#it's so frustrating bc it was done way better almost a decade ago how have we gone backward

[theghostofashton]

having diversity in shows is good and we need it and i’m not knocking it ofc but why do so many of them....... suck lmfao

[wondernimbus]

forgive and forget — harry potter

pairing: harry potter x female!reader

prompt: “kill everything dear to you and then you will know how it feels.”

t/w: mentions of death

a/n: this is set a year after the battle of hogwarts! wrote this at 1am n havent proofread it so chances are it sucks but i’m posting it anyway bc you only live once am i right folks

In the darkness and silence of a winter's night, the water is eerily calm—too calm, almost, with a foreboding feeling hanging over it. At the edge of the lake stands a girl whose heart has long since grown much too cold to feel anything but the wide, gaping void inside of her chest. She doesn't shiver; just stands there, holding her wand at her side, gaze fixed on the reflection of the moonshine against the shapeless water, waiting.

And waiting.

And when the figure appears from behind her—a loud, almost deafening snap in the complete and utter silence of the woods, she doesn't turn around right away.

Instead, she twirls her wand in her hand, frowning down at the lake as though expecting something to break through the calm surface and swallow her whole, carry her down into its depths and leave her somewhere deep, deep down, away from the rest of the world.

Thinking about it now, it doesn't sound that bad.

"Did you miss me?" are the first words that leave her mouth since having arrived there. Her voice is as dangerously calm as the lake. Just as foreboding—and it sounds like a warning.

But Harry doesn't heed it. Instead, he stands there, a mere five feet away, watching as she turns around, slowly, to face him.

The last thing he expects is for her to look at him the way she used to. He doesn't expect her to run toward him, take him in her arms, and hug him the way she used to, long ago.

Harry should be prepared for this. But when her gaze meets his and he makes out her eyes in the darkness, cold and unforgiving and void of any emotion, he can't help the way he sucks in a breath, how his heart clenches inside of his chest.

A strange chill settles over him. Sickness; something horrible swelling up in the pit of his stomach as he stares at the girl in front of him. It's not just the look in her eyes that is different. Her hair is cleaner. Shorter. More mature, tucked behind her ears and down her back. Without it framing her face, Harry's eyes are free to roam over the rest of her face, which is gaunt and sunken; there are bags under her eyes so deep he starts to debate whether or not he's looking at a corpse.

It's like seeing a memory that has haunted Harry for decades, when in reality it has only been a year. He knows that face like the back of his hand: her eyes, dark and barely crinkled at the corners. that nose, those careful lips. She is older, but so is Harry. She is a stranger in so many ways, but Harry would know her anywhere.

"[Y/N]," he breathes out, throat tight. His fingers grip even tighter around the wand inside his coat pocket. There's an undeniable sense of fear—dread—coiling around his heart. She stares at him, eyes still hard as ever.

And then her lips tug up at the edges. Her smile is bitter. It's the first real trace of emotion she has let slip, and Harry wonders if he should feel relieved that [Y/N] is still human and capable of feeling. Even if she is angry.

The worst part is that Harry can't blame her.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice barely a whisper.

The smile grows. Suddenly she's laughing—cold, harsh bursts of laughter with no real humor to it. Harry clenches his jaw, watching her. His heart is pounding erratically in his chest; he doesn't know if it's because he senses she's near and yearns for her, the person who it used to beat for, or if it's because it's scared of her.

Oh, how things have changed.

"Sorry?" she repeats, her laughter fading away into the night, replaced by a deadly sort of tension that now hangs above them. "Sorry?"

Harry feels sweat trickle down the side of his temple.

"You're sorry." Her voice is laced thick with equal parts mockery, disbelief, and anger. But even then her eyes are cold and blank as ever.

Since when had she gotten so good at hiding what she truly felt?

"I don't know what else you want me to say," says Harry through gritted teeth, hand tightening around his wand.

Her lips curl. She stares at him for a few moments, unspeaking, and then she nods. "You're right," she says curtly, turning once more to look at the lake behind her. "You know what, Harry? You're right. You killed my parents and walked away from it like it was nothing. There really isn't much else to say other than you're sorry."

He swallows. He can't feel guilty. He can't. "I'm sorry," he says again, unable to hide the way his voice trembles from frustration. Or is it fear? He can't quite tell anymore. "But I did what I had to do. They worked for Voldemort—"

"So you killed them," [Y/N] says, tone ominously void of emotion. "With no regard for their real motive. Without bothering to listen—"

"I had no choi—"

"And realize that they did it to protect their children." When she whips around, Harry sees that her facade of calm has slipped away completely—instead there is pure, unadulterated anger flaring in her eyes. "You say you had no choice but neither did they."

"They were Death Eaters," says Harry, taking a deep breath through his nose, sounding like he's trying to convince himself more than her. "It hardly mattered why they went to Voldemort's side. What mattered was that they did."

She scowls and takes a step forward. Angry eyes boring into his, she hisses, "Did it matter to you that I loved them?"

Harry's fingers feel cold, his neck too hot, the air pressing into him from all sides. He can't feel guilty.

He can't.

"It had to be done," he says flatly, fighting to maintain her gaze. He wonders if he's imagining the way her eyes seem to be glistening with tears. "I'm sorry. I know you loved them but it had to be done."

Harry is right; when she blinks and turns away, he doesn't miss the bead of liquid that rolls down the side of her cheek. All of a sudden he finds himself wanting to leave—to apparate away before he can hear any more. Because this is something that has haunted him for a long, long time, and even then, it is only now that he realizes he isn't quite ready to face it yet.

But here he is now, anyway, standing in front of the girl who once loved him and who he once loved—and maybe part of him still does, even after everything. But Harry knows better than to fool himself into thinking he can have her again.

Not after what he did.

Harry inhales. With difficulty, he keeps his eyes on hers despite the need to tear them away. To turn away and never once look back. But he has to do this now—it's his only chance to finally put an end to all the conflict that has been bothering him ever since he last saw her.

"I know it feels like you'd be turning your back on them if you moved on," Harry begins. This time his voice doesn't shake. "But they're gone. I'm sorry, [Y/N]—"

"Don't call me that."

"Your parents are gone," he repeats. He sees her trying to harden her gaze again—trying to build her walls back up—but she fails, lips pinching. Harry knows it means she's trying to hold her tears back. "They made the wrong choices and they suffered for it. I know what it feels like to lose people you love, but—"

"Do you know what the difference is between you and me?" she cuts him off. Her lips are trembling, angry tears spilling onto her cheeks. "It's that you picked yourself back up, even after you lost people. But I didn't. I haven't. And I don't think I ever will."

Harry feels his heart squeeze into itself inside of his chest.

He's fighting a losing battle. She isn't listening; she's too far gone.

"Do it again." Miraculously, despite the tears on her cheeks and the anguish in her voice, she still sounds ruthlessly angry. "Lose the people you love again. Kill everything dear to you again and then you will know how it feels."

Harry watches as she heaves in a deep, shuddering breath. He doesn't try to say anything anymore—knows that nothing he will say can ever truly heal her.

And with one last pained, scathing look, [Y/N] apparates away.

He never sees her again.

general taglist: @dancing-in-the-moonlight3 @kalimagik @alittletoomanyobsessions @hariosborn @obsessedwithrandomthings @emcchi @sxrensxngwrites @enjoying-fantasyland21 @masterofthedarkness @siriusly-addicted-to-writing @bforbroadway @hufflefluff-writer @summer-writes @chaotic-fae-queen @firewhisky-kisses @dracosvftie @heloisedaphnebrightmore @idont-knowrn @dreamer821 @peachesandpinks @slytherinprincess03​ @chocfrogaddict @nebulablakemurphy​ ​@kpopgirlbtssvt

harry potter taglist: @teheharrypotter​

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 137

Trying to figure out Author’s notes is hard.... Sometimes I just don’t have anything pithy to say, or have too much to say and don’t know where to put it all.

Obviously I am an overthinker.

So, for the sake of everyone reading: Let’s cut to the Shoutouts!

The obvious first: @baelpenrose, @the-raven-fae, @anotherusrname, and @charlylimph-blog! I love all of you, you are the best.

Special mentions to: @zommbiebro bc I miss you and hope you’re okay. @nekohuntslight for being the OG person to message me about liking the story (yes, Bael, this is the dirty secret behind why I thought you lived in Australia when we first started talking.... shhhhhh). And alllllll the binge readers who blow up my inbox every day, Iloveyousomuchyoudon’tunderstand. Very much adore all of you, you have no idea how serious I am being right now. I need to go through and make one post just screaming all your names to the universe.

