You shouldn’t have to be harassed and accosted like this. 

When you had brought breakfast, the man had tried to reach through the bars to grab your face. You had recoiled and dodged his grimy hands but otherwise ignored it. 

It turns out he doesn’t need to worry. The next day, the guards take both him and the creep up to the arena. 

When Din returns, your relief is unmistakable. 

You never ask about the fights, so he doesn’t have to lie to you. He doesn’t have to tell you the truth, either; doesn’t have to tell you how it’s the first one he’s dragged out on purpose. How he broke the man’s hands in his own for daring to try to touch you. How he broke his jaw for talking to you like that. 

It’s unlike him, and he hopes he can shrug it off, that the endless killing of beings he knows are fellow prisoners builds a layer of beskar in his bones each day. But Vrar was right. 

You’re a spot of light here, like the yellow blossoms that push up between duracrete. He’s not sure how you’ve kept it up this long, not after seeing how deeply you’re cut when “your” fighters die. But he’s going to do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t lose that. Including keeping lowlife scum away where they can’t contaminate the barrack.

He dreams that night of taking you with him when he leaves and isn’t sure what to do with the thought in the morning. 

You paint him, too. Nicolai. The one who made your skin crawl. Even the portrait comes out predatory, and you wish you wouldn’t have to look at it every time until the page is full. 

It’s not the first time a resident has made you feel unsafe. Won’t be the last, either, you reckon. Unlike those of you who are serving criminal sentences, the fighters are all prisoners of war. But just because they were an enemy of the Empire does not make them a friend.

Most of them are good. Not all even raised a weapon against the Imperials. Some were support—medics, pilots, suppliers. Some were strangers who stood up to protect a Stormtrooper’s victim in the town square. Some were no one, who had the unfortunate luck of being related to or seen with a known insurgent. 

But some, well. Some were grifters playing both sides. Some were mercenaries, assassins, slavers. Some, like Nicolai, were druglords who couldn’t be bought—too busy running their own empires to respect the government. 

It’s funny, in that way that makes your stomach bile bite and claw at your throat. Everyone thought you needed to be afraid of the fighters. You have to shut and stow the book, not wanting to smudge Vrar’s portrait any further by thinking of him.

He never liked you being in the servant’s barracks. And for some reason, he never liked your bunkmate. Didn’t like Eli, who had never been anything but kind. Who was maybe your only friend. 

“Just something off about him,” Vrar had said. “But you shouldn’t trust anyone.” 

You had shaken your head. “I’m one of them,” you insisted. 

“Oh, how could I have forgotten,” he deadpanned, “you and your criminal record of… what was it again? Stealing from your own farm to feed hungry children? Being too polite to a trooper?”

“Shut up,” you groaned. “Evading tariffs is considered very serious, I’ll have you know.” 

When he was done teasing you, he had sobered right up. “I still don’t like it. Do you even know how to throw a punch?”

“No, but I’m sure they wouldn’t trust someone dangerous as a caretaker.”

He hadn’t been so sure, but it’s not like they let just anyone work down here. You had done a stint upstairs for a while, like everyone else, serving drinks in the sponsor’s lounge. 

After all, caretaker neglect could (and did) prematurely kill their stock. And it granted access to much more of the complex than most other roles. 

When you deliver dinner, the Mandalorian speaks to you again. You try to take it in stride. 

“If there’s another like him,” he says, voice like the creak of trees at night, “are you safe? Can you defend yourself?” 

It’s not what you expected. You purse your lips, frowning as you weigh your answers. “Harming a caretaker is prohibited,” you say after a moment.

“That’s not what I asked.” It’s firm and compelling in a way you can’t explain. Maybe it's the regality that he can’t contain, a tone leftover from negotiating and persuading or whatever kings do. 

“I don’t have to worry about being hurt by a fighter,” you say. 

He hums, accepting your answer.

You wonder if he heard the unspoken words you swallowed back. 

You eat with them again at Disdraa’s request, though it’s a quieter affair without Vrar’s booming voice. You find you don’t have it in you to joke around. 

She takes mercy on you, setting aside her meal to regale the hall with a story from her childhood on Ryloth. It’s not a happy story, exactly, but it ends with hope. 

You feel warm for the first time since Vrar’s death. “Thank you,” you murmur through her bars when you stand. 

She makes a show of rolling her eyes. “For what? I just like to hear myself talk, little bird.”

You make a show of returning the gesture, including the solemn smile she gave. 

It wasn’t the story, really. It was the way it reminded you of home. When you would visit the families of the dead and dying. When they would share themselves while sharing their love, how they would leap to comfort despite their own grief. 

Even for you, a stranger until that moment, someone they could easily hate for only arriving while someone was leaving. 

But that was not the way of things for your people. They allowed you, for however small a time, to be the vessel for their loved one, to gather and hold the memories until you could spill them on your canvas. To stand between their spirit and the void of the forgotten. 

To love and be loved, even fleetingly. 

Did you wish that just once, that love would stay? That you wouldn’t love knowing it was to be lost? In the dark of night, though you’d never admit it, you ached for it. 

next chapter

*title from "Prayer of the Refugee" by Rise Against

[humming-pokemon-helpers]

Okay, I promised gay Pokémon, I will deliver (so I can distract myself from thinking about anything else relating to this day!!)

🏳️‍🌈💝Let’s Talk About Gay Pokémon Courtship!💝🏳️‍🌈

Firstly, a note: this post is mostly about Pokémon that form long-term partnerships (exclusive or not). That doesn’t mean there isn’t any gay romance going on in non-pair-bonding species, just that it’s more of a short-term fling! (Did you know Yanma have been recorded to be gay? Now you do.)

With that being said… I want to look at a few specific examples for today! Birds are by far some of the most dedicated, but I’ll focus in on a lesser known one today, Mandibuzz! I’ll also touch on a wonderful Zoroark pair I’ve gotten to know myself, and finally, as bears discussion in any talk of couples, Tandemaus! (I might add more if there’s demand, later.)

1. Mandibuzz

Mandibuzz, as many may be aware, are a primarily (I would say solely, but biology doesn’t like absolutes much) female species of buzzard Pokémon! Typically they produce their eggs by pairing with Braviary, but… that’s about where the “straightness” ends with many Mandibuzz.

See, Mandibuzz raise their young in nests made from bone. But what many neglect in this fact is that nests are not made for one singular Mandibuzz. Instead, Mandibuzz go through a long and arduous courtship process to choose fellow Mandibuzz to pair up with, consisting of bone collection and adornment (which the Pokédex, to my loathing, lists as “showing off for males” that don’t exist), specialized mating calls and courtship dances, and finally, the exchanging of bones.

Once these nests are formed, Mandibuzz nest together for life. They’ll hunt for carrion together, adorn each other with pieces of bone, and groom each other, in addition to diligently raising their young together. Newborn Rufflet and Vullaby view both Mandibuzz as their mothers, regardless of which clutch they’re from. Perhaps as the most bittersweet example, bonded Mandibuzz are willing to fight to the death to protect not just their shared clutches, but each other. Love those lesbians.

2. Zoroark

I know, I know, it’s a cop-out from me to throw in another Unovan Pokémon of my species, but if I didn’t add this all of my examples would be lesbian. Zorua, like many other gender-skewed species, typically have an abundance of males and not many females around. You might think this would lead to intense competition for mates. You would be very wrong. Firstly, because not many pairs are exclusive for life (some are, still). Secondly, because male Zoroark, on average (again, this tends to be similar for many male-skewed species!), are gay as hell. (My brother being exclusively straight is weird, and I blame human heteronormativity jokingly.) (ALSO, this may just apply to my pack for all I know.)

Anyhow. Zorua essentially form hunting partnerships in childhood. Hunting used to be an essential part of our lives before McDonphan’s showed up down the street to raid instead. …Okay, it still is. Now, these pairs are mostly formed between same-gender Zorua, and stick through the rest of one’s life. Female Zoroark who pair tend to raise their kits together (though kit raising is pretty communal already), and often have similar closeness to female Mandibuzz. Male Zoroark who are paired at a young age often focus exclusively on their partners! They serve as teachers to the younger Zorua in the pack, much-needed babysitters, and often adopters of the ‘weaker’ kits whose survival is uncertain. Outside of kit rearing, though, some paired Zoroark have formed their own solitary pairs far-flung from local packs, subsisting off their own paired hunts or taking on lives in the human world together!

3. Tandemaus

Tandemaus, as a species, are presumed genderless due to their never being separated. That being said, there are gender differences in the mäuse, with there being pants-wearers and shirt-wearers. What field researchers have found recently, though, is that up to 15% of couples consist of two pants-wearers or two shirt-wearers! (Sadly, could not get such a picture for today.)

There’s no observed behavioral difference between two-shirts and two-pants couples… and what’s more, they are just as likely to show up with one or two more mäuse suddenly. Genetic testing has found these newly-acquired mice are just as genetically equivalent to their “parents” as mixed-pair born Maushold… I wish I could begin to dig into that, but good for them! Good for them.

