#the last true mouthpiece' LIKE EXCUSE ME?????????

[p4nishers]

crowley, drunk off his ass: and i was yk just some fucked up soul born in cold and rain but he was my fucking sunlight or whatever

hozier, frantically writing on a napkin: HHHMMMM TELL ME MORE

[spider-xan]

That last post was inspired by me seeing a tag on an old post where OP said they don't really like how abled people try to write internalized ableism for the Lizard bc it usually just ends up being ableism expressed through a disabled character as a mouthpiece, and they are absolutely right and from my personal experience, this is especially true in the TASM/NWH fandom where internalized ableism - which the film itself takes to an unchallenged extreme - gets like, woobified as some kind of tragedy porn uwu for shipping or blorbofication, rather than being a careful nuanced examination of the grieving process he might realistically undergo, and considering how wildly ableist and 'eugenics is real' those films are, maybe a more constructive way to wrestle with the bigotry is to actually critique the ableism itself on a Doylist level instead of reconciling it on a Watsonian one bc some things just cannot be fixed by in universe explanations and excuses - and I say this all the time, but characters are ultimately not real people bc they are narrative devices written by creatives who make choices with certain goals in mind for the story and its theme, in addition to holding biases, even implicit ones.

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Impasse - A Vaderdala Oneshot

“You forget something, Lord Vader.”

Vader flinched, the voice as clear as a bell yet as foreign as the icy vacuum of space. He found himself frozen in place, the bulk of his hefty frame suddenly unbearable. Inside his chest, he felt the searing fingers of remorse and the scalding flames of rage warring for control. 

Against better judgment, he shifted to turn around. Against better judgment, he let down his guard and ignored unclipping his lightsaber. He knew the face he would find before he saw it, but he was still not prepared for the wave of emotion that spilled forth as he came face to face with his own ghosts. This one, he had expected long dead and buried.

“Padmé,” he gasped, but the voice that came out was blunt and deep and void of affection.

Still, the shock bled through. Padmé was as beautiful as the day he’d last seen her. Eyes fierce and determined, dark hair coming loose from her neatly tied bun. Her face was set in a scowl, blaster drawn and aiming straight for the chest panel on Vader’s chest as if it were a marked target meant for practice and precision fire. The air had shifted, the tension thick and heavy and oppressive as they stared each other down. No, more accurately Padmé’s intense, fiery glare was bearing down on Vader. Vader felt his anger dissipate the moment he met that stare; the ice cold regret and guilt crippling him inside out as it won the impasse.

“You said you had come to destroy the Rebellion. I am the last leader standing here. I alone. Will you destroy me now?” Padmé hissed through a clenched jaw, cheeks flushed but her hands steady.

Vader was familiar with the vow he had made, but now it seemed an impossible lie. Before his mind’s eye, he had envisioned old men and snot nosed kids. Politicians and traitors and cowards, incapable of accepting the Emperor’s grand design and his expert vision. The future was bright, the Sith had reclaimed their natural state in the circle of life - atop the ladder. Only fools and children would oppose such an evident supply of unlimited power. Yet, Padmé seemed to care for none of these things. Time had not slowed her down, it had not thawed the ice built in her heart - the ice Vader himself had put there.

“Well?” she pressed, voice tight, calm and collected.

The words escaped before Vader had any chance to rein himself in. Perhaps he never intended to.

“No.”

“No?” she repeated, as if mocking him but her expression revealed surprise and disbelief.

“Aren’t you here to execute your Rebel traitors?”

Vader said nothing, instead he reached for the saber strapped to his belt. He watched Padmé tense, watched her shoulder come up and the finger on the trigger twitch. In what might have been a gesture of surrender, he simply tossed his weapon between them. The gesture was barely a flick of his wrist, but it sent the hilt skidding across the smooth floors until it came to an premeditated gentle stop at Padmé’s feet. She glanced down to regard the token, an unreadable tinge of something somber gleaming in her eyes for a split second. When she looked back up, Vader had not moved. He stood with his hands at his sides, the bombardment outside the underground bunker shaking its hull; straining the already flickering lights.

“I will not fight you,” said Vader finally, as if that would be enough to soothe the woman’s stubborn spirits.

She furrowed her brow, the corner of her lips curling into a half sneer of disgust. It stung, and Vader might have recoiled from that alone had he not been the man he was. Changed, remolded and retooled. His heart had been ripped out once, and still Padmé’s presence willed its withered carcass to beat and blossom. At the same time, she tore it to shreds once more with the disdain her face held for him. He sensed it inside her, swirling and expanding into a palpable loathing. It cloaked her, surrounded her like a cloud. It reeked of pain, sorrow, and betrayal.

“You don’t know me. If you won’t fight, I will,” she said, every word calculated and sincere.

“‘Aggressive negotiations’.”

It was merely a statement, but its meaning rang true. Padmé straightened up, eyes suddenly wide as a ghost of horrified recognition filtered past her defenses. it was gone in the blink of an eye, but the colour that had drained from her already pale face was harder to conceal.

“Who told you?” she snarled, shifting the aim of her blaster towards Vader’s heart - knowing it would do no harm, but the gesture hit him like a slap across the face either way.

She was questioning how he had learned about her and The Jedi. Anakin Skywalker, her husband. Perhaps she had her sneaking suspicions, she must. But her aura betrayed none of it, it remained outraged and unsettled and adamant in her quest.

“You did.”

Padmé opened her mouth to deliver another scathing retort, but she snapped it close again. A tremor passed her slight frame, and it did not go unnoticed. Her resolve was faltering and waning, the lie she had convinced herself to believe no less a stretch of the imagination than the mental gymnastics Vader himself had been performing for the past four years. Ever since Mustafar, ever since he lost everything. Now, that very everything lost stood before him. Now, she was once more within his reach.