Tyche brought drinks and snacks from my kitchen before flopping on the couch in my quarters. The guys were at work, along with Antoine, but my office was closed down for the day. “How are you feeling about tomorrow?” she asked.

“Vati and Hannah have everything planned to the smallest detail,” I shrugged. “They’ve already coordinated with Xio and Evan for all the crowd control and monitoring shifts, and the murals are going up today.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m well aware of the logistics stuff. I literally handle all the staffing for the humans on the Ark, and Antoine was also part of the crowd control conversations.”

“Then why did you ask?” I laughed, grabbing a cracker and carefully stacking cheese and other toppings on it. 

Before I could get it to my mouth, she snatched it and held it out of my reach. “Because I’m asking how you feel. You’re only attending as… well, an attendee. No monitoring, no calling the shots, no working from the floor.”

She surrendered my cracker, but I found myself setting it down, appetite gone. “I’m okay - “

“Lie.” There was suddenly a finger levelled between my eyes like a gun. Just as quickly, it was lowered, and my sister was tilting her head at me. “Come on. You know you can’t lie to me - I’ve known you longer than literally anyone on this ship except yourself.”

“Fine! It’s weird!” I admitted in frustration, standing to pace and shoving my hands through my hair. “My skin is crawling with anxiety, my hands are twitching to snatch up the files and nitpick everything to the smallest detail….”

“Except they locked you out.”

“Except they locked me out, yeah. But I’m pretty sure I could get Derek to let me in, which is why I’ve made a point to tell him not to, no matter how much I ask.” Dropping my hands, I sighed. “But if I ever want to leave this position, I have to let them do this.”

She shrugged and stole my cracker, this time chewing and swallowing before she responded. “You could have kept some involvement in it, you know.”

“Pfft, yeah right. I would have taken it over, and you know that.”

“Yep.”

“Then why even ask.” I dropped back down on the couch.

“‘Cause you needed to hear yourself say it,” she explained, nonchalant as ever, snagging an olive and watching me calmly.

I sat in silence, processing it.  I hated when she outsmarted me like that, especially when she was right. “Can I at least eat first?”

She laughed and let it go, telling me how well the murals for the Festival were coming.  I hadn’t even gotten to - allowed myself - to see the designs, and the more Tyche talked about them, the more I wanted to see them.  By the time I finished my share of our snack, I decided to check out the progress.

We finally made our way to the decks where the Festival would take place, and I thought Tyche was going to die laughing at the way I gaped. The alcoves where the vendors would stage looked the same on first glance, but a closer look revealed very subtle shapes added that would give them a more savage, wild look in the right lighting. Metal sconces had been added to hold what looked like torches, but with special light emitters to simulate open flame. As we walked further, swirls of color revealed themselves slowly, first in light, curling tendrils, but slowly sharpening and taking on a more angular shape, twisting together into phantasmal images that vanished as soon as you tried to focus on them.

“It’s like walking through a garden, or a rainforest, but when I turn my head, I’m in a city.”

“Right?” she laughed as we came around the final corner. 

At this point, we were surrounded by this mural.  Just up ahead, there was a messy head of black hair tied back with a green piece of cloth. Bare feet and arms show smears of paint, and overalls covered a tank top - that, or the cloth for the hair had formerly been sleeves, I couldn’t tell.  One hand propped up on hips while the other hung down, holding a very familiar paint pen.

“Christ on a triscuit, Vati, this is incredible,”  I gasped softly.

She turned and smirked at me over her shoulder. “Not yet, but it will be when I finish.”

“I mean, all of it. The sconces…”

“Those were Hannah and Ivan.” Parvati walked over and touched one with her finger tip, stroking it gently.

Tyche made an impressed noise. “I’m only a little shocked that he had enough time.”

“The materials are on loan from the engineering departments, and we wanted them to be rather rough in the finishing. It helped. Sophia, no matter how curious you are, please do not lick the walls.”

A giggle bubbled up through my chest. “The thought never crossed my mind. I was trying to put together all the flavor profiles here. It’s… a lot.”

“Forgive me if I focused more on color than how the walls would taste. I don’t generally cook, remember.”

I stared down a swirl of pomegranate, popcorn, and gochujang. The colors - blue, pink, and yellow, respectively - worked well together, but the thought of the flavors made my stomach churn. “I solemnly swear not to lick the walls,” I promised. “How much of this are you expecting to still be up by the third night?”

“We have a team that will specifically come touch up the mural in specific places the morning before the second day.”

Tyche turned toward me and away from her study of the art. “Also, you would be surprised how much paint is on the walls. It will take a lot for Else to eat it all, once they are allowed in the area.”

“Before you ask,” Parvati cut me off. “We just asked them nicely. Well, Sam and Derek did.  They’ve become quite the ersatz diplomats to Else.” 

“Anything left?”

“Hannah is putting the final touches on the curtains for the alcoves and the seating areas. She’ll have a team installing them tonight once I finish.”

It was clever, and explained why she was only touching up part of the mural halfway between now and the closing of the event. “You two have really put your stamp on it.”

“Feel better?” She held one hand up gesturing at the entire entire project, eyebrow arched  to show me that she hadn’t been fooled for a moment.

I rubbed my neck, and glanced at her from underneath my eyelashes. “Busted, I guess.”

“That would imply that anyone had believed your charade,” she smirked.

Taking a deep breath, I looked around us again. “I honestly do. I could never have done all this. Holding on would have…”

“Kept you in a position you frankly hate,” Parvati interrupted gracefully. “It’s the same reason Sebastian went back to the Undine. He’s passionate about it, and it shows in the quality of his work.” When I gaped in insult, she held up a hand. “Not everyone can succeed through fear of failing and a determination that things be done right if they must be done at all.”

“Everyone talking about me needing to retire, like I’m old or something,” I joked, throwing my hands into the air.  “Physically, I’m only thirty-five.”

Tyche nodded to concede my point. “What about the food? I haven’t seen a menu come out yet.”

The change in topic made Parvati’s face collapse. “What? It should have gone out yesterday…” She flicked open her datapad, which flickered from the overspray that covered it. Frantically scrolling, she groaned. “This was scheduled, why didn’t it send?”

“Did you check the date?” I asked calmly. “Specifically the year.”

“Three times, it’s scheduled for tomorrow,” she insisted. “Right here: May seventeenth, twenty-forty aw fuck….”

“At least you got the decade right,” I pointed out. “You wouldn’t believe how many scheduled emails I’ve tried to automatically send out for ten or fifteen years ago.”

She nodded and seemed to get her bearings back. “So, protocol for this is… just send it right now and apologize for the late notification, don’t try to make excuses or explain?”

“Exactly. They won’t care why, they’ll just be excited the list is out.”

With a couple quick gestures, she sent the email and dismissed her datapad. “Okay, that was the last thing, then.” Turning back toward the wall she was working on before, she waved to us over her shoulder. “I’m not trying to be rude, but I really do need to finish this up. Thank you for coming to see everything… it was oddly reassuring to have both of you give us your stamp of approval before the Festival instead of making us wait until after.”

“For the record, you two have always had my stamp of approval, or I wouldn’t have tried so hard to keep my nose out of it.” I knew she couldn’t see me, but I still smiled. “We’ll catch up with you after the Food Festival.  Remember: both of you need to plan on taking the day off afterwards. I’m serious.  Have your unofficial advisors drop in and chat about everything, that’s fine. But no actual work, and I won’t let either of you see the survey results until the second day after. So rest.”

“Got it, boss lady. Have a good night!”

Tyche and I turned and headed back to my quarters. We remained silent as we took in all the preparations that had been done, waving to the handful of vendors who were bringing their supplies in already. Once we were back in normal corridors, the silence broke almost immediately.

“I think they’ve got this,” Tyche suggested nonchalantly.

“Oh, I know they do.”

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[likeholymary]

— untitled ii.

playlist | masterlist

summary: once dear friends in college, obi-wan and (y/n) have bumped into each other in the capitol city of coruscant while both working there. will they rekindle their old romance from their college years, or will they remain as passing faces in each other’s lives? takes place in college years and 10+ years after.

a/n: fluff AND MORE ANGST awaits you in this chapter! also some good music references await you as well😌 also, just to note, i am a slut for obi-wan and his beard, so yes, he does have a bit of a beard in his college years, i do not accept any slander for this creative decision bc you can’t deny how hot the man is with a beard. also, not as much college content, but there will be more in part three! i hope you all enjoy! please reblog if you like this enough to do so, i appreciate it more than words can say! i love you all☺️ warnings! a few swear words!

word count: 3.7k words

present.