[trentlvrr]

“Have you ever been in love?” - Jude Bellingham

Infooo: oneshot that might become a series, fluff, angst, cursing and I’m not a writer fr so Ntm 🙁 fem reader or pov man idk

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I was waiting outside the club in a sleek black Mercedes. It belongs to my best friend Jude. Jude and I have been friends since birth and our bond is so strong that nothing can break us apart. I was scrolling through my phone til I hear a knock on the door. My eyes widened and I jumped a little at the sudden noise. I looked out the window and it was Jude with a goofy smile. I laughed and rolled the window down. “Open the door” he yell whispered. “Why are you whispering” I yell whispered back. “Because I can” he yell whispered back to me. I laughed. “You’re such a dumbass” I said as I unlocked the drivers door for him. He walked around the car and hopped in. “Thanks” he exclaimed, getting buckled up and putting the car in drive. “No problem” I replied, slapping my hand on his thigh jokingly. He chuckled at my action.

As we were driving all I could do was look at his face, he was beautiful. I’ve had a crush on Jude since elementary and now we’re in college. It’s crazy to think about really. “You like what you see?” Jude says. Which snaps me out of my thoughts. “Um what do you mean?” I ask trying to be oblivious. “You’re staring mad hard at me yk” he exclaims smirking. I roll my eyes. “It’s just because you have something on your face.” I say with a little pettiness in my tone. He checked himself in the rear view mirror. “No I do not” he says while shoving me playfully. I laugh.

Jude pulls into the drive way of his flat and puts his car in park. “Wait here” he says as he gets out and runs to my side of the car. He opens the door and bows slightly, grabbing my hand and leading me out the car. “You’re welcome m’lady” he says winking. I cringe. “You’re so fucking dumb Bellingham” I say as I laugh and let go of his hands. “Oh come on, I thought you’d like that” he said pouty. “Why would I like that?” I ask. “Because your always watching those princess movies and shit” he responds. “Boy bye” I say giggling and walking to the front door. He opens the door and lets me in first. “Ladies first” he says all smiley. “Shut up” I say as I roll my eyes.

Once I got in, I went straight to his fridge. I grabbed the tub of ice cream and sat on the couch. I was channel surfing til a certain channel caught my eye. Streaming was a love story between a regular boy and a princess. They’ve known eachother since forever and they’re both madly in love with eachother but never find out til one magical day. I was so intrigued that I didn’t notice Jude sitting beside me til he grabbed the tub of ice cream. “Hey!” I cry out. He just laughs as I cross my arms and huff.

After a while of watching the movie, jude and I were now cuddled up. My head resting on Jude’s chest. Hearing his heart beat feels so surreal even though we’ve done this like a million times. It feels great and I feel so secure every time. “Viola, I’ve been extremely in love with you since the day I met you.” The boy on the screen exclaimed. “I’ve been in love with you too Thomas” the princess on the screen replies. “Have you ever been in love Jude?” I blurt out immediately regretting it. He backs up to look at me wide eyed before going back to his neutral expression. “What do you mean?” He asks. “Have you ever been in love?” I ask, now sitting up instead of laying on Jude. Jude sits up too and nervously laughs. “Where did this come from?” He asks. “I just wanna know” I say nervously. He chuckles. “Well you know I have no time for love bc I’m balancing football and college-“ I cut him off. “Jude that’s not what I’m asking” I say looking into his deep brown eyes. He sighs. “I mean I guess, I have been” he says. “Have you?” He asks. “Uhm yea something like that” I say. He hums and pulls me back so we can finish the movie.

‘I wish I could just tell him how I feel’ I think to myself. After a while the movie ends and me and Jude are now sitting at his kitchen island. “So uh y/n, who were you in love with?” Jude asks. The question was so sudden that it had me stunned but I answered. “Just this guy from elementary.” I reply. He hums. “What about you?” I ask. “This girl that I’ve known for a while.” He says, not breaking eye contact with me. I start to get nervous. “Oh what’s she like?” I ask. He doesn’t respond. “Come on Jude, we’ve known each other for years, you can tell me.” I say smiling. “Well” he hesitates. “It’s you.”

BEEP BEEP BEEP

“What the hell” I yell while being woken up by my alarm. “Wait all of that was a dream.” I say to myself. “Fuck!” I yell. I groan as I get out of bed. I start getting ready for the day when I hear a knock at my door. I walk to the door and open it. It’s Jude. “Oh hey Jude” I said nervously. “Hey” he says brightly. “You free today?” He asks nervously while showing me two tickets to a movie I really wanted to go watch. “Yes!” I exclaim as I run back to the bathroom. Jude laughs at my antics.

‘The dream might’ve not been real but this date is’ I think to myself as I’m giggling in the mirror. “Yo hurry up y/n” Jude yells through the door. “I’m hurrying!” I exclaim.

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That’s all guys 🤭

Thanks for reading!!

[sebrrari]

need to find a lover that's gonna last

sebastian vettel/mark webber, au, 4.1k, rated r

aka, the drag au that no one asked for and that i wasn't fully able to flesh out, so i'm posting the dash/not!fic to get it off my chest. happy martian monday to the squad!!

_________

it’s august 30th, 2013, and mark has just signed the last page of the legal paperwork to buy himself out of his future engagements with infiniti red bull racing, effective immediately. they’re going to call up daniel from toro rosso, and mark is going to take the first plane going his way so he can be home in time to start licking his damn wounds before the news hits the press. 

christian shakes his hand and tells him to call if he changes his mind. 

he won’t. he can’t. the last few years took just about everything from him, but not his integrity. he’d never come crawling back to the machine that spit him out on track and let his teammate run him over. 

his phone starts buzzing as he’s crossing the parking lot of the factory - call from sebastian v. 

mark scoffs and swallows a burning feeling, then pops the battery out of the back of the phone and shuts the car door. the driver pulls out of the lot smoothly, and mark doesn’t watch in the rear view mirror as the looming building disappears. 

and, somehow, life goes on. 

_________

freeing himself means no more lavish lifestyle - not that he got quite as extravagant as some of the others when he had the chance. he does the shopping at night, just before the grocery closes, and sends out for most everything else so he doesn’t have to stomach any knowing stares. it takes a few months of skulking around his house (paid for, in cash, with a reasonable savings fund for improvements) and drinking a few too many beers alone before he finally gets back to living. 

there are friends he makes, and people he cuts off. hobbies he tries, old habits he tries his best to quit. and, one spring day, one of his gym buddies invites mark to a brunch where he’ll be performing down in canberra, and mark’s therapist talks him into going - he can leave if he wants to, but he should stay for a fry up, just for his troubles, at least. it’s a hell of a trek, but it’s something to do.

his performing friend ends up being phenomenal - after mark stops looking for his crew cut and tank top, and realizes he’s - she’s - the one in a meter-high blonde wig and impeccable makeup. she lights up the room and takes each proffered dollar out of her patrons’ hands with a wink and a smile. 

mark leaves after his friend bows and exits the lit up, glittery stage, but it’s with a bit of something simmering in his chest. the drive home is a breeze instead of an exercise in teeth grinding and measured breathing. 

he’s straightening up the kitchen after dinner and realizes - he didn’t catch a single person glancing his way or snapping a covert picture of him to tell their mates they saw an all-time formula 1 failure during their meal.  

he calls his friend up the next day, and asks him - her? - to lunch, where he’s enlightened on the culture of drag, and drag brunch, and gender identity. he feels… lighter, and like the world has righted its axis after years of wobbly spinning.

he’s also been kindly informed that he’s been a member of a gay gym in a gay part of town for going on six months now. that gets a laugh out of him, a sound so foreign to his ears now, and he can’t stop once he starts. 

once he’s recovered and paid the tab for them both, he tells evan that he’ll see him at their usual time for an extra difficult weight circuit tomorrow night.

“i’ll bring my sport mode heels, then,” evan says, and mark groans, and is pretty sure that isn’t a thing.  

_________

months later, after a lot of soul searching, and therapy sessions guiding him on how to try new things, and many a craft night with evan and some other local girls, tara rocco makes her debut at a bar’s talent show on a dare. 

it’s been a wonderful exercise in determination (drawing eyebrows on yourself is something that doesn’t come easily), endurance (dancing in a corset with stilettos while remembering lyrics should be officially on the iron man course, he thinks) and competition (a talent show, with a $50 prize, to be tipped to the bar staff when he wins).

his muscles awaken after years of being forced ramrod straight. his entire being stretches back into existence. it's delightful. the applause helps, too. he gets a pretty good round for a 9pm wednesday crowd.

“are you sure you’ve never worn heels before? like, ever?” ray asks while they’re stripping the glue off mark’s natural eyebrows with some kind of industrial solvent that stings like hell. 

“not that i can remember,” mark says, his mouth dry from some stiff drinks and from the makeup remover he got on his tongue. 

“well, love, you should think about wearing them more, because you’re a bloody natural. your proportions are to die for, and you’ve got rhythm. you’d be booking more nights than half the queens in the state on those credentials alone.” 