“I’m sorry. I tried,” he heard himself say, a feeble apology not nearly sufficient to excuse the heinous acts he had committed.

The voice was still not his own, but the words were earnest. Padmé lowered her blaster in slow, jerky motions but her eyes were transfixed on his. At the very least, Vader felt their gaze burn straight into his soul; into the furnace of his heart that had frozen over a million times. 

“You’re safe.”

It was a ridiculous profession, Padmé’s very existence as part of the Rebellion was a death sentence. But she was alive, she was well and healthy and stable and here. She had not died. He had failed her, but she had lived. He took one step towards her, feeling just as wary and insecure as she looked. She blinked rapidly, shaking her head in a tiny micromovement. She mouthed something, but there was no sound accompanying the motion. Vader understood her fear, yet it pained him to no end. He was unrecognizable, locked within this jettblack prison of durasteel, cybernetics and synth flesh. There was so little left of his physical body, and even less of the man Padmé had once loved.

“It can’t be…” she whispered, hoarse as the tendons at the sides of her neck strained.

Vader felt the urge to cry, an urge so overpowering. An urge that had not found him since Mustafar, since the fall of the Jedi and the Republic. He had no tears to cry, no measure to shed tears by. His retinas, his tear ducts were long since eaten away by flames and embers. Still, his eyes stung. A warmth pressed behind them, a heaviness bearing down on his chest like a fist squeezing the air out of his lungs. Lungs he no longer had.

“Do what you must. I am not afraid to die.”

Padmé’s eyes widened, mouth falling open as realization dawned upon her. She understood. Vader expected her to back away, expected her to cry, to yell, to fire. Anything. Instead, she stood stone faced. As frail as porcelain, yet as sturdy as the brightest star in the Galaxy. Now, she took a step towards him. Then another. Closing the gap, inch by inch, foot by foot. She tipped her head back, never once drawing her eyes from the opaque crimson lenses of Vader’s eyes that substituted eyes. They served for the damaged, half blind eyes hidden behind.

“What have they done to you?” Padmé’s resolute voice murmured; full of compassion and love, emotions that seemed to have sprung out of the ether.

Yet, what she really meant was; what have you done to yourself?

Vader did not falter as she stopped but a breath away. Her trembling, slender fingers reached for his face plate. Her tiny hand brushed over the mouthpiece, running over the sharp angles and the netted grill. A breath was forced through it, with a loud hiss and the smell of sanitizer and bacta fluids followed it. Padmé’s eyes were round, warm, and mournful. They were glassy, her cheeks flushed but it was Vader who wished more than ever that he might shed a tear. If she were to strike him down, he deserved it. He would allow it. He would let her.

“Anakin.”

It was not a question. She knew, it was evident in the pitiful, feeble smile of shock and relief alike that grazed her lips. It was gone in an instant, but it had said enough. So used to denouncing his name, denouncing himself and all he was and had been - Vader found himself unable to deflect her. She was right. He had been wrong for so long, choosing to live in darkness and denial. No more.

“Yes.”

Anakin meant it.

****

Have a short Vaderdala AU.

[shootthemessenger]

if the heavens ever did speak, she’s the last true mouthpiece [b.d.h.]

billie dean howard x fem!reader

summary: idk this came to me while cooking ramen

disclaimer: strong language, sexual nature, smut

gif belongs to @onlysarah235678

Billie couldn’t keep herself from staring; between the swift way you floated around the room, and the dress that hugged your curves so deliciously. She recognized that dress - she had picked it up in a small shop in New York and made you promise you’d wear something nice underneath it for her.

She couldn’t tell if you remembered where the dress was from and deliberately wore it or if you were only wearing it because you knew how lovely you looked in it.

Either way, it was hard for her to deny that you radiated nothing but confidence and elegance as you made your rounds with the producers and actors and actresses; the cherry-red smile never once leaving the delicate curve of your lips.

And she hated you for it.

Specifically, she hated the way you clung to your girlfriend’s arm like a three-piece suit fitted to mold perfectly around her.

She hated the way you wouldn’t look her in the eyes with a soft bat those mesmerizing eyelashes the way you used to.

She hated that she was forced to watch you pad around with the woman that was taking up the other side of your bed; her side of your bed.

Ironically enough, she even hated that she hated you.

When you finally did meet her eyes - as you were escorted to your seat, which had conveniently been placed across the table from her - you sent nothing more than a soft glance which ended as soon as it had began.

She wondered, briefly, if she was imagining the thickness of the tension in the air and if her psycho-babbling with the producer next to her was enough to mask the fact that she was having trouble concentrating.

It only proved to be more difficult as your thumb reached to swipe a pool of chocolate syrup from your bottom lip.

Once again, your eyes met hers, and she wondered if she had imagined the way your pupils dilated as you sucked the mess from the pad of your thumb.

Her spine twitched as she blinked away her own thoughts, submerging herself back into the conversation she was now struggled to keep a hold of.

She could feel your heel bump against her shin underneath the table, “I’m so sorry,” you apologized, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

She almost forgot where she was as she basked to the smoothness in your voice, the soft tone dripping from your lips like honey.

Her eyes darted to your, distracted, girlfriend before landing on you again.

Now she was angry for an entirely different reason.

She was angry that the woman in front of her had the audacity to focus on anything other than you when you were all she could think about.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” She mumbled, hoping she could mask that sharpness in her voice as her eyes trailed down to your chest where she proceeded to stare at the curvature of your breasts.