“AUNTIE (Y/N)!”

You could hear the chorus of the screaming twins from your car, a smile beginning to inch its way across your lips, despite the heavy weight of a decade of old baggage weighing down on you more and more throughout the day. At least now you would be able to bask in some temporary, if not chaotic, joy brought by Luke and Leia.

The blonde and brunette came skidding up to your knees, running so quickly they almost knocked you over. You laughed openly, bending down to let the two envelope themselves around you. Luke crawled up on you back, asking politely for a piggy back ride into the house, while Leia simply just crawled up on you, wrapping her legs around you waist and holding onto your shoulders, despite the fact that you were carrying your very large purse. You just hoped you didn’t drop it - after all, it did have your datapad in it, and you did not want to break that thing.

“Auntie (Y/N), have you been crying?” 

Leia was never one to shy away from the facts. That five year old would be the end of you.

While Leia looked at you quizzically, Luke stroked your hair with his little hands. “Are you sad, auntie? We can eat your favorite chocolate if that will make you not sad anymore. I don’t want you to be sad.” And that five year old would probably make you cry again, his sweet natured personality always shining through.

“Whose crying? No crying, we’re all fine!” 

Anakin came rushing through the dining area from the kitchen to the front door where you stood with the twins still clinging to your body, and he nearly slipped and fell on his face as he ran too quickly with socks on the wood floor. 

Luke and Leia giggled as he stumbled and caught himself before the both crawled off of you, now attempting to tackle their father. 

“No, no, no wrestling right now, guys!” 

Now it was you who could not hold back a small snicker, watching the poor father be smothered by his two children. It took him a moment to pry them off his legs.

Anakin leaned against the archway leading into the kitchen attempting to catch his breath as he laughed. “I’m not even going to apologize for the twins because I’m pretty sure you and I were the same way.”

You set your bag down on the bench by the door, shrugging your blazer off. “I don’t know, I think the twins are at least open with one another.”

Music from the 70s played in the background from C-3PO’s portable extension speaker. Anakin looked confused, coming up to rest a hand on your shoulder. “What are you talking about? We tell each other everything, we— oh. Oh no.”

Now, granted, Anakin had thought that keeping Obi-Wan’s return a secret was a good idea. Initially. He now realizes he was so wrong as he looks at the deadly expression on your face, the way your eyebrows are arched, the way you clench and unclench your fists and then shake them as if attempting to shake off your emotions, but he sees you slipping. 

You’re going to kick his ass and he knows it.

Damn, I knew I should have told Padmé and asked for her advice. Anakin thought as ‘Does Your Mother Know’ by ABBA began to blast through the speaker in the kitchen.

“You better start running, Skywalker.”

“You better start running, Skywalker.”

Anakin whipped around the corner, knowing all too well that he was in some deep kriffing trouble. You were hot on his tail, still in your heels, and you would not let him get away. He, after all, was in socks, and therefore would be more prone to slipping. You, on the other hand, had been challenged by Anakin a few years ago to run in your heels as he believed that it was impossible. He had been wrong then, and he was still wrong now.

You both remembered in that moment chasing each other through your homes back in Tatooine, cracking jokes and waiting to tackle each other or wrestle each other for victory. You were proud to say you often beat Anakin because he was.... well, honestly, he was a weakling when you were young.

Anakin was practically your brother, you were everything to each other, and you felt as if this was a deep betrayal. Anakin knew how broken you had been after your unspeakable breakup with Obi-Wan, but he, being the idiot he was, obviously had kept this tidbit of information to himself.

And for what gain? Did he really think you would allow yourself to fall back into Obi-Wan’s arms? Did he really think everything would go back to the way it was in college, that the four of you would go back to having double-dates, that what? you and Obi-Wan would get married and have children of your own?

What a foolhardy dream that was, and you knew it more than anyone. 

Chasing him through the living room, he ran through into the dining room, running around the long table. You caught up just as quickly, grabbing the table and giving it a light shove to knock into him. He stumbled a bit but grabbed the table to ground himself.

“(Y/N), I’m sorry, I should have told you—“

“Sorry?” You said incredulously. You laughed, astounded by your idiot of a best friends stupid response. “Oh, we are past sorry. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! You knew what he put me through. You were there, helping pick up the pieces that he left behind. And only now you think it’s a good idea to not tell me he would be waltzing back into our lives?”

Anakin winced at every word, knowing he had royally forked (his vernacular changed after having children) up. Where was Padmé when he needed her to calm you and your fiery temper down?

You grabbed one of your heels and chucked it at his head, knowing he would dodge it, but you still almost wished it would have at least given him a bruise. And of course, he dodged it.

Anakin began running again, this time cutting through the kitchen. “Anakin Skywalker, you get back here!”

Now, you were wondering where the twins had run off to. Surely they would want to see you kick their father’s butt. 

Well, the twins had run off to go grab their foam swords once you had begun chasing their father, but had a minor argument about whether or not the swords were in Luke’s room or the playroom (they were actually hidden in the hall closet, I wonder who put them there).

“Aunt (Y/N), here, get him!” Leia yelled at you, throwing you one of the foam swords, while Luke politely handed Anakin the other. “Sorry dad, I’m rooting for Aunt (Y/N).” Luke whispered.

Anakin smiled sadly. “Me too, bud.”

The living room was sunken in, and quite an open space, with divider couches in the center of the area, plenty of space to run around and play in. Perfect for having a set of chaotic twins. And now perfect for a foam sword duel between you and Anakin. ABBA still blasted from the speakers, and it only helped in amping your frustrations.

You stood behind one of the couches, panting heavily as you began to pace in place.

You understood why Anakin had stayed friends with Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan was the only real male figure in his life, both like a brother and a father, but after they served together in the Republic army it became more apparent that their brotherly bond was something that could transcend lifetimes.

However, had Anakin so quickly forgotten the state you had been left in after discovering Obi-Wan’s relationship with Satine?

You couldn’t think about those memories right now, having already spent all day dwelling on the past, barely getting any work done.

You charged at Anakin, beginning to beat him with your foam sword, and he took it, as he felt he should, feeling the betrayal you felt with each strike. “Would you at least fight back?” You yelled. “This isn’t much of a fight, and your children are watching. Talk about embarrassing, Skywalker.” You breathed heavily, ceasing to beat Anakin as he grabbed the foam blade you had raised, ready to hit him some more.

“I’m not going to fight you, (Y/N/N).”

You paused, looking up into his soft, crystal blue eyes and you began to feel it.

Your tough, anger-filled facade began to crack, Obi-Wan’s memory once again taking a hammer and destroying any mask you would try and force upon yourself to keep anyone from seeing even a sliver of sadness out of you. A singular tear began to slip down your cheek as Anakin cupped your cheek, frowning knowingly, before enveloping you in one of those infamous Skywalker hugs that you knew was a true gift every time you received one. The twins even came up, both of them hugging each of your legs.

“I wish you would have at least let me punch you,” you mumbled into his chest. You could feel his laughter rumbling through his chest, just as you heard the garage door opening.

“Pads must be home,” you sighed, pushing Anakin away as you went to pick up Leia, Luke running to the door. What a momma’s boy.

Padmé looked forever beautiful, even after a day at work. She kicked off her heels and set down her large purse on the bench by the garage door, grinning as she saw Luke running toward him. She was quick to pick the five-year old up, greeting him excitedly. 

“And where is your sister?” “With Auntie (Y/N)!” 

Padmé turned the corner to find you holding her daughter, doting on her twin buns and poking her nose, thanking her for ‘the sword’ she had given you.

“What’s this about a sword fight?” Padmé questioned with a raised brow and a smile.

“Mommy! Auntie (Y/N) kicked Daddy’s butt!”  “Yeah! He made her cry!”

Padmé’s eyes flashed with both concern and anger, glaring quickly at Anakin and then casting a soft gaze of concern upon you, reaching out with her free hand to graze your arm affectionately. 