_________

ray is mark’s first call when he decides to do another talent show, no peer pressure needed. then another, and another, until they decide mark needs a signature look if he’s going to start “getting those bookings you’re entitled to with the way your arms look next to a black leather number like that corset you’ve picked up, mark.” 

it’s like unleashing the marvel within himself, the one he used to know - it’s just shaped differently. there’s prep meetings (to go over the set list, tweak any tracks that lagging or to add a specific song for an event or holiday), press (a few pictures for the venue’s posters and social media, all retouched a bit much for his liking, but he’s choosing his battles), practice sessions (blocking the routine in his open-concept kitchen and living room, with ray laying down post-its to serve as the stage dimensions and evan and his partner acting as an audience for mark to play to), then show time. 

and he’s never known anything but a full fucking send.

the rush feeds him like it always did, even with the stakes so low. he can’t really deny that he loves looking like this - beautiful, sculpted, powerful, in charge.

it’s intoxicating without being consuming, fun and adrenaline-inducing without the sour taste of loss when the lights go down.

when he takes the drag off and wipes his face clean, he’s just mark again - mark who ran, once, but who stands tall now, with a little help from some friends.

and god, his ass looks good in fishnets. it truly does. 

_________

aussie drag culture is insular and so no one really gets a whiff, and he lives pretty comfortably off his bar appearances and an occasional tour spot in peak months.

once every couple years, a promoter calls him up and sounds business-minded and not like they've just found his wikipedia page and intend to add a new section titled Downfall and Public Outrage to it with their fucking scheme. those are the people for whom he hops into a dance studio and gets a routine in shape to trot around a few states, and hey. his heels are shorter and his splits aren't what they used to be, but he still manages to put on a show. 

he keeps in touch with barely a handful of people from his old life, but seb's retirement announcement sends shockwaves big enough that he'd have heard about it if he was six feet under. something like hunger pangs through his core, hollow and longing for the gentle fall into glory and grace he was never afforded. 

but he's happy for seb. he's made his peace with it just like he's made his peace with the fact that red lipstick will never really suit his skin tone and he has to cheat towards purples. there are facts of life, after all.

one of the facts is that what goes around will always come around. at barely 8 am, knocking incessantly and ringing the doorbell for good (ungodly) measure.

he checks the front door camera feed, and thinks he's finally cracked.

but no, seb's really on mark's fucking doorstep, with the same smile on the same face but through layers and layers of time and a lot more facial hair. 

mark's not sure what he must look like - loose gym shorts that hit mid-thigh, smoothly waxed legs, a rumpled and mustard stained shirt from MARY'S POPPIN EST. 2016 ADELAIDE'S FINEST DEBAUCHERY. seb doesn't seem to notice - or care - in the least. he just asks to use the toilet. 

it's the first time mark's heard his voice in person since - since. mark's stomach roils and he can only nod and choke out the directions - down the hall, second door. seb thanks him and makes his way. 

mark goes back to making the coffee, dazedly pulls down a second mug from the cabinet and fishes the sugar out from the bottom shelf of the pantry. seb always took his sweet on early mornings at the track.

mark is just finishing up, kitchen towel in hand to dry a spoon for seb to stir with, when the soft squeak of seb's trainers on the tile snaps him to attention. the pot of coffee is full now - mark realizes just how long he's been waiting for seb to come back in.

he did say the right door, didn't he? he said the second door down the hall. he did. he did.

much like a cat, though, curiosity was always seb's weapon of choice.

"this must look absolutely delicious on you, mark," seb says, and it's a purr of victory to mark's ear, a predator’s grin before its jaw snaps shut around naive prey.

he doesn't want to turn around. he doesn't want to see the corset in seb's delicate grasp - the one that needs a little TLC after last weekend, an eyelet hanging loose off the leather from rough treatment during his finale. he doesn't want to see the laces hanging off the constructed garment, lifeless and boxy without something to wrap around. 

the spoon clatters in the sink. he realizes he’s holding his breath. 

how in the fuck is he going to explain to sebastian vettel that he couldn't fucking stand playing second fiddle and begging for scraps anymore, so he blew his bank accounts to smithereens, fucked off back home humbled and rough, and now he does drag twice a week and tours during peak season.

how is he going to explain to a four-time world champion of motorsport, someone who eclipsed his life to the point that he ran, that he even likes it. 

seb’s made himself his coffee like this is a hotel breakfast bar and not mark's life being turned upside down and shaken by the ankles. 

"i always knew," is one of the first things seb says after he's apologized and laid the corset gently over a kitchen chair. 

mark nearly chokes. "knew?"

"that you were, you know. i mean, it takes one to know the other? is that how you say it?"

"knew?"

"i'm - me too, mark. i'm gay. queer, if we're putting a finer point on it. not that crossdressing is-” 

seb sucks on the spoon, then lays it on a napkin and sighs. 

“oh, hell. mick gave me such a good talk about this, and i am putting my foot in my mouth. i really do mean to be better about this. i have so much reading to do, now that i have more time, i must sound so foolish. forgive me."

"you're gay."

"yes. and i thought-"

"you thought.” 

"i thought a lot of things, but then you were gone. i have no idea what you have even been up to. and now that i am here, i feel as though maybe that was on purpose.” seb takes another sip and swallows carefully. “i did not mean to just barge back in and-"

“but you did.” that's exactly what seb did - barge. mark can feel angry heat coil itself around his spine and get his pulse going. 

it gets tense at the breakfast table while they continue their stilted conversation, but mark susses out that seb thinks the corset is some fetish thing - he still doesn't know know.

small, twisted mercies.

seb leaves eventually, around lunch time. the hollow feeling is still floating heavy in mark's gut, but it's not as painful as he thought it'd be to accept the hug seb pulls him in for, to say sure when seb says they should meet up one more time before seb goes back to europe. he says he's in queensland for a month, some eco-vacation-caravan-docu-whatever that he hopes to invest in has him here to pitch him and let him get his hands a little dirty in the bush.

he trusts seb to not like, tell the fucking papers or whatever someone might do with this information (nando comes to mind, since mark is feeling especially bitey). but it’s not like it’s a secret, either. he’s just been lucky until now - lucky that he fell so far, so fast, that the bright lights and nosy pundits of f1 don’t stoop to his level.

it’s been a week and no one comes calling. no one emails him asking for a fishy interview. the publicist he still pays - a joke of a retainer, if he’s honest, bless her - doesn’t text him. 

he does his usual show at his usual regionally-famous bar, and gets his usual amount of not-as-much-as-you-might-think in tips.

he gets the mended corset back from his seamstress and hangs it up carefully in the closet next to the others, buttery black leather all lined up in a row.

there’s one pushed a little farther back than those in regular rotation, still shiny and hardly worn. it had seemed a little on the nose when he tried it on after buying it online one night, a few glasses of chardonnay too deep in his favorite leather website. 

it’s red for the bulls he couldn’t wrangle, for the misdeeds that put him out on his ass. 

he fishes it off the rack and caresses it, sets the laces right, then carefully tightens it around his waist and turns to the mirror.

and he knows, as he poses for himself, checks his silhouette, skims his eyes across the shoes laid in pairs on the floor against the wall, exactly what his opening number will be next week to kick off his summer tour.

what he doesn’t know is who is going to be sitting three rows back and dead center when the lights go down, the curtains part, and mark makes his hips swivel and sway to the opening synth hits of "little red corvette."

_________

seb is waiting at the stage door exit when mark comes through it, and mark tries to guess how long he must’ve been waiting here. he'd spotted seb in the audience during the third number of the evening, and like a true bred professional, he kept going. he didn’t run. he kept going. 

now, though, with the adrenaline worn off and his quads killing him, he just wants answers. 

“you-” mark stutters. “how did you know?” 

seb licks his lips and smiles playfully. it’s only because mark had known him for so long that he doesn’t mistake it for venomous. 

“well,” seb says, dragging the word out, “they do advertise your shows, don’t they? i saw it in the paper.”

“bullshit,” mark scoffs. “you wouldn’t buy a paper, it’s wasteful. why are you here, seb?”

seb kicks himself off the brick wall of the theater and steps towards mark - mark steps back just as nonchalantly, a dance in keeping his distance that he could do with his eyes closed - but seb doesn’t back down. he shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. 

“i wanted to see you.” 

“you could’ve called.” 

seb does scoff, then, the first hint of frustration mark’s seen out of him since old team meetings and press conferences. it hits a nerve, but it’s a dull pain that makes itself known then retreats. 

“would you have answered?” 

mark casts his eyes downward, caught in the truth. 

“i really enjoyed tonight, mark. you’re a true performer. i want to hear all about how you come up with these shows. can we go somewhere and talk?” seb asks, still pressing at the opening he sees. 

mark can’t suss out if seb really wants to know all that, if he’s really telling the truth. but he remembers how the world didn’t come crashing down after he let seb in the last time. he breathes - in for three, hold for three, out for three. 

“okay,” mark says, clears his throat. “alright. my feet are fucking killing me, though. let’s just go back to the hotel.” 

_________

they talk, sure. there was definitely talking - seb’s always had a way with words that unravels mark to a point no one else can. seb casts a lifeline with his earnestness and reels mark in with his humility and wit, and it’s like all the anger he thought he still had isn’t where he thought he left it. there are other, smaller jagged edges that need examining, but the big wound has closed up while he was assuming it still festered.

there were other things that led them to the position they’re in now, though- mark on top of seb’s bare body in a chain hotel’s queen bed, the mattress squeaking as they get comfortable.

he’s moving on instinct, all groans and animal desires. it’s been so, so long since someone’s gotten under his skin enough to bring him to this point - or maybe someone never left their spot there, buried just like he thought all his racing past was. 

he doesn’t want to think about that anymore, or to talk, though. he just wants. 