It was getting harder for her to deny the urgency to bend you over the table and take you right there in front of everyone.

But she refrained, mostly because of the intrusiveness of the idea that maybe you weren’t still in love with her the way she was with you. Maybe you were only screwing with her because you knew the sight of you still make her weak in the knees, no matter how many months it had been since you had broken up.

The rattling in her brain was interrupted by your voice, excusing yourself from the table and sauntering towards the restroom. She watched your hips swing, blinking back the images of your naked ass pressed against her shower wall.

If this is how the night was going to be; she was absolutely fucked.

She waited a moment, glancing around the room before she impulsively pushed her way out of her seat and stumbled towards the bathroom.

She carefully swung the door open, examining the room for anyone. The bathroom was empty other than you standing at the sink with your hands under the runnng water.

She leaned against the wall, examining your face through the mirror before finding the courage to speak. “So, you’ve got a new girlfriend.” She spoke sternly.

You met her eyes in the mirror, almost missing the way the lock clicked behind her. “I wouldn’t call her my girlfriend, hell, she’s hardly my friend.” You let out a defeated laugh, turning off the water.

Billie moved closer to you, pressed her hand to your hip and pulling you flush against her. She couldn’t fight the urge to breathe you in, your scent clouding her senses.

You withered underneath her, shuddering at the feeling of her breath against your ear. She was silent for a moment as she looked you over, “Dress looks good on you.” She stated shortly, finally pressing her lips against your shoulder.

You fought a hum, nearly paralyzed under her as you watched her through the mirror. Her lips traveled past the strap of the dress, her teeth pulling it to snap back against your skin. You whimpered at the burning sensation left on your sensitive skin.

You could see Billie’s eyes visibly darken as her hand began dancing down the outside of your thigh, “Almost forgot what you looked like underneath me.” She watched you carefully, trying to pick up on any indication that you wanted her to stop.

But the gentle pressure of your ass pushing against her made her smile. She took the dress in her fist and pulled it up over your thighs. She would have been suprised at the black-colored lingerie underneath if she hadn’t known you better.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, “Did you wear this for her, hmm?” She was toying with you just as you had toyed with her early. And, man, were you paying for it.

Her fingers found the hem of your underwear and traced along the burning skin. Before you could even let out the breath you were holding, her hand dipped under the thin fabric to swipe a soft line between your folds.

You cried out softly, gripping the edge of the counter until the skin of your knuckles turned white. You could hear the sound of her humming just over the blood rushing in your ears. “So wet.” She praised with a smile.

“Stop teasing,” you begged through a ragged breath, watching her face break out into an evil smirk. She met your eyes, glancing down the mirror at the sight of her hand dissapeared underneath your underwear.

“Why should I?” She almost sounded proud of the desperation leaking from your voice.

You grit your teeth as her thumb pressed teasingly against your clit, “Because you’ve already proved that no one is going to fuck me as good as you can. Don’t make me wait any longer to cum than I already have.”

She rewarded you with a soft circular motion against your clit, holding you flush against her with her free hand as you attempted to buck your hips in a chase for the orgasm you so-desperately needed.

The moans that began to fall from your lips were much appreciated by Billie as she pushed her finger inside of you, “Look at you, moaning like a desperate little mess. Such a fucking slut trying to get off on my fingers.”

Her hand traveled up to pull the dress below your chest, taking a nipple between her fingers and rolling gently. “God,” she mumbled in approval, her eyes locked on your closed ones in the mirror.

She could feel your knees buckling underneath you as you held yourself up against the sink and tried your best to ride her fingers to orgasm.

“Look at me,” she demanded, wrapping her hand around your throat. When you made no effort to open your eyes, she continued, “I have half a mind to make you scream my name for everyone to hear how needy this cunt is for me. Don’t make me regret giving you what you want without making you work for it. Look. At. Me.” If there was one thing Billie knew how to do, it was excite you.

Your eyes immediately shot open, water pooling in them and face flushed of all color except the rosy-pink blush on your cheeks. God, she wanted to take a picture of you in the moment; completely at her mercy and open to her with no metaphorical barrier between the two of you.

“Billie, I’m going to cum!” You were nearly shouting as she clamped her hand over your mouth. Her fingers worked effortlessly faster against your clit.

“Then be a good girl and cum for mommy.” She finally gave you her blessing. As if a flood gate had opened up, your orgasm rocked through you. A symphony of cries and moans flooded Billie’s ear, such a sweet sound.

She pinned your hips against the skin as you shuttered until finally your legs began to still. “Thank you,” was all you had the energy to mumble out as you looked up at her once again.

Her face broke out into a maniacal smirk, “Oh sweetheart, don’t think I’m done with you yet. I’m going to fuck to until you forget your own name.”

This is not edited and terrible, oops 😅 but hey atleast I’m writing for the first time in so long... :)

Taglist: @mssallymckenna , @proudnlittle , @coxmicbabygirl , @sapphicpaulsxn , @its-soph-xx , @fand0m-obsess3d-g33k , @paulsonix , @madamevirgo , @saucy-sapphic , @kikaykimkim , @billiedeansbottom

[forasecondtherewedwon]

3 Simple Rules for Dating a Centenarian

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes Rating: T Word Count: 2374

Summary: After seeing Steve's shield handed over to some stranger, Sam calls up Bucky, certain he's the one person who can properly commiserate. He doesn't really expect Bucky to answer though (the guy's become a bit of a recluse), or to hear the hints that he might be missing Sam as much as Sam's been missing him. Not that he'd ever say it straight out.