“But I’m not really sure why he made her cry... We were too busy grabbing the foam swords.” Anakin mumbled, “Yeah, I thought I had hidden those after last time...” “What!” Both of the twins shouted, quickly slipping themselves out of you and Padmé’s arms to go chase their father and tackle him for the 8th time that day.

“Why did Ani make you cry?”

You bit your lip, chewing on it like you used to when you were nervous, an old habit you couldn’t shake in your most anxious days.

“Obi-Wan is back and Anakin knew. He... he didn’t tell me.”

There was nothing more you needed to say, and Padmé grabbed your hand, dragging you back to her room so you could relay all of the details and she could change after a long day in the office. As you relayed the details of literally walking into Obi-Wan and Anakin’s knowledge that he withheld about Kenobi’s return (“Oh, he is going to regret having kept that from me”), Padmé would gasp from the inside of her walk-in closet every once and awhile at what comments you had made as well as Obi-Wan’s attitude that he could make such a return and act as if there were no consequences. 

She came back out in more comfortable clothes, a teal oversized-cropped sweatshirt and some grey sweatpants with fuzzy socks seemed to be the comfy-mom fit, paired with a low messy bun. How she managed to still look stunning was beyond you, but Padmé could walk around in a potato sack, and the press would call it a fashion statement that would quickly become the latest trend. She was astounding.

Padmé came and sat down next to you on her and Anakin’s bed, pulling you into a warm hug. You took a shaky breath as the tears finally began to fall. He was breaking you again. And you couldn’t stand the feeling of helplessness that washed over you as your shoulders began to shake. You tried muffling your sobs, but it was so hard to hold back the waters after the dam had already cracked and had begun to flood, rushing through you with memories of a now wished forgotten yesterday.

college years. 

You had survived the first few weeks of college thus far and you were more than happy for it. 

Of course, you had a few whacky professors (like the one who didn’t understand his students sarcasm, or the one who talked about anything other than the course work), but you had survived your first few sets of midterms, save the last one you had later this afternoon. 

You made your way to your favorite place on campus, the small Twin Suns Coffee Bar that was nestled inside the student activity center. It wasn’t a place to sit and chat with friends, more just the basic aspect and aesthetic of a regular Twin Suns, simply a coffee bar there to fuel the students making their way to different classes, jobs or internships. 

You strangely loved the busy atmosphere, well, when you yourself weren’t busy, and you had a few hours to fuel up on some coffee and break into a study session before your exam. As you got in line, you enjoyed watching the people rush by, listening to the sound of coffee beans grinding, the soft indie music playing through the speakers. 

As you stood, lightly swaying and breathing in the smell of the rich espresso being poured over some milk, you spotted a familiar head of golden hair headed this way. 

Obi-Wan had his nose stuck in a book, but he easily maneuvered among the bustling of the people as he would through the student center. You tried waving to get his attention, however it seemed he was to enraptured in whatever he was reading to fully pay attention to his surroundings. 

You rolled your eyes and chuckled, he seemed to be like this quite often, or at least, that’s how he seemed whenever you visited his and Anakin’s apartment. Always studying. Anakin tried to convince you that he was the actually amusing individual he described, that he was just busy with his studies as he had some more advanced classes he was taking. Thus far, you were not convinced. 

You finally decided to call his name. “Obi-Wan!” 

His head shot up in an alert sort-of surprise, and after a moment his eyes finally caught with yours and a small smile crossed his features as he made his way towards you at the back of the line.

“I haven’t seen you in awhile, (Y/N).”

“You saw me last night at your apartment.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right.” He chuckled to himself, ducking his head in embarrassment as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I’ve been rather busy with my courses this semester.”

“Yes, that’s what Anakin has told me. He talked you up so much as some reckless guy like him, but so far I haven’t seen any proof of such an Obi-Wan. Perhaps you’ve gotten too old.” You said slyly, smirking in just the slightest way, your comment causing him to laugh. 

His eyes twinkled down at you, and they seemed to shine in the light from the coffee bar, it seemed almost unfair to be in his presence. He was just too beautiful, those cerulean eyes so captivating and difficult to look away from... 

“Too old? Well, after such an insult I suppose I won’t invite you to the little party Anakin and I were going to tonight.” He looked up, feigning to be studying the menu as his lips curved into a cheeky grin, knowing he had caught your attention now.

“A party?” Your eyes snapped to look up at him, your eyes begging him to look down at you. You composed yourself, mimicking his position as you stared at the menu, even though you already knew what you wanted. “Anakin would take me anyways,” you stated nonchalantly, “but would this party mean getting to see you with your nose out of a book for once?”

Obi-Wan turned to face you now, looking down at you with that impish grin still stuck on his face, his dimples peaking out from his beard. “I suppose you’ll have to determine that, my dear.”

A blush began to creep up your neck, and you could feel your face getting hot as you stared into his eyes, refusing to break eye contact.

“Hi, can I take your order?” The impatient barista asked, watching awkwardly as the two of you stared at each other. 

Obi-Wan calmly turned to the barista, and ordered a nitro cold brew before turning to you, motioning for you to order as he pulled out his wallet. “Order whatever you’d like, it’s on me today.” 

You shook your head, rolling your eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re trying to win me over now by buying me coffee?” “Well, I at least want to seem interesting, and what’s more interesting than a bit of chivalry in this modern world?”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his comment, trying desperately to look anywhere than his piercing gaze.  “You should take the offer.” The barista said, and you stared at her incredulously, biting your lip and huffing before you begrudgingly ordered your favorite drink. 

Obi-Wan walked with you over to the waiting area, grabbing a napkin as soon as you reached it. He pulled a sharpie out from one of the side pockets on his backpack, and then began to scrawl something out on the napkin before handing it to you. His fingers brushed across yours just briefly, but you swore you felt an electrifying tingle shoot up your arm and a warm feeling following.

It had his phone number on it.  “So you can text me later about tonight to let me know if you’re finally ready to get to know me.”

You pointed a finger at him as your eyebrows began to furrow. “Hey, you’re the one whose always too busy whenever I am around.” Now you had him pinned. He was being such a flirt, you almost couldn’t believe his smug attitude, no matter how endearing it felt or how much it made you a little weak in the knees.  “Who said I wouldn’t make time for you?” 

You thought you would collapse then and there. Obi-Wan leaned down, whispering in your ear.  “You only had to ask.” 

Just then the barista called his name, and his lips were gone, having brushed just lightly against your ear. This was not the Kenobi you had imagined when Anakin had told you all about their grand collegiate adventures. 

No, this was so much better.

Obi-Wan handed you your drink, flashing you a smile as he began to walk away, backwards.  “I hope to see you later tonight, darling.”

And then he began to blend back into the crowd, but you could still see remnants of his perfect golden hair moving as he continued to drift from view until you could no longer see him. 

“You love him and you never let him go.” The barista behind you said, looking just as charmed by Obi-Wan as you felt.

“Yeah, I will.” You responded, still left in the daze that now seemed to consume you. How were you going to even be able to study for your test now?

present.

After dinner, the twins had pleaded for yet another infamous movie night with Auntie (Y/N). Of course, you caved, even though you could have probably used a night in with a bottle of wine and some tissues for the inevitable onslaught of tears that were to come once you were alone again.  You were just about three-fourths of the way through Finding Nemo when the twins fell asleep, Luke laying on the pillow in your lap and Leia cuddled up against Padmé. You smiled down at Luke, affectionately running your fingers through his hair as he lightly snored. Just like his dad, you thought. 

Someone’s phone buzzed, but you didn’t really care, just trying to focus on the movie and not think about the day you had just had. Anakin got up as the phone continued to buzz with text after text. “Uh... It’s for me, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, don’t be too long, I’ll need your help putting the twins to bed soon.”

Padmé turned to look at you, while you continued to watch the Disney movie on the screen, Dory yelling after Marvin after they lost their chance at finding Nemo. You tried focusing on the movie, but after the long, emotional day you had, your thoughts began to slip back to him.  “I look at you and I’m home.”

You tried wiping away the tears, but it was hard to do so with Luke practically sprawled on top of you. Maybe it was time for that bottle of wine. 

You pulled Luke off of you, moving his sleepy body right beside Leia’s on top of Padmé. “Are you leaving?” She asked. You nodded your head, watching as Luke nuzzled himself into a comfortable position, cuddling closely to his mother.  “Well, drive safe, and make sure to text Anakin or I when you get home safely. Speaking of, where is he?”

“I’m sure he’s just taking a breath outside or something. I’ll see you later, Pads.”