“i-” mark inhales deeply, gets the smell of seb’s lavender and pine soap, then something muskier underneath. he holds his breath, devours the scent like he’s starved for it. 

mark wants him. he wants seb so badly he’s on fire with it after denying himself for so long. 

“say it again,” seb gasps, and mark bites down on seb’s neck just enough to pinch, then kisses the spot wetly and makes his way down seb’s chest. 

“i want you, seb,” mark groans hoarsely, like he’s worked a sore muscle into relaxing. it’s an intoxicating hit of relief. he sags towards seb’s body, ruts his cock against him over and over again until he glides smooth with sweat and precome. 

“mark, you can-“ mark noses back up to seb’s throat and kisses his adam’s apple open-mouthed, rubs his lips against the stubble there until they’re red and tingling.  

“you should,” seb corrects, his voice thin but sure.  “you should fuck me. before this is over too soon, no?”

the haze in mark’s mind retreats a little. he blinks and gives a parting lick to seb’s pulse point, gets one more thrust of his hips against seb’s soft stomach before he lifts himself up, arms on either side of seb’s ribcage. 

he hasn’t fucked anyone in quite some time, and he hadn’t let himself really think- 

he needs to get out of the habit of thinking, it seems, when it comes to seb. because with him, he can just be. he can just trust, if what his gut is telling him remains true. 

he can just want. 

and he can have. 

he doesn’t ask seb if he’s sure - he’s smarter than that, at least. he knows now that seb goes after what he truly wants, only offers what he’s already been ready to give. 

he just cups seb’s face with a shaking hand and kisses him slowly, fire on his tongue and an ache in his chest, let’s the spark of anticipation charge up til it’s consuming him whole. 

“can i go slow?” mark asks against seb’s lips. “it’s been so long since… since.”

“we have all the time we need, mark.” seb bites his lip for a moment, then whines and smiles up at mark with the mischief that makes mark’s good sense go out the door. “but let’s get started, shall we?” 

_________ 

in the time between summer club season closing and next spring, there’s a whole book’s worth of development. there’s a journey of shame to acceptance for mark because he almost got away with seb thinking this was a fetish, and that fetishes are normal and okay and can be locked behind a door - when you actually remember to bloody lock it - but to mark it's so much worse. 

because it’s not a fetish - it’s his livelihood, and how does he even look millionaire activist and beloved hero sebastian vettel in the eye once he knows mark dances in a tight corset and a barely there skirt for money?

he does, though. he does. 

he can hold his own in 4-inch pumps against even the youngest queens because he lost a lot of things, but never his competitive drive or the muscle tone in his calves. and he didn’t think that could matter to a man like seb, who’s off to see the world and save it bit by bit with a dazzling, crinkly smile and a soft touch of kindness for everyone he meets.

but seb is there, telling him it does matter, simply because it’s mark. that it’s mark that seb’s here for, and the rest they’ll figure out. 

and they will, because they’re not ones to quit. not for something that truly, truly matters to their hearts.  

it's also about love and self acceptance and queerness and kinkiness and how mark looks hot and dangerous and masculine and divinely feminine all at once. it’s about how seb can't believe he ever let mark run away without telling him that he is enough to love in every form, and how mark grows to believe him in time, in his own shape. 

_________

and there's another side to the story, one that's waited patiently and knew to bide its time to be heard.

this side thinks that, if things were different, maybe seb wouldn't be treated to the sight of mark bent over the same kitchen table he was ready to lunge over just a few months ago. and how maybe mark wouldn't trust seb to smear his lipstick and untie his laces, to gently pull his tights down and off.

this side is about how, if he hadn’t called in a favor from jenson to get mark’s address after years of restraining himself from searching, seb might not have the absolute privilege of dropping to his knees and worshiping mark until they’re both full to bursting with something seb’s not sure he’s ever felt - even as fireworks erupted over his car in abu dhabi what seems like a century ago, even as he took his final laps in the kind of machine he spent his life trying to tame. 

this is something new, something precious and strong that seb wants to make bloom in vivid color. he could spend the rest of his days learning the taste of whatever this is. 

seb signs on as a producer for the ecological reserve’s new sustainable tourism and documentary project. he cancels his flights and books his rented, sensible bungalow indefinitely. 

he’s hardly there. 

because he’s with mark and he can’t get enough, even when it’s tough. even when mark spooks, even when he tests seb’s patience like he’s always done - seb wouldn’t rather be anywhere else than where he’s meant to be, and that place cannot be anywhere but with mark, and he knows it. 

because when seb watches mark onstage, with his smoky eyes and his long, mesmerizing legs, his mouth waters. he longs in a way he didn’t think he’d ever be able to again.

and when he meets mark backstage after opening night of this newly revamped show - rev tara’s engine on tour! - with a bouquet of red, red roses in hand, mark’s right there with his makeup half off and sweats pulled over his fishnets, and it makes seb’s pulse jolt. 

he’s real. what they have is shaping up to be, too.

he just has to go get what he's after, and something about mark has always made him relish the chase. 

mark catches sight of him in the big mirror he’s seated in front of and his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline, but he softens into a grin. seb smiles back, bites his lip.

“these are for you,” he says, and offers the bouquet. mark stands immediately, takes the flowers and sniffs them indulgently before depositing them gently on the vanity among his tubes of lipstick and eyeshadow palettes. seb was ready to feel silly for bringing flowers to a drag show, but mark takes them for the gesture they are and treats them like something precious, something greater than the handful they exist as. 

he rises on his stocking feet and steps up til he’s toe to toe with seb. there’s a shadow of eyeliner still clinging to his waterline, accenting the spark in his eyes as it smolders and crackles something electric. 

“thank you, i love them, sebi,” mark says, his breath skimming seb’s lips, and seb can’t let himself miss.

he steadies himself by the dip in mark’s cinched waist, and kisses him to unleash everything he’s been holding, lets his heart flow right out of his chest and through his lips. 

mark covers seb’s hand with his bigger one, his palm soft and warm and trembling, and receives the love seb has been waiting to give. 

___________________________

thanks @kritischetheologie @mwebber and @vetterrari and the other people who i made read this awhile ago!!!! love u all for being so encouraging and unhinged with me - you make this fandom what it is xxxxxx

this thing's google doc is titled "spreading you open is the only way of knowing you," a fine line reference but also something i'm finding to be a little too astute. count yer days harry if i ever see you in person i have my therapists superbill in my purse with your name on it.

[daenerysoftarth]

imo alicent had a traumatic birth with helaena (in the show at least)

in episode 3, we see her holding aegon and playing with him, and she seems genuinely happy in all these scenes. she obviously loves her son, and he seems like a happy little boy. later in the same episode, on the way to the stag hunting trip, alicent says to rhaenyra that having kids “isn’t that hard” while referring to little aegon ii. this moment was obviously in part used to indicate the extreme class divide in feudalist societies, as the facial expressions of the two silent, nameless nannies betray that this is not an easy task.

(which is troubling in itself wrt her relationship with parenting, because it indicates that the servants are dealing with the primary child rearing tasks (esp the difficult ones) because the mother can not or perhaps doesn’t know how. after all, alicent was—what?—15 when she got pregnant with aegon. at most she would’ve been 16 years old when she gave birth to him, without a mother figure or any sisters, with only her emotionless pimp of a father as close family (she has brothers but presumably they’re in oldtown seeing as we never see them past episode 1) realistically she probably had no clue how to take care of a baby. it doesn’t seem like something noblewomen are educated on at all, or at least it’s not mentioned anywhere in the series)

however, iirc, the next time we see alicent interacting with her kids is in the scene where she is rocking baby helaena while she screams in misery, looking completely disassociated from the moment. the same in the scene after, except this time we also see a nanny waiting anxiously in the wings to help. the nanny seems to be restraining herself from jumping in to soothe helaena. maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I think alicent picked up on the servants’ underlying judgement and perhaps forced herself to be a more ‘involved’ parent who directly cares for her child instead of offloading it to servants.

certainly, she does not seem to be having fun with motherhood anymore (if you can say she ever was truly having fun). in pretty much every scene with baby helaena, she looks utterly miserable and despondent. perhaps the honeymoon period of her marriage and becoming queen was over, and now the true trauma and reality of her life as a child bride was settling in. perhaps helaena’s birth was particularly traumatic, or she simply was a colicky baby which caused an enormous strain. either way, alicent seems to struggle to connect with helaena specifically, who is coded as autistic imho. (side note: colic has been linked to autism in infants, and is thought to be a possible early symptom by some researchers.) the reality of caring for a disabled child plus recovering from a possible traumatic birth would certainly change your outlook on motherhood. no longer is being a parent fun or a part time gig, but rather her duty. this could be the time period when alicent started to become more severe in her beliefs on family and sacrifice, as she struggles under the strain of supporting her children

comparatively, I like to believe that aemond was a comparatively easy birth and weak baby. he was quiet and still and the maesters worried if he would last that first night. and ofc alicent would refuse to let go of him, refuse to give him to anyone else. she prayed to the seven gods to just give him one more day. sobbed and cried and prayed. and little by little, he does get stronger, he does improve. by the end of the month he’s a normal healthy baby if a little on the quiet side. I think this experience is probably what made her so devout to the Seven, as she credits them with saving her son’s life. and as a side effect of aemond getting healthy, she once again finds joy in parenting after a long and dark period of her life when she felt most alone.

after all, alicent discovered her pregnancy with aemond after rhaenyra lied to alicent in the godswood, which alicent viewed as an irreparable rupture of their relationship. in addition to this, she was on her own in King’s Landing and without her father for the first time in her life. she probably felt utterly adrift and alone and was verging on losing all hope when she gave birth. to tell you the truth, she had made her peace with dying during aemond’s birth, and she decided that perhaps living wasn’t worth much anyways. but then when that little baby came out, small as her hand and blue, she was gripped with a terror that wrenched the despair out of her. it’s only after he got healthy that she even noticed it was gone. she credits aemond with saving her life, and as a result he has always been her not-so-secret favorite

[hualianff]

Vampire/Witch

Vampire HC’s loyal servant, YY, alerts him of a new presence that has settled in an abandoned cottage in his territory - on limits of the nearby village - HC wants to scream. 