Sam is almost completely still as the feelings rattle through him like a roller coaster’s last run on a derelict track. He only lets it out—the blend of frustration, betrayal, and regret—in the way his fingers squeeze his knee through his jeans, skin damp against the denim. Keeping his hands clasped, and watching those clasped hands, was more grounding, but he needs one of his hands to hold the phone to his ear, and that activity is getting pretty damn tired.

Bucky’s voicemail clicks on for the third time in a row.

“Bucky,” Sam says, “I know you prefer calls to texting, so what are you doing ignoring me, man? Haven’t used your cell in so long that you’ve forgotten how to hit the answer button? At least it rang. That’s something, I guess.”

He sighs away from the speaker where it won’t be recorded for Bucky to hear later. Maybe he did divert his message from the snarky sarcasm he was planning to leave the guy, but Bucky doesn’t need to hear him sigh on top of that.

For a few moments, Sam taps his foot along with the muffled music of his nephews’ video game coming through the closed door. He knows the boys’ routine (and if he ever forgets, he sees the copy Sarah has on the fridge door) and that this isn’t their usual scheduled time for whatever they’re playing out there. Best guess: Sarah wants them hogging the TV so she won’t be tempted to peek at that government-sanctioned shitshow. Sam can’t blame her. Actually, he wonders if she blames him. The disappointment was so clear in her eyes before he stopped making himself meet them. He thought he was doing the right thing when he handed the shield over. Are there people out there who think he’s let them down, or just his sister? Just himself?

He can’t talk to Sarah right now and he’s thankful that she’s giving him some time to himself, but as soon as he got it, he realized he didn’t know what to do with it. Just like that shield. Dialing Bucky over and over—tapping in every number every time because that appears to be part of this pity ritual he’s performing—seemed like the thing he should do. Probably won’t answer. That asshole is terrible at staying in touch. Still, Sam’s heart feels a little heavier with every word closer he gets to the end of this message. Feels like he’s trying to keep the thing afloat in his chest, like his parents’ boat down at the dock. This is what he knows he should do when everything in him wants to sink—reach out, talk to people. Kinda self-sabotage when he picks the one person almost guaranteed not to answer.

Oh, he’ll hear back from Bucky eventually, probably a handful of choppy texts sent in the middle of the night two weeks from now. Sam knows his pattern; Bucky’s chattiest between 3am and 4am, so chatty that what are likely intended as longer blocks of text arrive in broken fragments because he wants to make everything into neat paragraphs, like he’s writing a damn letter, instead of just getting to the point, but he hits send too soon. Sam would teach him—with plenty of mocking and name-calling, but he would teach him—only while he’s been running ops all over the planet, Bucky’s shrunk his own world way down. He’s gone local to the extreme and it aggravates Sam, even though Bucky isn’t his responsibility, isn’t his other inheritance from Steve. It’s sorta just easier to feel like Bucky is a misplaced bequest than to acknowledge that maybe he misses the guy and his sharp-shooter’s eye and his caveman hair. He can’t keep calling him.

“Thought I’d give you a heads-up,” Sam says, voice weary with this half-true excuse. “Maybe you already saw.” He clears his throat and says quickly, “Anyway, guess I’ll hear from you when I hear from you.”

He’s pulling the phone away from his head and has barely ended the call when it’s ringing in his hand. He answers and catches Bucky’s voice saying his name before it’s even back up to his ear.

“Bucky?” Sam says. “You have a senior’s moment and forget where you left your phone?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “I saw it was you and decided to ignore it.”

“But you called back.”

“You wouldn’t quit calling. Seemed like you needed me to tell you directly to knock it off.”

“Jackass.” Sam’s gaze darts to the door, but it’s still shut. No chance Sarah saw him grinning over this easy banter. Always the banter with this idiot. Always easy. He sniffs and turns his chair away from the black TV screen. “Did you see that joker on the news?”

Bucky’s either less self-conscious or more inept because he sighs right into the mouthpiece, an exhausted breath in Sam’s ear that has his fingers fleetingly digging into his knee.

“Couldn’t believe that shit,” Bucky tells him in a rough voice. He’s clearly holding back his own feelings about today’s events and, from the sounds of it, they’re more along the lines of anger, hurt, and a simmering desire to wrench the shield from the arm of the new Captain America. “You know that thing’s supposed to be yours.”

“You saying I should’ve done something to stop it?” Sam demands.

“Coulda.”

Sam forces his shoulders to drop, draws a slow breath in and pushes it back out.

“It wasn’t mine anymore, if it ever was. I gave it to the Smithsonian. They sealed it in this glass case and added it to the exhibit.”

“Not a very tight seal.”

“Guess not,” Sam agrees.

“You shouldn’t have turned it over,” Bucky says. Sam’s silent, frowning, and Bucky goes on. “Forget about the shield being given to somebody else—it shouldn’t have even been in a glass case. Doesn’t belong there.”

“I do just fine without it,” Sam assures him. The practicalities of carrying that shield around are more straightforward to discuss than his yawning uncertainty in the face of Steve’s legacy and his place relative to it. “The shield would only get in the way of the wings.”

“You and those wings.”

“Hey, they carried me over Tunisia recently. Show some respect.”

“Didn’t hear about that,” Bucky says in a tone that’s difficult to interpret, though Sam squints thoughtfully as he listens.

“Yeah, well, I shouldn’t even be telling the likes of you, but it was discrete. As far as the major players are concerned, I was never there.”

“So it was illegal?”

Sam’s head tips back as he laughs hard.

“Why, you wanna turn me in?” he jokes. “Working on the government’s trust? What’s the next level up from a pardon? Knighthood?”

“You are such a pain in the ass,” Bucky groans, which really does make Sam smile.