You wiped away any remaining tears as you stood by the front door, grabbing your purse and blazer. However, as you stood by the door, you heard quiet muffled voices somewhere in the front yard that sounded like they were arguing. Anakin better not be arguing with the neighbors over mowing the lawn again...

You gently opened the front door, trying not to make too much noise not only for the sake of the twins but also so you wouldn’t spook whoever it was who was outside. When you turned around after shutting the door however, the voices stopped. 

And standing on the sidewalk next to you car was Obi-Wan. 

[minijenn]

Universe Falls turns 5 years old this week

I was 19 when I started it and still in college, in the throes of depression bc I hated college and wanted out even during the start of my sophomore year. I was homesick and had only a handful of friends bc I was shy as fuck back then and terrified of rejection (and had gone from a small pond back in high school where I was fairly popular to being an absolute nobody in college). I really, really fucking hated it during my freshman year and in particular and begged my dad to let me come home and go to college there instead of thousands of miles away. But for better or worse he made me stick it out even though I was absolutely miserable. But if there was anything that got me through that horrible freshman year it was my discovery of two shows: 

Steven Universe and Gravity Falls

I binged SU first, having seen it when it first aired back in 2013 but then got back on the bandwagon for it around the time its first season ended, which was when I became a devout fan. GF was something I discovered through tumblr, I watched it not long after Not What He Seems premiered and fell in love hard and fast. I would spend hours watching and rewatching these episodes, reading fics and fan theories, speculating on what was going to happen next. Never before in my life had I ever discovered two shows that brought be so much joy and comfort until these two came into my life. I loved these characters, felt like they were the friends I knew I was lacking even though they were fictional. But they felt real, they felt alive to me. 

So fast forward to August/September 2015. I had just started my sophomore year and so far wasn’t having any better of a time than I had when I was a freshman. I still clung onto GF and SU as new, very exciting episodes were airing for both (that was the month we got the Last Mabelcorn and Catch and Release, for reference’s sake). And then, one night, while I was falling asleep in my cramp dorm room I shared with a roommate I couldn’t stand, the thought occurred to me: 

What if you brought these two things you loved so much... together?

It was a random thought, almost insignificant, but in the days that followed, I just couldn’t shake it. And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to see these characters interact, the more I wanted to see their plots intertwine, the more I knew I was the one who had to write this since GF and SU crossovers were pretty scarce back then (unlike they are now in the new wave of SUF and GF crossovers that I don’t much care for). 

I was in the midst of a writing funk at the time, my ongoing Zelda fics all on hitaus while I began a new year at college. I had more or less lost passion for most of them, with the majority of them except my HW fic receiving low numbers of reviews and feedback (back then I didn’t really know how to promote my fics like I do now). Even so, I started planning on this new project, but not without a bit of hesitation since I’d never really worked with GF or SU characters before. But I began plotting out a chapter list (the original UF chapter list has been lost to the ages, I wrote it in an old homework planner during class), and I had decided that I wanted to try my hand at making this thing a comic. A hand drawn comic. And given that my drawing abilities were... subpar at best, yeaaaaah it wasn’t the best idea....

Still, I got through two parts of UF’s “first chapter” and posted them on here (they’re still up somewhere if you wanna go back and cringe hardcore at my bad old art). Still, it had taken me a loooooong ass time to draw them and even more crazy was the fact that my laptop had crashed during that span of time, leaving me with only my shitty iPad to work with. Frustrated, I decided to forego the stupid comic altogether and write the damn thing as a fanfic, knowing I could get chapters out way faster than I ever would have by drawing it. 

So I wrote the prologue and posted it on September 29, 2015. And let’s just say right off the bat people were excited. I’d never seen so many reviews on the first chapter of one of my fics before and those numbers only started to go up the more I posted. I was jazzed up to work on this fic, pushed on by this encouragement as I decided to build my relatively reblogging-heavy blog up around it. Toward the end of the year, when I was nearing the end of arc 1, I decided to get myself a drawing tablet and download Sai so I could begin drawing my own art for the fic, leading to me first passes of character designs and UF’s old fugly cover lol

Still, I kept going with it into 2016, getting through both arcs 2 and 3 as the fic only began to grow more and more with more engagement from its fans. AUs were made, fanfics and fanarts of my fic were created, it was a glorious time to be alive, even going into 2017, 2018, 2019, and now. And all the while I kept at it, coming up with sequel plans, taking breaks every now and then to refresh and recoup, and to give the new pet project I started in 2019 (Keys to the Kingdom) some time to shine. But I’ve still never truly lost passion for UF. It’s something I tend to see through to completion, no matter how long it takes.

Fast forward again and now its 2020. I’m 24 years old and still going strong with it, having just completed RMD, an arc ender that I always hoped would be my magnum opus for this fic (and I’m so incredibly proud of how it turned out). Both GF and SU have ended, their stories both told and their endings inspiring me in so many different ways. And while those stories are over, I still strive to keep these characters, or perhaps, my own unique takes on them, living on to tell new stories, to have new adventures right alongside the canon ones. To keep their flames going in the same spirit and hopefully try to follow, even in some small way, in the footsteps of Rebecca Sugar and Alex Hirsch, two of my absolute heroes in the animation world. 

So UF turns 5 this week. It’s half a decade old and it’s nearing its 100th chapter. Its passed the 1 million word mark quite some time ago and I’m sure it’ll pass 2 million before its all said and done. It’s accumulated thousands of reviews, hundreds of followers/favorites, plenty of incredible fan interactions across the board. It’s 9th arc is about to begin, leading the way into 2 more before its all said and done. And from there it’ll only grow when I eventually write UF2 and UFF sometime way down the line. All things I could have never imagined doing as a lonely college sophomore back in 2015 when I was just starting this fun little experiment off. But as for where we are with it no, well, I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

So here we are in the future. And, well, for UF at least, I’d say it’s pretty bright. 

[404botnotfound]

i’ve been sitting on this for like 2 months now bc i was trying to churn out a second half to it, but i decided it works well enough on its own considering that second part wasn’t wanting to come out.

i missed my vitriolic best buds circa 2011, so here they are, refreshed and given a facelift in this the yr of our lord 2018

i was too lazy to come up with something completely original for quinn in a marvel verse specifically so i just kind of booted her through timeline/fractured reality shenanigans given that my FFXV verse is also mixed with FFXIII

cc @editoress @zacksfairest

SERIES: MCU

WORD COUNT: 1,338

CHARACTERS: Quinn Leonis, Loki, Cassandra (mentioned), Thor (mentioned)

Loki liked to think of himself as a being with a decent amount of patience.

Many of his talents, interests, and daily grievances (perfecting and performing magic, setting up tricks and jokes at the expense of others, and dealing with thor on a regular basis, respectively) required a fair or better amount of the stuff, and he had had thousands of years to hone it.

Which made it absolutely, unequivocally incredible that Quinn was now testing every shred of it.

It shouldn't come as a surprise to him given how well she and his brother got along and that he'd known her for nearly three hundred and fifty years by this point, and yet...

Half a dozen rooms, twice as many cloaking tricks and misdirects, and still Loki had not been able to dodge her sudden and tenacious fixation on him for the last hour and a half. 

He has to commend her for the impressive ability to follow someone who is both talented in vanishing and also does not want to be followed, but he was long since tired of the game and would like it to end.

Scowling, Loki snaps the book in his hands shut and lifts his eyes to settle a sharp glare on Quinn. Sitting backwards on a couch across the room from him, the blonde woman is returning his stare with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

They stare at each other for several silent moments, and then he cocks his head to one side, furrows his brow at her, and asks, "Are you done?"

Her eyes narrow even further.

Loki rolls his own and then reopens his book.

"What's her name?"

Loki, God of Mischief, son of Odin and Frigga, crown prince of Asgard and brother of Thor, closes his eyes and takes a very long, very deep breath to reign back in his patience. "I will not hesitate to turn you into a frog, Quinn."

"You turned Thor into one last week. You're running out of ideas." She quips without missing a beat, and he fixes her with another look that hopefully conveys the depth of his aggravation with her. She either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "What's her name?"

It's insulting that she thinks he'd turn her into a frog immediately after suggesting he would.

"I am not running out of ideas. Frogs are irritating creatures and fitting ones to turn the both of you into when you're being irritating." He grouses, settling back in his chair.

He'd catch her off guard and turn her into a turtle.

And then flip her over.