It occurs on the evening YY shows up to HC’s main office with a slightly burnt pie in his hands.

“What is that- oh god, why are you bringing it closer?” HC asks, sitting up in his desk chair. 

“Our new neighbor, a witch, just visited. Said it was for you,” YY answers blandly. He tries to hand it over to the older vampire, who jerks away in disgust.

While HC can consume human food, he gains nothing from it. No nutrition, no enjoyable flavors, no satisfaction of being full. Alas, HC gets his much-needed-blood through offerings from the villages in his territory. He also imports exquisite animals for meat and blood for indulgent times. 

HC glares at the atrocious baked thing YY holds in his clammy hands, hoping it combusts into flames. 

“Dispose of it immediately,” HC orders.

“But sir-”

“That witch is definitely up to no good. They never are,” HC seethes, rising from his chair to look out his office window. There’s just enough visibility that the small cottage comes into view. “A home-baked pie? Out of the pureness of one’s good heart? Ha! As if. They’re probably trying to poison me.” 

Instead of stomping over to the pitiful building he definitely did not recall selling off, the ancient vampire merely exhales an irritated grumble. He’s had enough of witches - and every other creature - to last numerous lifetimes. They can never mind their own business, inevitably becoming nuisances by asking for more favors from HC than he ever wants to deal with. 

Well then. It looks like HC has a new goal for the week: Do everything in his power to get this trespassing witch to LEAVE.

***

The first thing HC tries is intimidation.

He pops out of the shadows in his most terrifying form, claws extended and fangs bared.

Yet, the witch never shows any signs of fear. He greets HC with a small wave, then rushes into another room stating he has several potions he must keep an eye on while brewing. 

Unacceptable, HC sulks.

He hovers behind the witch, swaddled in his crimson robe, repeating, “Leave this area at once. You do not belong.”

The witch hums absent-mindedly, like he’s only paying half attention to HC’s words. 

“I won’t. I bought the property and everything,” he calmly says. He then goes on to explain every reason why he has the right to live in the cottage, including the official ownership transfer. 

HC flounders for a rebuttal. 

“But- you are on MY territory,” he growls. 

“According to the State Bureau of Ancient Estates, your ownership of this territory expired six years ago,” the witch cuts in.

HC rears back, crumbling on the inside. WHAT?

He quietly zooms to the other room to call YY up through their mental connection. 

“What is the meaning of this!?” HC exclaims after explaining his predicament. There’s a long moment of silence on YY’s end. 

Then-

“Oops.”

HC wants to scream bloody murder. Again.

(YY: [shrugs] “Hey, sometimes, the immortal life gets to u”)

HC enters the room again, this time sitting on the couch layered with fluffy blankets and patterned pillows.

“I take it you’re coming to terms with everything?” the witch asks. 

HC huffs. He refuses to answer. 

“Well, my name is Xie Lian - your new neighbor. It’s nice to meet you!” XL says. 

“I am leaving,” HC announces, standing up with crossed arms. 

“Works for me,” XL says. “Next time you visit, please knock on the front door instead of hiding in my basement.”

***

The next tactic HC tries is manipulating the weather to mess up XL’s crops. Meaning thunderstorms for days straight, and switching to the driest weather right after, just the poorest conditions for plants. 

In his bat form, HC spies on XL. He feels a spark of satisfaction as he watches the witch sigh in disappointment as his fields are all but flooded one day, then drying up the other. 

However, the satisfaction only lasts a few more days until a new person shows up on XL’s doorstep, donning jade-green robes and a straw hat. 

“The weather has been quite terrible this past week. I really had no choice but to call you,” XL speaks warmly. “Perhaps you could help address the cause of it?”

YSH narrows her eyes. 

“I might have an idea.”

That night, HC receives quite the scolding when YSH barges into his manor with a disapproving frown.

“I didn’t give you that climate stone just for you to abuse its powers!” YSH reprimands, exploding in a gentle way only she could achieve. “And to abuse it for such a petty matter. I thought you were better than this!”

HC hangs his head low. Though he is almost two heads taller than her, YSH still seems to look down at him in disappointment. 

“I’m sorry, you’re right, it won’t happen again,” HC mutters. 

After that, YSH officially gifts the climate stone to YY. When she leaves, HC side-eyes his servant with a glint in his eyes. 

“You little-”

“I cannot give it back to you even if I wanted to,” YY informs with a heavy sigh. 

HC’s right eye twitches. 

***

Determined not to give up just yet, HC’s third and final tactic includes spying on the witch and hoping to find some dirt that would allow him to threaten XL off his property. 

“Sir, don’t you own this land that extends all the way to the east?” YY asks right before HC leaves to carry out his devious plans.

“Yeah well, NOW I do, since you decided it was time to renew the ownership rights,” HC says bitterly. YY blinks twice like a goldfish. 

“That was my fault, I apologize. But my point was, is allowing a lone witch to occupy a small piece of your territory…so bad?” 

HC has never wanted to throttle his servant so much until this very moment. 

“It’s the principle of the matter! First, it’ll be a lone witch. Next, it’ll be a colony of witches, or goblins, or trolls- or worse - HUMANS,” HC rambles on.

“You used to be a-” YY starts, but then feels his throat constricting as he’s lifted up into the air by nothing but HC’s telekinetic tantrum. “Okeh- ok, s-sorry-”

Seconds later, YY’s body drops to the ground like a dead weight. 

“That's what I thought. Now, your next assignment is to find as much information on this witch as possible,” HC orders. “And I will conduct some recon this week to see how I can make him leave, once and for all.”

***

XL knows HC is spying on him. How could he not?

The witch is currently undressing to prepare for a wash in the river. First, he neatly folds his white robes into a flat square. Next, he places his jewelry with special charms on top. Even with the numerous runes etched upon XL’s back, arms, chest, and neck, his honey-golden skin still catches the sunlight beautifully.

XL is no ordinary witch. He has lived his own fair share of centuries. He has plenty of secrets too. For example, Ruoye, his sentient cape that has been with him through disaster after disaster. Ruoye who likes to chase after bat HC and playfully wrap around the bat like trap, much to the vampire’s dismay.

Or the fact that XL has been blacklisted by his own people. He has been driven out more times than he can keep track of. Yet, this is the one thing he’s got going for him in a long, long time. 

Besides, even if the vampire is intent on chasing him out, HC’s presence is somehow comforting. XL isn’t completely alone

XL currently washes his long hair, back turned to bat HC who helplessly thrashes in Ruoye’s hold. 

(HC: “GAH- lemme go I’m trying to spy, damn it!!”)

A sly smile forms on the witch’s lips.

***

w/ @no-one-says-hi

[sharontcte]

Heart is pretty broken these days so I thought of some Joel and Ellie headcanons to take my mind off things. Mostly that one scene in the car at the end of episode 9

On the drive after Joel rescued Ellie from the hospital, Joel was humming along to an old CD he found in the glove compartment.

Feeling dizzy from the anaesthetic she’s not ready to sit up just yet so she just lays there on the backseat hearing Joel hum.

At first she finds it funny and the little energy she has allows her mouth to twitch into a half smirk. She remembers him saying he wanted to be a singer.

At first, she has the instinct to crack a sarcastic comment, but instead she just listens. His humming is so comforting. It’s a new feeling for her, but she wonders if this is the same feeling a small child feels when they’re being sung to sleep. She read in a book once that children find comfort in that.

When she’s asleep, Joel keeps checking on her in the rear view mirror. He just about misses a giant pothole and swears under his breath. He knows he’s gotta keep his eyes on the road but he’s filled with so much anxiety. “Did they give her too much of that shit? What else did they give her? What kind of barbaric experiments did they do on her?”

For the first hour of the journey he almost crashed twice because he was watching her chest rise and fall making sure she was still alive. The same way an anxious first time dad looks on his newborn baby when it’s sleeping.

[filmophilea]

babysit,

for one muse to help the other home while they’re drunk, feat. @acekthe & @solstaice

there’s nothing but silence lulling the empty vehicle as ej climbs onto the driver’s seat, exhaling a white puff of smoke after one last drag. after tossing the worn out cigarette, he finally starts the engine running, glancing back to the trashed figure, in complete disbelief that right before his very own eyes is the same man that usually takes charge of their operations. so this is what it took for alexander the great to come undone, five tanks of ale and an three entire boxes of nicotine. not to mention the devastating news of his wife and daughter passing, but details are scarce and as far as ej knows, the pair was nothing but a heavy burden that alex carried.

at least according to toni, that is.  

but neither of them are parents to a child and nowhere close to being a spouse so what do they know? 