“I’m sure it would’ve been illegal if you were there,” he says automatically. Too fast, his imagination fills it in, a fictional alternative materializing in his mind. Him and Bucky, cocky in reckless freefall. Him and Bucky, fighting back-to-back in a plummeting aircraft. Sam screening Bucky from enemy fire with his wings. Bucky deflecting a stray bullet with his arm before it could hit Sam.

“Nah, I can’t do that no more.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure you’re an angel.”

“Anybody get hurt?” Bucky asks.

Sam glances through the window at the blue sky, the truck rolling unhurriedly past with the driver’s arm hanging out to catch the sun. Beautiful day. He remembers a kick that sent a guy through the door of the plane, sucked out into the sky, another guy tossed aside who tried to fight him in midair, and a helicopter aflame as it went down. He shrugs and figures Bucky’ll hear the gesture in his voice.

“Nobody who didn’t know the risks.”

“Of going up against Captain America?” Bucky probes. Sam rolls his eyes.

“You know, that would almost be a compliment if you got my name right.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not using the name just to avoid compliments from me.”

“I honestly can’t say which one would feel more wrong,” Sam says, passing a hand over his head as he leans back in his chair, “calling myself Captain America or hearing a little overdue praise from you.”

“I’m not really a words guy. Ask my therapist.”

Sam sits with that for a second. He’s happy that Bucky’s talking to someone. He needs it, badly, after decades of violence and being belted into the passenger seat of his own brain. It’s more than Bucky’s ever admitted to him before, but Sam would bet—and bet big—that seeing some stranger named as Steve’s successor today has gotten to Bucky as much as it’s gotten to him. Something like that is bound to open Bucky up a little. He’s the only other person Sam can imagine the news having such a monumental impact on.

“You could try words,” he goads, not wanting to leave Bucky hanging more than a few seconds after his admission. “What else do you have if you don’t feel like being a human action figure?”

“I have my system. My rules.”

“Oh yeah? What rules?”

“Three of ’em,” Bucky informs him. “Nothing illegal. Nobody gets hurt. Making amends for the actions of the Winter Solider.”

“You don’t have to make amends for something you—”

“Don’t. It… helps.”

And who is Sam to question what’s helping Bucky? After the multiple-lifetimes’ worth of hell the guy’s been through?

“Good for you, man,” Sam offers softly.

“Save it, Sam.” The words are clipped but light. Sam grins.

“No words for me either? You more comfortable with me sticking to actions? How are we supposed to talk to each other when you don’t come to Tunisia with me?”

“Wasn’t invited,” Bucky quips back.

“You mighta been if you answered your phone more often. I’m not gonna send you the details to a covert operation in a text.”

“You wanted me in Tunisia?”

“You get shit done,” Sam acknowledges simply. You wanted me in Tunisia? echoes in his head. His heart’s bobbing like a buoy now. You wanted me in Tunisia? You wanted me?

“Not like that.”

“‘Not illegal,’” Sam repeats. “‘Nobody gets hurt. Making amends.’”

“Right. Can’t do any of that.”

“Well, I’m glad this regime’s working for you, but you have to admit it’s weird that I saw more of you when we were fighting alien hordes.”

“What can I say?” Bucky asks in a tone that seems to consciously flatten the charm out of it. “I’m old-fashioned now.”

Sam snorts.

“You were old-fashioned then.”

“I assume you had a team on the ground.”

“I had to,” Sam says over the sound of a squabble in the other room. Immediately, he can hear Sarah’s voice rising slightly above, breaking it up. Just like that, there’s the looping music of the video game again. She’s raised those boys well. “Couldn’t wait around for you.”

“I might show up if you asked me on better dates.”

“It wasn’t a date, it was a goddamn op.”

It’s startling to hear the sound of laughter. Not hearty, deep, rich, or loud, but definitely laughter. Bucky laughs? Sam backtracks a minute. Bucky makes jokes? About dating? About the two of them dating? Evidently, that is something he’s capable of, along with returning calls during daylight hours.

Sam shifts in his seat.

“You could come around sometime,” he suggests, nervously rubbing a hand up and down his thigh. “If you like fish and you’re ever in Louisiana.”

“I do like fish,” Bucky says. “I’ve been going to this sushi place a lot lately.”

It’s not his taste that surprises Sam—it’s the readiness with which he responds to the invitation. He would’ve sooner guessed that Bucky would tell him to shove it up his ass. In a joking way, but still.

“On dates?” Sam asks, telling himself he’s providing some good-natured hassling and that it has nothing to do with the odd feeling he got when Bucky’s joke about them dating caught up with him.

“One. Mostly, I go with Mr. Nakajima.”

“And that’s not a date?”

Sam laughs and wishes he could shut his own mouth as firmly as he’s (many times) told Bucky to shut his.

“I’m pretty sure he’s in his eighties, so he’s more age-appropriate for me than most people, but I murdered his son,” Bucky says grimly.

“Amends?” Sam guesses, adjusting his tone to cope with Bucky’s emotional switchback.

“I haven’t told him yet, but, yeah, I’m working on that.”

They’re both working on something, Sam thinks. Both confronting something that feels too big to tackle—the decision not to announce himself as the new Captain America, guilt for assassinations Bucky had no control over but which span the better part of a century. Sometimes it seems to Sam that they go up against the easiest situations as a team and face the hardest stuff alone. But he called Bucky, and Bucky called back.

“You could bring some of those amends down here and trade them for a snapper dinner,” Sam proposes, aiming for irritatingly cheerful to pull Bucky back out of the dark.

“What do I have to make amends to you for?”

“Being a dick. I’ll text you my sister’s address.”