"You're ignoring the question."

He hears shifting from where she sits across the room, but doesn't care enough to look up from the words on the pages in front of him. "Yes, I am." He agrees.

In spite of his blithe response, she doesn't sound frustrated. "Answer the question."

Loki hums. "No."

More shifting, but blessed silence otherwise, and Loki dares to hope she's given up and left the room. Then a goblet smacks him in the forehead, and he nearly falls from his seat. More out of surprise than anything else, and that's almost more humiliating.

After hastily righting himself, Loki fixes her with a baleful stare once more--which she unflinchingly returns. "What is it you're after and why is it you're so certain I'm seeing a 'her'?"

"Heimdall's my buddy, Loki." She responds, the smile on her face catlike and satisfied, and Loki curses the gatekeeper's all-seeing eyes.

He's going to have to find some method of cloaking his activities in the future--he's not overly fond of the idea of being watched, ever, but he's particularly not fond of it in this case, with something he hates admitting feels so deeply personal.

And of course, of course, he would forget that by some stroke of luck or persistence or some other such combination of her particular charm and likeability she had befriended the gatekeeper that kept most everyone at an impassive arm's distance.

"You look like you just sucked on a lemon," Quinn says, snapping him out of his fuming haze of racing thoughts on how to rectify this glaring oversight he'd somehow made. She shifts again, leaning further over the back of the couch and lifting an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, I imagine I do." Loki replies with a dry tone. "It is an expression I often feel like wearing whenever you or my brother decide that pestering me is an acceptable way to occupy your time."

She frowns at the statement, resting her chin on crossed arms; it's not a pout, not exactly, but he can tell that the expression isn't directed at his comment so much as what he will fully admit to being him dodging the subject. "What's got you so defensive over this?"

"I am not defensive," he snaps, closing the book in his hands as he finally decides he's not going to get the peace he desires to read it. He stands, magically whisking the book away with a flourish of his fingers and a dim flash of light. "I don't know why you're so interested in this but I would greatly appreciate it if you could refrain from prying into my business on future occasions."

Her mouth opens.

"And do not tell my brother."

It closes again. She blinks at him for several seconds, head cocking to one side as she considers. Loki is fully ready to spell her into silence if he needs to, but as he starts to mention this she agrees with a simple "okay."

This actually shocks him into silence himself, and now he is the one blinking at her. "Beg your pardon?"

"Okay." She repeats with a shrug, and the easy way with which the reply comes is more infuriating than her spending an hour and a half dogging his every footstep with the avid determination of a bloodhound. "I'm sorry."

Well. That was...unexpected.

Loki composes himself with a clearing of his throat and begins to move around the group of couches and chairs she's settled into and towards the doorway, her eyes following him as he goes. "Thank you."

"You've been happier lately, Loki." He hears her say and his footsteps halt in the doorway; he turns back around to face her again, a blank expression on his face. "Whoever she is, I'm glad you met her."

For a moment Loki can't decide whether he's more offended by her unsolicited opinion on his behavior or uncomfortable that he evidently may have a looser grasp on it than he thought. He's noticed no conceivable difference.

Close to three hundred and fifty years ago--a blink in the lifespan of an Asgardian--Loki and his brother had found Quinn encased in a crystal slumber, and after waking her she had spent the next decade struggling to recover from a horrific past and a great deal of suffering and pain. It had taken the both of them in their own ways that long to coax her out of the dull, hollow shell of a person she'd seemed determined to retreat into to cope.

It's for this reason that when Loki's expression becomes something menacingly icy in response to her observation and the soft, sincere smile on her face drops, Loki feels bad. He despises it.

She had no reason to butt into his personal business and he had every right to be angry with her.

But even he appreciates the vibrant, warm person she was, and the part of him that continues to feel bad about wiping the smile off her face doesn't enjoy the idea of being the cause. Loki actually enjoyed her presence from time to time.

Infuriatingly persistent and energetic as she was.

Exhaling, his teeth grinding as he turns away from her again, Loki clasps his hands behind his back and stands there debating with himself for a solid minute. Then he resumes leaving the room, and as he rounds the corner into the hall, he offers her one thing:

"Her name is Cassandra."

[rrrawrf]

2 & 6, "Id rather see the world end, in all honesty"

2 is eli and 6 is arvio, and i cannot honestly come up with a way to shove them together in the same place, so i am going to write a quick little thing for each one and just be happy with that (hopefully). we’re gonna start with arvio bc i have a clearer idea for him. @knowledgeispowerandimcorrupt, for this prompt thing.

ARVIO

Arvio’s hands itched to run over the sleek frames of the machines arrayed before him, to pry off their covers and peek inside. He wanted to see if their guts were as well-designed and put together as their outsides, but before he could take more than a few steps forward, he felt a warning squeeze around his ribs.

The mechamancer shot an irritated look over his shoulder. Mock hung between one large man’s thickly-gloved hands, and the only thing that showed the machine was still alive was the occasional, irritated twitch of Mock’s metal tail, like a frustrated feline. Mock was still only about the size of a housecat; six months since its resurrection hadn’t been enough for it to get any larger. Of course, this time, it was for the better - it was impossible for Arvio and Mock to go unremarked, not when one was a mechamancer who should have died decades ago, and the walking, sentient, cat-like machine he called a familiar. The man holding Mock squeezed it again, and Arvio felt a corresponding pressure around his sides.

“Stop that,” he said quietly, stepping back. They couldn’t really hurt Mock just by shaking the little thing around, but Arvio still felt irritated and anxious that they had his familiar, and he did not. “I just wanted a look.”

“We’re not that stupid,” Clara said, and gestured with two of her fingers. Two of her soldiers, a man and a woman, moved up to take Arvio’s arms. For all that he was supposed to be the rebel Straxians’ one last hope at restoring the country to a monarchy, he felt more like a prisoner than the king they decided he had to become.

Arvio didn’t resist, even as the man’s grip on his right arm was tight enough to bruise. Clara stepped past Arvio, her boots clacking against the floor as she looked up at the enormous machines of war ranged around them. “They are beautiful, are they not?”

They were, in a frightening, fascinating way, Arvio agreed. “Who designed them?”

“Lux,” Clara said enviously. “We found these blueprints in his lair, once you had - disposed of him. I couldn’t find a team of engineers up to the task of building them properly… but you can fix any of their mistakes, I’m sure.”

If Lux designed them, then Arvio’s suspicions were confirmed. These were machines of war. He closed his eyes, and Mock gave a low, ear-grating noise that made its holder give it another shake.

“Quit that,” Arvio snapped, trying to pull out of his captors’ hands. He almost freed himself from the woman, but then she kicked the back of his legs and they forced him to kneel. 

“It wouldn’t be necessary, if you would just tell me that you’ll join us,” Clara said. Arvio rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue in exasperation. “We know how to destroy a familiar, Arvio, even one so - bizarre as that one. Help us, and you - and Mock - will have your very own throne.”

Clara was wrong. She was that stupid. Arvio could see every one of these machines she wanted so badly for him to bring to life, and that was all he needed. Fine. She’d get her wish.

“In all honesty,” Arvio said, as engines clattered and roared to life all around them, “I’d rather see the world end.”

ELI

Playing a game of ‘would you rather’ with a supervillain was not the way Eli thought he’d spend his Friday evening. It had gotten him out of another three hours of listening to Daniel expound on his list of reasons they shouldn’t sever the knot, though, which was a blessing of sorts. Of course, if one of the questions had been ‘would you rather be here, or at home with your daughters and your rabbits,’ Eli would pick the second option.

Instead of asking that, though, the young man wiped his mouth on his sleeve and passed Eli the bottle. It was a little tricky to drink when one arm was in a makeshift sling and the other was handcuffed to a metal staircase railing, but Eli managed. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking on the job, but in this case, Eli felt it was better to just go along with what Spook wanted, which meant sharing a bottle of whiskey and playing the sort of game college-aged Mormons still thought was a fun way to pass the time, instead of clubbing or tagging trains with graffiti or some other properly risque behavior better befitting eighteen-to-twenty-nine-year-old unmarried adults.

(Eli wouldn’t know, but one of his younger siblings had been hanging around with some Mormon YSAs, whatever that meant, and had all sorts of hilarious stories of how they spent their time.)