“you shouldn’t have drank so much!” toni scolds alex as she finally slips into the backseat right next to him, rolling her eyes while tugging harshly on the seatbelt. she struggles to secure it over his broad, slumped body but after a harsh tug and a loud grunt, she manages to do so. “how are we supposed to carry him up the stairs now?” 

who knew the day would come when the scolding would come in reverse, alex being dotted on like a child and toni taking charge? had the circumstances not been so dire, ej would have probably attempted to film it, something to keep in the memory bank and laugh on once the rough times has passed 

“i was just partaking in the general merriness,” alex’s slurred answer came in a hushed whisper and the scoff thaty toni makes is so loud that he can practically imagine the eye roll that probably came with it. 

“sit up properly,” she grunts beneath her breath, the resounding click of the seatbelt latching so audible that it prompts ej to turn the radio on. seeing as its alex’s vehicle, his spotify account instantly connects and a podcast regarding inflation predictions; count on him to be on top of that. “you’re so trashed, god.”

“i’m fine,” alex says a little too sharply and through the rear view mirror, he can see her looking away, her regal pose falling into place as she huffs out quietly. after a moment of silence, alex finally turns to her, head falling over her lithe shoulder, murmuring, “i’m sorry.” he apologizes softly. “i just… there’s just.. a lot to grasp in one day.”

she doesn’t say anything and neither does ej. alex rarely talks about his wife and kid and they’re not about to interrupt his willingness to open up emotions. but before any other word can slip free from his lips, ej hears a soft whimper until finally, a choke of sobs. 

alex is crying. 

“i know.” toni doesn’t turn to look at him, her softened gaze falling instead on the dancing figures of the trees aligning the darkened street. “just let it all out.” 

there’s a pang of pain in ej’s chest that he can’t explain and it gravitates when he sees alex reaching over to hold her head close to his chest. “stay with me.” 

ej can tell that she’s fighting the urge to rest her hand on his arm in a comforting gesture. he knows how much toni reminds him of his daughter, he knows how much he treats her like he’s one. he sees her tightly folding her hands on her lap, meeting ej’s eyes through the mirror. ej looks away, as if caught in looking at something he isn’t supposed to. she, too, averts her gaze to the floor, her cheeks flushing crimson. 

instead he keeps his focus on the road, in getting him home as soon as he can. like alex, ej connects with him int he sense of needing plenty of time for self reflection and he’s sure there’s nothing alex wants more than to be in the comfort of his own sheets. he needs the time to be alone to digest everything that’s occurred. but his mind rolls back to a moment in time when alex is showing him a photograph of his beautiful daughter, his words replaying in the back of his head like a winded up tape. a broken record. “i have a daughter who reminds me too much of what i used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. and that terrifies me to the point where i can barely function.”

[hxhhasmysoul]

26. Paparazzi

Rating: Teen

The paparazzi descended upon them in the lobby of the hotel. Their cameras flashing every few seconds causing confusion and anger among the guests. Bisky was doing her best to shield her client from them while ushering him towards the exit. He wasn’t helping her. Instead he winked at the paparazzi and kind of struck poses.

They got to their car that was already waiting for them up front. It was surrounded by another bunch of photographers. The ones from the lobby were right on their heels too. She got behind the wheel and honked at those blocking her path and trying to get photos of the inside of the car but she knew they wouldn’t succeed because of the darkened windows. That didn’t stop her client from waving at them.

The hotel security helped to clear her path and she could finally drive away. Some of the paparazzi gave chase on motorcycles. She was going to have to throw them out once they got to the mansion because she doubted they would stop at the front gate.

“You left early and judging from the state of your outfit in a hurry and now paparazzi are chasing us.” She looked at her client in the rear view mirror. 

“Hmmm.” He looked at her reflection and smiled mysteriously. 

“I heard your fling yelling at something in the room, what happened there?”

“Oh, just a drone filmed us through the window. I don’t mind, I look amazing naked. I know you agree, Bisky.” His smile turned to lewd. “You always sneak a peak when I walk naked around the house.”

“You’re so annoying, Hisoka.” He was right but she wasn’t going to dignify that. “You called them, didn’t you? You thrive on such scandals.”

“Maybe I did, maybe he did, maybe the hotel stuff did. Who’s to tell?”

“The Zoldycks won’t be happy. Illumi’s married. They’re not celebrities like you, they are business people. A scandal like this will likely affect their stocks.”

“Well, Illumi will pout for a bit but he always comes back for more. I have other toys to entertain me in the meantime. And you could be one of them, you know that.”

“That’d be unprofessional.”

“So you say.” He hummed with self satisfaction and sprawled on the back seat.

_________________

AU-gust

I stopped doing these because one of them turned into a full on fic and I didn’t have time anymore to do them. But my friend specifically asked for this one and their birthday is in two days so what they say goes. I really like the idea of hisobisky in a casual way, where his absolutely fascinated by her frame and muscles and she’s a bit annoyed with herself that yes, she’s interested in sex with that awful annoying man.

[labyrinthofsnow]

Feminism within A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas

 A Court of Thorns and Roses was not only an excellent read, it also allowed room for literary criticism. By analyzing the book through a feminist lens this allowed a way for a new perspective to be seen through the book. For those unfamiliar with the book, I’ll be analyzing the first 104 pages of the book in this post. The world it takes place in has been separated due to war, the mortals on the most southern point and the fae on the rest of the world. The story begins when Feyre the protagonist is hunting in the woods and stumbles upon a wolf, she kills the wolf not knowing he came from the fae lands. For the death of the fae she demanded retribution for his death. She is then dragged into the world of the fae where the only thing she knows about the lands is through legends. 

In the first couple of chapters Feyre is established as being the breadwinner and nutruer of the house this is due to her father being incapable of mostly doing anything due to a knee injury. She not only takes care of her father but her two sisters who do not assist her unless they want something in return. Feyre makes sure there is enough food on the table for everyone by hunting, she's the one to step up and tell her sisters what to do and how to do it, her goal was to never be married off instead she dreamt of a world where it was just her and her father in the little cottage where she could have more time for herself. When she eventually killed the Fae who was disguised as a wolf she stood up strong and admited she was the one who did it, even wielding a knife in her defence. 

“Somehow, I wound up infront of my sisters, even as the creature reared onto its hind legs and bellowed through a maw full of fangs” (33, Maas). By stepping up she showed bravery, and willing to put up a fight for her family when majority of the time the man is the one to do so.

Women within the book itself are to live a life society now would consider out-dated. The women are to be raised lady-like and married off. A dowry also exists within the world. Meaning that for a woman to be married off she would have to have something of value, whether it be currency, good, or an estate to give to the husband or his family once they’re married. The women within the book are treated significantly lesser than to the male counterparts however, as stated above Feyre and a couple of other characters dotted throughout the book are noted for going against societal norms. “We have nothing to offer them-no dowry; no livestock, even. While Thomas might want to marry you…you’re a burden.” (19, Maas). The dowry stood out the most when analyzing from the fact of dowryies now being illegal in some countries, and not practiced often in a large portion of the world. This indicates the book taking place in a world where women are viewed as lesser than the men and as objects when they in return for the hand in marriage give them material goods.

The author Sarah J. Maas is a female author. This affects the portrayal of women within the books because, for the majority of the female characters in the book they are written to be quick witted, smart, strong, independent, and overall empowering. This contrasts the way some men would write women to be weak, dainty, a housewife, and a damsel in distress. “-any word from our father resulted in her ridicule as well” (11, Maas). “Most days I couldn’t tell which of us was the most wretched and bitter” (12, Maas). The main sisters who are seen to be the strongest out of the three is Feyre and Nesta who are noted and seen without the whole book being much stronger than the damsel in distress women commonly written in fantasy books.

The book A Court of Thorns and Roses is a great potrayl of women. Allowing female characters strength throughout the whole book, and allowing moulds inforced by society to be broken. On ocassion it does weild toward the stereotypical portrayal of women however, Sarah J. Maas does an excellent job at smashing it the moment it happens.

Referances

Frostbitestudio. N/A. "Archeron Sisters- A Court of Thorns and Roses Sticker". https://www.redbubble.com/i/sticker/Archeron-Sisters-A-Court-of-Thorns-and-Roses-by-frostbitestudio/67041708.EJUG5. Redbubble. November 10, 2022.

Maas, Sarah. "A Court of Thorns and Roses." New York, Bloomsbury, May 05, 2015. Paperback copy. November 10, 2022.

Rz, Maryam. August 01, 2020. https://www.goodreads.com/user_status/show/301891915. Goodreads. November 10, 2022.

[disastercg]

“Ah, the one who hears whispers all around him!” laughed the entity. The entity’s body of shadows lurched forward, tendrils of darkness curling around the medium’s shoulder. They slithered like snakes, a trail of noxious sludge left behind from their touch. “Around the clock, you hear their endless begging and pleading!” it said. “Your family gave you no support, didn’t they? Who could blame them? It’s not normal to hear the dead...ringing in your ears...never giving you a moment of peace.” The entity reared back, its sagging neck poised like a cobra about to strike. “I could answer your heart’s desire, Niko,” it said. “You wanted to change the world, didn’t you? Don’t you want the power to make people’s lives less miserable, so the voices won’t taunt you once they’re dead? Life is short and fleeting, my little medium. I understand this, and want to give you the power to do the good you always craved deep down.”

𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒   |     𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘪𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘮  ;    𝗮 𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝗻 𝗻𝗶𝗸𝗼  .

he’s walking the halls of his family home. but like a maze, the walls don’t seem to line up, rather than the rectangle they came together to make in his childhood, they seemed to reassemble into a senseless mass of never ending halls and deadened rooms.

without meaning to, he stumbles upon his mother as she minces some leek and shallot. she looks taller than him, strangely, he feels like a kid again, peering up at her by the dinner table, with her yellow apron on, and her kind features when she looked over the table. “ah, niko honey,” she says over her shoulder and waves her hand with the chopping knife. he can hardly see her smile, only the gentle shine of her eyes, “help me set the table, please. your father will be home from work soon.” 

he nods, obediently, but he’s always happy to help her. it made him feel important and smart, like a grown up. he reached for the plates she had set in a stack on the table (the work already half done for him, but he never noticed it that way. the way she made it easier for him to feel important, to help) his short reach making it a requirement that he has to lean onto his tiptoes. grabs the plates in hand, ceramic, not heavy, but requiring his focus not to drop.

he hears it then. the moaning, unprompted, low and gargling moaning from somewhere over his shoulder. it gives him a start and he turns around quickly, only to spot nothing. silence for a second and he whines to his mom only for her to ask what he was talking about. just as he’s beginning to think he imagined it, from thin air, manifests a shrill scream, only muffled, like the air was a blanket, covering a figment from view, or a hand over the mouth of nothingness. it’s so sudden, so ambiguous and frightening, that he drops the plates and they shatter onto the ground. it scares his mother, it hurts his foot and cuts his shins, and he remembers how it lead to a trip to the hospital, and then to a psychiatrist. 

in subconscious effort to avoid it all, he flees from the room, shins and feet bleeding, tears streaming down his cheeks.

as he enters the hallway, he feels taller again, suddenly eyelevel with the grandfather clock that normally stood nearer to his room than outside the kitchen. nothing is where it should be.

this time, it’s an out of body experience. he almost passes by the door that should have been the downstairs bathroom, but instead and unexplainably, seems to be his bedroom. he stands at the doorframe, watching himself, teen aged and sitting on his bed with a friend from school. he remembers this project for science class, he remembers the pretty girl sitting next to him too. talking to him about the electrical currents they were building a board for. but he’s entranced looking at himself instead, staring into the eyes of a version of his youth. that far away look, narrow pupils, muscles of his jaw jumping as he attempts to bite back the frustration. he can’t even hear it this time, but he knows none the less what’s happening; he remembers it. the screams and cries of the dead, drowning out the living right next to him, drowning out his thoughts, driving him insane.

help me. you can hear me can’t you. look at me kid. please. i can tell you his name; i know how killed me. he can’t get away with it. he lives in the building, please kid. i need you! fucking do something!

the niko of the seventeen breaks, cups his hands over his ears and releases a broken exhale. and he feels embarrassment even now, as real as the one across from him, when the pretty girl from class, offended, flees from him with a scoff and tears in her eyes.

how long had it been ruining his life?

since he can barely remember.

the next room he enters should be the living room but instead is a wing from his college. after he had learned of his affliction, after he became damn decent in divination just to make the world a little bit quieter. he’s back in his own body now, clutching the leather bracer on his wrist where his dreamstone is embedded. he manages to tune out the whispers properly for the first time in his life, as he listens to his professor discussing the outstanding quality of his submitted paper on the psychopathy of mental illness and it’s relevance to crime. he nods his head and attempts to convey how grateful he is for the compliment, only managing to seem sincere because for the first time in his life, he’s able to hear the living just a bit louder than the dead.

looking down at his feet, the snake that slithered between them on the ground, winds around and comes to a stop in front of him. 

it’s only in that moment, the tour ends and he realizes the dreamlike, horrible quality of what he was experiencing. like an epiphany. 

“i’m dreaming.” he clarifies to himself, and nods his head. but the realization alone isn’t enough to pry him from the nightmares cold, sharp claws. the snake machês into a creature, a shape of disorienting everythingness and nothingness all at once.

The Boundary approached him again.

“I want...just a piece of you,” it whispered. An outstretched hand reached for where Niko’s heart should be. “I want it so badly, I swear to grant your wish.” As if stung, The Boundary recoiled back. It slowly disintegrated into darkness, leaving him alone in the nightmare where illusions and old memories lurked around every corner.

“Won’t you...accept my offer?”

he thinks for so long, the nightmare becomes a waiting room, where he’s held the ill omened thing before him hostage as well. queued up for an answer. 

“the thing is,” niko begins slowly, looking down at his feet, hands in pockets like he was gearing up to step out into the world on a windy day, head down, collar up, “for as long as i can remember, everyone has needed things of me. wanted shit from me at every corner. harmless shit. stupid shit. life defining shit,” he adds with a humorless half smirk, “death defining shit.” his heart thinks of the offer, a piece of himself for the chance to fix it all; his heart pauses in thought even longer than he had. “everyone is always getting a piece of me. at this rate, i don’t have anything left over.”

he doesn’t feel fear when he looks at the boundless manifestation of deep and dark possibilities. he feels the same thing he always felt, day in and day out; a sense of anesthesia, like there was no fight left in him, just the presence of mind to understand the real, honest to god, bleakness of the world. “the truth is, nothing fucking matters.” he laughs at that, a squelching, wet, miserable sounding laugh, “there’s no justice in this existence. we’re all shit. our bodies will feed the ground and if we’re lucky. if we’re lucky, we'll be reborn to do it all again. if we’re unlucky, we get to be stuck here, in between somewhere. depressed, angry, unheard.” he’s over it all. “isn’t that something to look forward to? live a good life and have a good death. or live shitty, and fate will fuck you again for eternity.” 

well shit, when he says it all like, it’s so shitty he could laugh at the absurdity if the reality of it hadn’t made his life a living hell forever.

“so you’re asking me if you can help me change the world?” he shrugs, “i don’t even know how to do that yet. one step at a time, i guess.” the squint he comes up with is this; judging, dissenting, denying, mocking, dry. “you’re telling me there’s some easy fucking solution to all that?”

he does laugh. a yelp of sound that hurts his ears in this echo chamber where he only now realizes, there was no whispers, no screams, no cries. ah, it really, truly was a dream. “that’s such bullshit.”

“there’s no quick fix for this shit. that’s the truth.” and his face drifts back into matte existence, neutral, exhausted, accepting. “that’s your answer right there, asshole.”

and that’s the only answer he can come up with.

[starlingsrps]

in the aftermath.

over the two days of neil’s visitation, elise develops a very specific ranking of which family members and family friends she can bear to be around. most of his family is on thin ice, hers definitely is. her friend stacy brings nutmeg and nutmeg and stacy are the top of the list. neil’s high school football buddies who haven’t seen him since a turkey trot in 1999 are towards the bottom. the list gets shorter by the day and by the final night, she’s down to one hand and very tired of pretending she likes anyone.

her oldest sister, laura, bundles her off and into her massive suv with her teenage daughter before elise can rip their sister hallie’s head off in the funeral home parking lot. she swoops in between them as she has all their lives, neatly ending an argument over tights before it can begin in earnest and tells elise to hold up, they’ll leave in a minute.

izzy fiddles with the bluetooth and elise huffs and tries to take three deep breaths in the backseat. her brother in law keeps telling her that she just needs three deep breaths and she keeps getting stuck on two. like everyone else, she knows justin means well but if he wanted to be actually helpful, he’d invent both a cure for cancer and a time machine. she leans her head against the window and closes her eyes. maybe trying to leave her body will help instead.

the car door opens and closes with a thunk and the engine starts. izzy skips through five songs in a row, including a goo goo dolls song elise has always liked but doesn’t have the energy to say so. laura sighs and elise tenses.

“she’s trying to help,” laura says gently. 

“if she wants to help, she can keep her fucking opinions to herself for once in her goddamn life,” elise shoots back without opening her eyes. she hears laura sigh again, the put upon and weary sigh of the eldest daughter. she drums her fingers on the steering wheel and tells izzy to stop scrolling and pick something already. izzy stops on a alanis morrisette song. she’s probably trying to make elise feel better with a nineties playlist - spotify is izzy’s love language - but she can’t bring herself to appreciate it right now.

another sigh, this one forcing elise to open her eyes and meet her sister’s in the rear view mirror. “do you need anything for tomorrow? we’ll drive right by that target.”

it feels like a dare. elise feels her lips twitch. her bratty youngest sister always comes out when she’s wedged between hallie, who always thinks she’s in charge, and laura, who actually is. she has a dress for tomorrow, a nice black one her mother picked up at marshall’s and elise already knows she’ll never wear it again. hallie had decreed that it was inappropriate for elise to not wear tights to her husband’s funeral. the hvac is busted at saint michael’s and if the turn out at the visitations is any indicator, they’re going to be wall to wall. sue her for not wanting to wear tights in what is sure to be a sweltering church on the worst day of her life. if she has to bury her husband, she would at least prefer to not do it wearing control top.

hallie had huffed. elise couldn’t go bare legged to a funeral mass. 