Sam swiftly ends the call. There are two possible sources to which he can attribute the small surge of adrenaline he feels: hanging up on Bucky and the fact that he might’ve just asked him on a date. When Sam dialed, he knew it was because he didn’t want to do this alone, but he thought that meant watching the appointment of an upstart Captain America. Although he believed he could count on Bucky’s understanding today and for the near future, asking him down to have dinner with Sarah and the boys (or tricking him into it, since he didn’t exactly say it’d be a thing with the whole family) lengthens the timeline. Near future? Inviting Bucky to meet his family and see where he grew up means recognizing that he’ll be in his life a little longer. Alone? Sam might forget the meaning of the word.

[out-of-jams]

One Chance || myg

(Amazing, incredibly badass banner made by @kimtaehyunq​ )

↠ One Chance ↞ Min Yoongi was a lot of things.

A musical genius, a guy with a bad reputation, your assigned partner for your final project.

And the last thing you ever would have expected.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings/Genre: College!au. Music producer!Yoongi x Singer!Reader. Fluff. Explicit language. Some angst. Mentions of alcohol. s2l. Oneshot.

A/n: Hey all you cool cats and kittens. Hope you’re all staying safe out there! I wasn’t intending to write this, but I had no other choice.

All of my works are purely fiction. Everything I write is my intellectual property and therefore belongs to me. ©out-of-jams. Do not copy or repost without permission.

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Min Yoongi.

The name stared up at you in size twelve font, black letters printed onto the white sheeted paper. Every other word on the page blurred around the edges as you tried to place a face to the name. You weren’t good with names, never had been. So with a sigh, you leaned to the side and mumbled to the girl sitting next to you in class.

“Hey, who’s Min Yoongi?”

She--Mira? Mina? something like that--glanced up from her portfolio opened up on the desk and shot you a disbelieving look. You couldn’t blame her, not really. It was nearing the end of the semester and your vocal class had worked with the music production class multiple times throughout the course of the year. Neither class was very big, so you probably should have known the names of all twenty students. Total. Ten in each class.

But hey, in your defense you’d had a lot on your plate, seeing as how you were about to graduate from university and all. Which was a pretty big deal, so memorizing the names of people you only saw a few times ever-so-often wasn’t high up on your list of priorities.

But Min Yoongi.

You recognized him the moment you saw the soft outline of his profile through the glass window of the studio door a day later. He had his attention trained on whatever was on his laptop screen, pale hand sliding across the mousepad. His dark brows were pinched in concentration and you could see the tip of his tongue digging into the side of his cheek.

Even though the overly-bright lights in the room were on, the guy still somehow managed to blend in with the slate grey walls. Hell, his icy blond hair was the only color to stand out amongst all the black clothing. The oversized hoodie and black joggers he wore looked comfortable, and had you glancing down at your own outfit self-consciously. Had the sweater, skirt and high heeled boots combo been too much? Should you have dressed down a little?

Whatever. It was too late now.

Watching him through the door made you feel like some kind of stalking creep, but you couldn’t help it.

You’d seen him around campus a few times and recognized him from whenever your classes joined together and was a little disappointed at yourself for not recognizing his name. Even though you'd never spoken a word to him before, you were a little apprehensive about being partnered together. Min Yoongi had a reputation, and not a very good one. Sure, he was talented at what he did, producing music, to the point where a lot of people in the music department called him a genius. But he was known for being standoffish. Rude. And could cut someone down with a few words from his naturally pouty lips.

You didn’t like to judge a book by its cover, or by the rumors that circulated about them. However, that did nothing for the intimidating aura that bled from the man like cologne the second you stepped foot into the room.

He didn’t even pause in whatever he was doing to spare you a glance. Just announced in a dry, rumbling voice, “You’re late.”

“Uh.” You hesitated halfway into the room, the door swinging shut behind you automatically. Two seconds in and he already hated you. Great. “Sorry. I got lost.”

That made him look up and watch as you pulled the only other rolling chair back from the desk and plopped down. God, his eyes were just as daunting as the rest of him: onyx in color and cat-like in shape, they were bottomless as he blinked at you lazily. And he slowly raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“You got lost.” Yoongi repeated slowly. So sarcastically that you didn’t even hear a question mark at the end of it. “Aren’t you about to graduate? How are you still getting lost on campus?”

Your mouth opened and closed, embarrassed heat blossoming across your cheeks. You were blushing hard and you knew it, but that sure as hell didn’t mean that you had to acknowledge it. So you just sniffed and dug through your backpack for an excuse to break eye contact. “I haven’t been in here before.”

It was true. In a way. The hall of studios that you were in now were for the senior music production students. There was a completely different area for each year, but each student had their own assigned as theirs for the semester. So you weren’t lying when you said you hadn’t been to his exact studio before.

Which he seemed to catch on to, if the way Yoongi’s second eyebrow raised to join the first told you anything. But he let it go and turned back to shut his laptop, which you could now see was opened to a music production app. You weren’t very schooled on how to operate it, but even you could tell that he seemed to be very far into whatever it was he was making.

Though you didn’t get a good enough look at it before he closed it.

“Even though we have a month to do this, we should figure out what kind of song we’re making now instead of later.” Yoongi stated in that gruff voice of his and clicked a few things on his laptop. “Since you’re the one singing, you’ll be setting the tone--”

“Wait.” You interrupted.

Yoongi stopped whatever it was he was about to say to give you a blank look, the corners of his lips turned down. “What?”

Clearing your throat, you continued on despite the way his expression tried to cow you into shutting up. “How’re we splitting this up?”