He’d stumbled on the idea that Spook might have been raised Mormon quite by accident, but Eli couldn’t be sure; his sister might’ve converted, but Eli still knew very little about that church. On the other hand, Spook was engaging in underage drinking, which was definitely not a very Mormon activity, as well as supervillainy (which might very well be a very Mormon activity. Eli didn’t want to make assumptions about someone’s religion.)

“Would you rather,” Spook asked finally, his words slurring only a tiny bit even though they had already gone through one bottle, “set a bomb where no one would die, or go to prison for twenty years?”

This whole conversation had gone in a similar fashion. Eli considered Spook a little sadly. It was obvious something was wrong with the poor kid’s head, but it was also obvious that he had picked the bomb option. He had very nearly crushed half of Eli’s team last week, when they were all supposed to be working for Spook.

Javed had pulled them off the contract the second it became clear the kid was going off the rails, but it hadn’t been in time for Eli to get out. He had been stuck here for five days, now, wondering what was going on up above them. Spook had finally shown up a couple hours ago, miserable and bleeding from a cut on the side of his face, and for all that he’d nearly died because of the would-be villain, Eli couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

“Depends,” Eli said, settling back as easily as he could. “Would anyone still get hurt by the bomb?” He didn’t hand the bottle back, because he still felt vaguely responsible for making sure Spook drank as little as possible. The kid was only taller than him at the moment because he slumped over his knees several steps above him; Eli was on the landing. His shoulder and arm ached terribly from the awkward position of being cuffed to the wall, his other arm had a sharp pain that flared whenever he moved, and he seriously needed to use the restroom.

Spook wrapped his skinny arms around his equally skinny legs and rocked back and forth, shoulders hunched. Throughout the game, Eli had teased out what had happened - not only to the city above them, but in Spook’s private life. People didn’t just wake up and decide to terrorize a city with bombs and arson and weird riddles. Something had pointed Spook in that direction.

“Ten people would end up in the hospital,” Spook mumbled into his knees, “maybe - maybe including some friends.”

Eli closed his eyes. Dammit. Spook would be lucky if he ended up with just twenty years in prison, and not have Mercury Independent baying for blood. “Prison,” he said heavily, and watched Spook cringe, as if Eli had condemned him.

It was his turn. Eli took another drink when he noticed Spook reaching for the bottle. A little disappointed, Spook sat back. Eli tipped his head against the cold concrete wall and thought. “Would you rather apologize for hurting someone, or put more people in danger?”

It was as close as he could come to asking Spook what he was going to do - or what he had already done. Eli kept the alcohol close to his chest so that Spook wouldn’t try for it again. The kid let out a sudden wail and buried his face in his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, “I’m so, so sorry, I can’t - I can’t stop now, they’ll - they’ll kill me -”

Eli stared, then sighed. Enough was enough. His arm changed from flesh to the same metal that the stair railing was composed of. When Eli broke the handcuffs with a sharp jerk, Spook barely twitched from his fetal position.

The change swept over the rest of Eli’s body; he already knew better than to come at Spook when he was merely skin and bone. Spook flinched when Eli touched him, and Eli tensed in turn - but instead of hurting him, Spook relaxed as Eli gathered him into a hug, ignoring the stab of pain in his broken arm when Spook jostled it.

“It’s too late,” Spook mumbled, letting Eli cradle him like a child. “It’s too late - I-I’m so sorry, I ruined everything, and - and now they’re gonna kill me if I stop now.”

“It’s not too late,” Eli said soothingly, and hoped desperately that he wasn’t lying. “It never is, Alma.”

Spook flinched at his real name, and Eli just held him a little tighter. After a long, long moment of Alma sobbing into Eli’s chest, he pushed the bigger man away, and then fumbled something out of his jacket, and into Eli’s hand.

A chill ran down Eli’s spine as he saw what it was.

“Would,” Alma started, choking down a sob and staring at the floor. “Would you rather - would you rather kill one person and save the world, or - or watch it all end?”

Alma still held the barrel of the handgun, keeping it pointed at his chest as he forced out the words. Eli stared, cold down to his very core. Flinching the entire time, he brought his other, broken arm out of its sling, and forced Alma to let go of the gun he’d shoved into Eli’s hand.

It took a moment, but Eli finally unchambered the pistol, gritting the teeth against the pain, and threw the now unloaded gun behind him, further down the stairs.

“I’d rather watch the world end, in all honesty.��

[eytanbayme]

He’d begun to refer to his three favorite children as The Omertà; as in, “No one’s to bother me for the next hour, I’m meeting with The Omertà.” He didn’t know what the word meant exactly, but lately, when he was supposed to be reading national security reports, he’d locked the Oval office door and watched the Godfather trilogy over and over, and at the beginning of the third installment - his favorite - there was an ad for four leather bound Mario Puzo novels, one of which was called ‘Omertà,’ and damn did that have a nice ring to it. And so here was The Omertà, altogether in the Oval Office.

“I get that everyone thinks Brando is the greatest actor who ever lived,” he said from behind his President desk, “but what they don’t know is that Andy Garcia is very underrated, believe me. He just might be better.”

“Really, dad?” Eric asked. “Better than Brando?” “I don’t know,” Don Jr. said. “Remember the Freshman?”

“That movie was great,” said Eric. Then in a nasal voice: “Bueller. Bueller.”

“That’s not it,” Don Jr. said.

“Yes, it is!"

“He might be, dad,” Ivanka said in that authoritative way of hers where she held her fathers gaze and her brothers shut up in awe.

“See? I told you,” he said to the boys. In truth, he didn’t actually believe Andy Garcia was a better actor than Marlon Brando, but he hated that everyone thought Brando was so talented, like he was some national treasure. It was just acting - really, really good, heartbreaking, emotionally moving acting that struck him at his core as representative of what it meant to struggle at, and experience life as, a human being - but still just acting. Unlike glass and concrete buildings with laser etched signs out front bearing his name, Brando's performances died after the movie ended and the TV descended back into its 24 karat box at the foot of his bed. He’d never say out loud, but he was secretly happy when Brando died, over a decade ago, because it meant that the actor was no longer a threat to his own prestige. A lot of people thought Brando was the greatest, but now he was dead, and what better opportunity to show everyone that he, The Donald, was actually the greatest. He realized then that he should say this aloud and as The Omertà waited silently, he tweeted that he was so glad overrated Marlon Brando is dead bc now every1 can know who is actually the greatest!! DJT!!! Some other people he was looking forward to dying were Michael Jordan, Steven Spielberg, That Guy Who Everyone Mentions When They’re Talking About Soccer, Muslim Malalia Whatever-Her-Face, Madonna and The Queen of England.

He put his phone away and leaned over the alligator skin desktop, “So here’s what’s happening: We’re privatizing the hotel and gaming industry. We’re going to take it back from the people and make it all great again. No more crappy casinos and motels littering the country.” “But it’s already privatized,” Don Jr. said. “You mean you want to make it publicly owned?” “Whatever you want to call it. I’m saying it will all be Trump brand. Everything from Sally and Dave’s Stupid Bed and Breakfast in Crappytown, Maine to the MGM Grand on the Strip. All Trump, all ours.”

“How are we supposed to manage hundreds of thousands of businesses all of a sudden?” Eric asked. “It sounds like a lot of work.”

“What?”

“Will people even think this is a good idea?” Don Jr. wondered.

“What will happen to the owners of all those businesses?” Eric said. “They might have to start from scratch.”

“People might hate us for it.” Don Jr. said.

“They won’t hate us,” Ivanka said in that way of hers again. “We can do it and it’s going to be great. They'll love us for it. This is probably the best idea I’ve ever heard.”

The Donald grinned. “Exactly.”

“But is this even legal?” Eric asked.

“It’s one hundred percent legal. These are failing businesses. They need us.”

“It feels a little like stealing,” said Don Jr.

“It’s not, Don. Stop it. I got Jeff dealing with Congresss. You just be ready to sign the paperwork and hire the contractors, we’re gonna refurb everything in gold, platinum and diamond. There won’t be an Airbnb in this country without a hundred thousand square foot ballroom out the back.”

“Okay, dad.” Don said. “Sounds awesome.”

“Yeah,” Eric agreed. “One thing though, you promise?”

The Donald paused for a second to almost reflect upon himself, but he didn’t. “Of course I promise."

Just then the intercom came to life and his secretary - the not important kind - said the Attorney General Jeff Sessions was here.

“Okay. Send in our Jeff session,” DJT winked at Eric, who blushed. Sessions entered through the door that looked like it was trying to camouflage itself a section of wall and The Donald said, “I was just explaining the plan to The Omertà. Privatization! My new favorite word.”