“what are they going to do if i don’t?” elise had asked. “not let me in?”

“you wear stockings to a funeral, elise,” hallie snapped. “weddings, funerals, court appearances.”

“i didn’t wear stockings when i got married either.” at hallie’s widened eyes, she had snapped back that it had been july.

this was april, hallie retorted. and she could wear stockings.

laura had stepped in then and loudly announced that she’d take elise back and shoved her in the suv before she said anything else. 

“ellie?” laura asks again. “target?”

she sighs and closes her eyes again. “tights.”

laura waits in the car (probably sneaking a cigarette, izzy  says) while they go inside the store. elise is used to smaller city targets so the sheer sprawl of the suburban target overwhelms her a bit but izzy leads her straight back.

the prospect of picking a pair is suddenly overwhelming, one more thing she needs to do in a week where she’s been overwhelmed every waking minute. she feels like shit - she’s exhausted, has a blister on her left heel, knows she’s getting a cold, and just wants to go home and crawl in bed to wake up three years ago and have a do over.

“hallie probably has a rule about fishnets, huh?” izzy says, a hesitant joking undertone in her voice. 

“maybe if i were a madam.” elise pinches the bridge of her nose. “jesus christ, do they have anything?”

izzy purses her lips and scans the wall of packets of sheer and solid tights, all with clearance stickers. there are swimsuits a few aisles over but they’re both wearing black and looking at end of season clearance - as if she didn’t already feel like she stuck out like a sore thumb. “just solid maybe?”

elise shakes her head and lifts her much gnawed pinky nail to her mouth. “it’s going to be an oven in that church.”

“she’s so full of shit.” izzy grabs a pair of sheer black tights and shoves them at elise. “there.”

elise flips over the package to check the size chart - she never remembers what her size in tights is because tights sizing is stupid - and sees there’s a seam down the back of these. and they’re 60% off. “izzy-“

izzy snatches them back. “look, if hallie only wants to focus on you wearing slutty tights tomorrow, she’s got fucked up priorities.”

slutty tights makes elise laugh for the first time all day. it sounds rusty. “slutty tights.”

she nods solemnly. “slutty tights.”

it’s one more thing this week that elise knows she should probably care about more than she does. she buries her husband tomorrow - she can’t bring herself to give a shit about tights or the sandwiches or that there are now three competing aunts bringing lemon bars to the potluck afterwards. if she can stay upright through tomorrow and then back to the apartment before she shatters, she’ll take it. besides - pissing off hallie is the first thing besides grief she’s felt in a week.

“i’ll take the slutty tights.”

[halleyscomment]

Guilt Fish

The Systematic Decimation of Freshwater Carp as a Mechanism to Instill Shame Within the Developing Mind of Our Youth

It all starts with the fish. 

The parental guardianship unit begin inculcating shame on their offspring at an early age. Not the devout Catholic mothers who pine away for the Lusty Hand of God™ to take them away, nor the just as fervent, yet vitriol guilt of the Jewish mothers; all providers, regardless of creed, color, or cooking have been trained in the Secret Art of providing their progeny with a lifetime of therapy under the guise of ‘responsibility.’ 

You’re around seven years old, perhaps younger if you are an above average juvenile such as Anastasia Fruitsandgrains. The entire familial unit condenses themselves into their chosen mode of conveyance and hauls off to the domesticated animal food and accessory mega warehouse. There, the average seven year old, after banging on the terrariums containing terrified reptiles, amphibians, and arthropods; sobbing while gripping fistfuls of ferret fur... will end up in the aquarium aisle. 

A charming round bowl and a bag of pebbles; in your favorite chemically processed artificial color, of course. The miniscule jar of generic flakes, your child-mind is certain will never satiate your slimy new friend. In the oxygenated plastic bag, several little fishy filets; all with their own unique personalities and styles. Once home; pebbles, water and fish are unceremoniously dumped into the bowl and thrust into your over-eager, sticky hands. 

The fish have become your responsibility. 

You exuberantly heft the glass vessel into the main reception dorm of your habitation and explain in Lilliputian detail all your favorite television programs to the vulnerable piscine companions. You sleep with the bowl on a shelf next to your bed. You even submerge marbles and GI Joes into the aqueous depths so the fish can play with them too...

Five days later, the entire squadron of goldfish are dead. 

As one of your custodians is scooping the goopy cadavers into the toilet, they’re chiding you about how you weren’t responsible enough to take care of fish! You’d never be able to handle a more cumbersome creature.

Of course, they don’t patiently elucidate, or are even ignorant to oxygenation, pH levels and filtration. The fish perished suffocating on their own excrement. 

You’ve been deemed irresponsible. 

You go through life wrought with guilt that you’re a terrible provider and caregiver no one could possibly love; barring some bizarre twist of fate, in which case you will inevitably self-sabotage in an attempt to justify a deep-seeded resentment for your parents. 

If by some sick joke, you do find yourself in a coupling and reproduce, you may feel the perfervid compulsion to properly rear your spawn how you were improperly instructed decades past. 

Modern society takes a dim view of children residing in tanks of water, partially due to the lack of gills. Immediately, you’re accused of intentional drowning instead of attempting to provide a nurturing environment. 

Guilt follows us through the ages. 

As a maladjusted young adult, you go through self-help books and courses after college, rationalizing you’re the out-and-out dreck of mammalian resources, trying to contemplate what can make you more affable. By now, you’ve completely forgotten about the ‘fish incident,’ but the ache of shame still lingers on your psyche. After you get out of rehab, your life coach advises the first step to getting your life together before venturing into a relationship... is to get a plant. 

[nickgerlich]

You Don’t Know Jack

When I think back to high school in Chicago’s south suburbs, I fondly recall going only a half-day my senior year, while working in the afternoons in a co-op program. It was a great deal that gave me a lot of retail experience, from stocking shelves to driving the delivery van. In large part, it shaped my desire to study marketing.

But the memories that elicit the biggest grins are from third-period Journalism. Sure, I wrote stories, edited, and did all of those things, but we also had a yearbook to produce. And since funding was tight even back then, we had to sell ads. Our teacher was oh-so-kind and secured hall passes as well as off-campus liberties for that hour, which my pals and I seized upon like vultures at a road kill. “Wanna go sell ads?” became our rallying cry a few days a week, which meant that we were sneaking off to Jack In The Box for a mid-morning nosh.

I honestly don’t remember if we ever sold an ad, but I got a head start on my “Freshman 15” long before I ever left for university.

I loved the old JITB units back then, because they looked like—well—a jack in the box, the kind we had all played with as kids. The goofy clown played a prominent role. The color scheme was very 70s. I had gone to a different JITB even earlier in my life when we lived in a different suburb, and I remember it being just as family-themed as this one. What wasn’t to like?

But then the 80s hit. I had been off at university in a place that had Burger Chef instead of JITB, and by the time I returned home after graduation, JITB had shed its fun image for one that targeted Yuppies. It marked the beginning of a steep decline for them. It was about as dumb a move as Chuck E. Cheese trying to reposition itself as a gourmet pizza parlor.

The chain has managed to hang on, though, and has 2168 restaurants in 21 states, not bad for a chain that lost its luster. But to be honest, it still feels like a chain that lost its way long ago, much like Burger King and its 7257 shops. Yes, both have many properties, but they’re not exactly top-of-mind.

But JITB aims to position itself better now for the 21C with a new prototype restaurant that is all about drive-thru, walk-up, and mobile ordering. Oh, and no in-store dining.

The goal is to shrink the physical footprint and thereby reduce build-out costs. With land often scarce, and building expenses sometimes prohibitively high, being able to slip in to a narrow strip of land could be very strategic. I’m thinking of all those Dutch Bros and Scooters coffee shops popping up everywhere than can almost be dropped into place.

In an interesting nod to the past, the new shops look like a modern rendition of a jack in the box toy. But today just as then, all that unused vertical space can be expensive to heat and cool, not to mention build. While current shops look somewhat vaguely reminiscent of the original buildings, albeit with earthy hues, they don’t do a good job stirring old memories.

Now I get it, to some extent. JITB realized that McDonald’s had cemented the kid-forward market position, and it can be suicidal to try to simply mimic your competitor. But McD’s has shed a lot of that positioning as well. After all, who wants to send their kid to the ball pit or playground equipment with COVID still very clear in the rear view?

Most importantly is JITB’s embrace of the new way of doing business. COVID also taught fast food customers that interior dining was not a necessity. The pandemic pushed us much farther along the experience curve with mobile ordering, as well as curbside pickup and deliveries. And the restaurants have responded, not just JITB, but nearly all the big chains.

The question remains whether this will be a long-term mistake. Will we once again yearn to eat burgers, tacos, whatever, inside once more? Will we tire of taking this stuff home, or even having it delivered? Or is this the new normal now?

But since there are no JITBs in Amarillo, I’ll just have to wait on checking out all of this. The prototype store is in Tulsa, a mere 400 miles away, and if I find myself doing another Route 66 adventure any time soon, I would most certainly stop by to check it out.

I might even try to sell them an ad.

Dr “Pop Goes The Weasel“ Gerlich

Audio Blog

[reasonwound3]

The Main Principles Of Time to Thrive Challenge 2022

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