A valid question. Not every person who created music worked in the same way. Some liked to do things a completely different way than somebody else might’ve. Last time you’d worked with one of the students from the music production class, the two of you had butted heads the whole way. He hadn’t wanted to hear your input at all, and you weren’t about to be shoved off to the side like some kind of un-opinionated mouthpiece again.

Yoongi made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a hum. “I normally make the track and leave the lyrics up to the singer unless they need help.”

He looked at you from out of the corner of his eye as he clicked a few buttons on the keyboard in front of him to bring the giant monitor above the control panel to life. “Can you write?”

“Yes.” The word left your mouth before you could even think about it.

“Good. You’ll take care of that then.” Yoongi slid a blank yellow notepad into the empty space on the control panel between you. “Though we’ll need to do the melody before that.”

The next time the two of you met was almost a week later. It’d been sometime late in the afternoon when you both finally had time in your schedules. Because for some stupid reason, even though both of your classes were combined to work on the project, it had to be done outside of class.

Ugh.

As if you didn’t already have enough things to stress over. Like say, securing a job for after graduation.

During the first meeting between the two of you, you’d already decided on what kind of song you wanted to make. Something upbeat, but not over the top, though not boring either. You weren’t a huge fan of sounding like every other music artist out there and apparently Yoongi had felt the same. So it’d been easy to come up with.

He’d texted over a few ideas for the concept and you’d been pleasantly surprised at how serious he took it. At how complex and layered the ideas he’d come up with were. They were a lot better than anything you could have ever dreamed up and you were beyond astonished.

Especially when he met you outside of his studio door, blond hair was secured back off his forehead by a white headband,  and greeted you with, “I finished the track.”

“Already?” Shock was clear in your voice and you watched open mouthed as he unlocked the door and held it open for you to follow him inside. The lights flickered on overhead, but you were too busy staring at his back to notice. “That was quick, holy shit.”

Yoongi shrugged off your awe and wiggled the mouse to bring his computer to life. “It was no big deal. And now we can work on the melody.”

Still gaping at the blond, you shuffled forward to drop your bag next to your chair. “Okay. Um. Where should we start?”

Pulling out his chair, he sat down and lazily dragged the mouse over to open up his production software. “Listen to it first and let me know if you want to make any changes.”

“Yeah, okay.” You plopped down into your own chair and watched as he pressed play.

The music that poured from the expensive speakers started off slowly until it tapered off into what you assumed would be the first chorus. And you found yourself unconsciously tapping your fingers against your thigh when the bridge finally hit, you had to bite your lip to contain an excited smile. The moment it ended, you twisted in your chair to see that he was already looking at you. Though he kept his face blank, you could literally see question lingering behind those cat-like eyes of his.

“Mm.” You hummed, nodding your head and trying your damnedest to keep the grin from your face.

When you failed to say anything more, Yoongi raised his eyebrows. “Mm?”

“Mm.” You finally let the smile touch your lips. “I really liked it. It’s good.”

“Yeah?” He reached out to stop the track from replaying on a loop. “Any changes?”

“Nah. I like it just the way it is.”

“Alright.” Was what he responded with, but you could tell that he was pleased beneath that hard exterior of his. “The melody then.”

“The melody.” You agreed.

Min Yoongi was extremely anal when it came to anything he attached his name to.

That was probably why he had so many music companies vying for his attention. Not only did he produce nothing short of perfect tracks, but he’d even made some cash on the side selling some of them. Or so you’d heard through the grapevine.

Which was exactly why you were left staring at the blank notebook settled across your crossed legs. The pen in your hand had yet to put ink to the blank pages hours after you’d gotten home. All because some guy intimidated the hell out of you.

Most of the songs you wrote were fine. But that was the problem.  

Min Yoongi didn’t do fine. And you had no doubt in your mind that he’d tear your work to absolute shreds should you present him something lackluster. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to jump the gun and tell him you’d be fine writing by yourself.

It was way too late now.

“How long are you going to stare like that?”

Snapping out of your self-degrading thoughts, you turned to look over your shoulder. Jennie, your ever present roommate, was standing behind the couch shoving spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth. By the lack of makeup on her face and the messy bun her long black hair was thrown up into, she was more than likely about to go to bed.

“Stare like what?” You asked with a poorly concealed pout, pulling out your earbuds that’d been playing the track on a constant loop.

“Like you’re constipated or something.” Jennie waved her spoon at you before dipping it back into the bowl to scoop up more soggy cereal. “Project really giving you that much trouble?”

She didn’t necessarily know exactly what was going on with you, not exactly. Sure, she knew that you were partners with Yoongi and had been spending a lot of time with the man for the project. But she didn’t know just how much pressure you were under. Self-inflicted or not.

“These lyrics are kicking my ass.” Groaning, you leaned to the side until you were sprawled out on the couch.

“Why?” Jennie rested her arms against the back of it, bowl of milk and cereal hovering over you dangerously. “They don’t normally.”

She had a point. It wasn’t usually so difficult to write a damn song, but you also didn’t usually have a perfectionist genius as a partner. Instead of saying that though, you just threw your arms over your face. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this, ‘ya know? I should drop out while I still can.”

“O-kay.” You could hear her exasperated eye roll. “Don’t stress so much about it. You know, whenever you’re done being overdramatic.”

Jennie successfully dodged the couch pillow you chucked after fleeing footsteps. A buzz from your phone had you reaching for it blindly and the text on the screen had you burying your face into the cushions.

Min Yoongi: you free tomorrow?

Y/n: yeah. Same time?

His response came in not even five seconds later.