“You mean nationalization, sir.”

“Whatever. The kids have it all worked out. They couldn’t be more excited."

“Right. Listen, I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t do it. Congress wasn’t into it. They thanked you for taking the time to bring them the proposal, but they can’t sign off.”

“What?”

“Maybe we can try again next year. Maybe we can ram it down the Senate's throat or use some kind of eminent domain angle, but we got to shelve it.”

The Donald stared at his palms. His meaty palms. His ‘meats’ as he liked to refer to them.'Meet my meat,' he’d said to countless world leaders and dignitaries before shaking their hands on tarmacs and state ballrooms around the globe. He wanted to wrap his meats around Jeff Sessions stupid throat. He had vouched for this man when no one else would and now he couldn’t do the one thing he asked of him. “That’s not fair,” he mumbled.

“Sir?” Sessions asked.

The Omertà looked confused.

“Let me tell you something,” DJT said, “This deal is good for everyone. It creates jobs. Name one person who wouldn’t stand to gain from this? You cant! Nothing says wealth and success better than Trump. I want this! And you said you could make it happen.”

“Yeah,” Don Jr echoed. “You said.”

“Yeah!” said Eric.

“Kids!” The Donald said, “Calm down. We don’t want a scene.”

“But he said so,” said Don Jr. “You promised and said that he would say so and now you’re going back on the promise you just made.”

“Easy, Don Jr.” The Donald felt the room getting away from him.

“No, Don Jr’s right,” Eric said. “Dads aren't supposed make promises and then take back their promises.”

The Donald looked at Ivanka for some levity, but she was staring at the floor. He turned his attention back to Sessions. “The Omertà is getting angry and I assure you it aint fun when they’re angry. They had their hearts set on this and you ruined it. I highly suggest you fix this.”

“But, I can’t.”

Don Jr then stood up calmly. He went to the fireplace and removed the painting of George Washington above it.

“Son?” Sessions asked.

But Don Jr. smashed it on the edge of a solid gold end table and it fell to the floor in tatters.

“Lord!” Sessions cried out. “Washington sat for that painting! It’s the only thing that survived the fire of 1814.” Something wet was dripping on his legs, and he realized that the other Trump son was standing very close to him. The boy’s pants were unzipped and he was urinating on him. “What in the name!"

“You said, dad!” Eric cried. “You said!”

Don Jr. hurled a crystal bust of Winston Churchill across the room and it exploded against the safe where the nuclear codes were stored.

The Donald stood up and moved behind his giant Presidents chair. No one knew what The Omertà could do when they were denied something he promised them, but Ivanka was still sitting which gave him a measure of relief.

“You better get this deal done, Jeff Sessions,” spit was flying off Eric’s lips and landing in the man’s eye. His penis was still out of his pants.

“I can’t,” Sessions pleaded. “There’s nothing we can do. Our hands are tied.”

The Donald looked down at his meats, they weren’t tied at all. He watched as Eric bit Jeff Sessions in the ear. “Now Eric,” he said. “Take it easy.”

“You promised!” the boy cried.

Don Jr. was setting the curtains on fire and smoke began to fill the room. The Donald knew he should have gotten the fire-proof curtains - the same thing had happened on Park Ave countless times - but, to be honest, he kind of liked the high pitch wail of the smoke alarm. Was there anything more relaxing than a noise so loud it drowned out life's constant self doubts and pervading sense of mediocrity? Was there any better way of escaping his wants and frustrations for a few fleeting, yet glorious moments than the ear drum popping, migraine inducing, arthritis stoking, high decibel cry of a cheap, Chinese-made, plastic and wire board gizmo that left the taste of matches in the back of his mouth? The Donald didn’t think so, and as that piercing wail began, he closed his eyes for a second to let it run its oh-so-delightful course through his body. But then he remembered Ivanka, he couldn’t let her out of his sight. And when he opened his eyes, her chair was empty. He looked at the platinum relief of himself hanging on the wall to his right, he looked at the ‘Dear Leader’-style mock-up statue that was set to be installed in front of all government buildings by the flag. “Where’s Ivanka!” He shouted.

“Sir,” blood was pouring from Session's ear. Eric had him in a choke hold. “Help me?”

“Where’s Ivanka!” He yelled again. The alarm was doing nothing for him, it was just a sound that could have been louder. Where was Ivanka? And then he felt something thin and rigid pierce his left eye. It went in about an inch and then stopped.

“You promised,” Ivanka seethed, clinging to his body like the foam gargoyles who clung to the fake turrets on top of the mixed use office space/Medieval Times arena he’d built outside Camden.

The Donald raised his meats to his shoulders and shook them, he shrieked loud and high and awful, and Eric let go of Jeff, Don Jr. hid behind a case of rub-on tanning lotion he’d agreed to place on the edge of the lectern at his upcoming state of the union, and Ivanka stepped back and dropped the other screwdriver she had planned to take his other eye out with. Even the smoke alarm turned off because, after all, nothing could truly silence his own sense of insufficiency. When he went quiet, he slumped into his President Chair and stared at his desk, and he remembered a time in the late eighties when things weren’t so good….

He was on the verge of bankruptcy, his marriage was in shambles and he was still recovering from his first tummy tuck. He, Ivana and the kids had gone to Dutch County Pennsylvania for the day in a stretch limo to visit Hershey Park. He could have taken them to Great Adventure, which was an hour closer, but secretly he wanted to go to Pennsylvania to stare at some Amish people. There was nothing more satisfying and inspiring to him than watching some idiot Amish pretend that they were still living in the seventeenth century while he was out chasing the gold and diamond encrusted American dream. After an agonizing afternoon at the amusement park, The Donald told the driver to pull over at a roadside country store where he hoped they’d find some. But their were no Amish inside and as the kids picked out flavored honey sticks a personalized keychains, The Donald stepped outside to get some fresh air. He wondered if he was going about his life the wrong way. Maybe he needed to dump the side chick and make it work with Ivana, maybe he needed to start over and take an honest job in Queens. He looked over at his driver, donning a boat admirals cap he told him he had to wear if he wanted to work for him. The man smoked a cigarette while staring at the sun, low over a hay colored meadow across the road. He seemed content and the Donald wondered for a moment if they could switch places. Would the man even want his life? Would anyone? In the meadow, three horses moseyed up to the edge of the road to chew some grass and when Ivanka strode out of the store, her arms loaded with crap, Don knew what was coming.

“Are those my horses, daddy?”

“No sweetie, let’s get in the car and go home.”

“Where are my horses, Daddy, the one’s you promised you’d get for me?”

“Sweetie, I will one day, but not right now.”

“Are those Ivanka’s horses?” Eric asked running out with his brother, both armed with newly purchased air rifles.

The afternoon unravelled from there. Ivanka clawed eight fingernail-sized frowny face scars under his chin and eyes, and the boys shot out his knee caps at point blank range while calling him horsefucker with more glee than he’d witnessed all day at the chocolate park. Ivana stood there arms crossed, smirking and the driver pretended he’d seen it all before. The horses didn’t look up from their meal.

When Ivana ushered the kids back inside to buy more stuff, Don sat up against the limo’s bumper, blotting blood from his face with his tie, his useless legs swelling inside his cotton suit pants like sausages filling out casings, and almost learned a lesson. He remembered a song, part of a song, by those guys who looked a little like women he’d probably fuck— You can’t always something something . But before he got the rest, a kid in burlap pants and a shirt that must have been stitched together with twine led, not a horse, but a mule - a fucking mule - down the road in front of him.

“Sir,” the kid said, nodding.

And The Donald did something he didnt often do: he laughed. He laughed loud and hard and smacked his thigh and shook his head like he’d never been told a funnier joke. He pushed himself off the street and said to his driver, “you see that guy?” Then he shouted for his family. “Let’s go get you a whole pack of horses, Ivanka!”

And he did.

And now, back in the Oval Office, staring at his desk with his one working eye. He remembered the rest of those lyrics and he knew that this scar wouldn’t heal the way his face and legs did so many years ago. And he knew that he couldn’t nationalize the hotel and gaming industry because that was unfair. And he knew that Brando was the best and his death was everyones loss. And he understood that you couldn't always get what you wanted, even if you wanted it really, really badly. And that was just fine. And the first thing he did after the doctors patched up his eye socket was delete that tweet.