Min Yoongi: works for me

“So, see you tomorrow?” The question left your lips as you packed your stuff back into your bag. You still hadn’t been able to come up with any lyrics. At least none good enough to show your partner. So while you’d both been in the studio, you’d busied yourself trying to write and Yoongi had been doing whatever it was that he did.

He’d just powered down the computer he’d been working on and shook his head without looking at you. “I can’t tomorrow. I have plans.”

“Oh, really?” That came as a surprise. The fact that there was something or someone out there that could force the Min Yoongi to ditch working on a song. “What kind of plans?”

Ever since you’d showed up with food two weeks ago, he’d been a little more amicable towards you. Not as closed off. Which, of course, only led to you bringing some with you every day. Maybe food being the way to a man’s heart really applied to every man. Nonetheless, with the way the two of you would banter back and forth without heat made you hope that it wasn’t just you who considered him a friend.

Yoongi paused, only for a moment, but he paused all the same in throwing his bag over his shoulder before he answered. “I...have a show.”

“A show?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise as you stood up. That was the last thing you would have expected to leave his mouth. “What kind of show?”

“It’s not the type of show you’d want to watch.” He headed for the door and you scrambled to follow after him.

Leaning against the wall while he locked up the door, you folded your arms across your chest. “Why? You a stripper or something?”

Yoongi didn’t even spare you a look, just pocketed his keys and started down the hallway, apparently assuming that you’d follow. “You saying I wouldn’t be a good stripper?”

He’d assumed correctly. Your legs raced to catch up. “I never said that. You insinuated that all by yourself.”

An amused scoff passed his lips, but that was all you got in response. You weren’t about to letter the matter drop though. “So, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A stripper.”

A pause. And then Yoongi met your sparkling gaze and shook his head with a huffing laugh. “No, I’m not a stripper.”

“Well, if your show isn’t anything rated NC-18, then can I go?”

“Why would you want to go?”

His question had you sending him a hesitant look. “Because we’re friends, aren't we?”

A heavy sigh escaped him. “If I say no, will you stop asking?”

You pretended to think for a minute before clicking your tongue. “Nope.”

He looked over at you, feline eyes squinting in contemplation. As much as Min Yoongi liked to act like he came across as aloof, he was a lot easier to read than he probably thought. And he must have found whatever it was he was looking for, because his thoughtful pout turned into a careless shrug.

“Whatever. Fine.”

“Sweet.” You grinned up at him and finally let him go on his merry way.

It was difficult to find a parking spot. You’d had to loop around the block at least ten times before you were finally able to squeeze your car into a space between two giant SUVs. The spot wasn’t exactly close to where you were supposed to meet Yoongi, but it was the best you could do.

When he’d texted you the address, you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t a little apprehensive at first. It was located on the outskirts of downtown where you’d never been before. Because the further out you went from the center of the city, the more dangerous it got.

Y/n: I’m here.

You sent the text off to Yoongi and cut the car engine. Throwing a glance at the clock on the dash, you silently thanked yourself for leaving a bit early in order to get there in time. The sun had long gone down and the moon had taken its place, so the streets were dark. Only lit up by the street lamps and lights that bled from apartment windows. Most of the businesses were closed for the night, the corner store half a block down was the only one still open.

You had about six blocks to walk and was just about to get out of your car when your phone started vibrating in your hand.

“Hello?” You answered the call, voice pitched with barely concealed amusement.

“Where are you?” Yoongi’s voice was even deeper over the phone, if that were possible. And you could hear the sounds of cars driving past him in the background.

You rolled your eyes even though he wasn’t there to see it. “I told you that I’m here.”

He sighed into the phone and you just knew that he was making a face. “Where is ‘here’ exactly?”

“Like, parked a few blocks away.” You popped your car door open, turning back to the passenger seat to grab your bag. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.”

“Stay where you are.” Yoongi demanded and you raised an eyebrow. “I’ll come get you.”

“You don’t have to.” You huffed a laugh. “I have two legs, ‘ya know.”

“Really? Never noticed.” In the background, voices blended in with the sound of cars. “This neighborhood isn’t exactly the safest. So just tell me where you are so I can make sure you don’t get stabbed or something.”

“‘Stabbed or something?’” It was difficult to hide your amusement now, but you obeyed and got back inside your car anyway, letting him know what street you were on. “My knight in shining armor, you say the most romantic things.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. You knew he did. “Nevermind. Maybe I’ll just let you get stabbed while I make my escape.”

The bark of laughter that left you was impossible to contain. “I could run faster than you and you know it. So try me.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Yeah okay. You wouldn't--”

A click told you that yes, he would. And you were left staring down at your phone with open mouthed disbelief. How dare he? You were just about to call him back and tell him as much, when a knock on your car window had you jumping with a small shriek.

Yoongi stood right outside your door with his fist still raised and a gummy grin on his pouty lips. You just stuck your tongue out at him childishly and grabbed your bag before slipping out of your car. “You’re a bully.”

He slid his hands into the pockets of his dark colored jeans and shrugged. “Would a bully walk all the way over here to make sure you don’t get robbed?”

Now it was your turn to shrug, taking him in and pretending not to see his onyx eyes slide down your body. Yoongi was dressed casually like usual. With a plain white t-shirt and a black zip up jacket thrown over it, he pulled it off like he’d just stepped off a magazine cover. How in the hell he always managed to do that was a mystery to you. And you knew you didn’t compare to him, even with your high-waisted white joggers and grey crop top.

Whatever. It wasn’t like it was bright enough outside to matter anyway.

“That sounds exactly like something a robber would say.” You flicked your hair over your shoulder and took off down the cracked sidewalk, making sure to lock your car behind you.

“Not like there’d be much to steal.” Yoongi’s voice caught up to you right as he did, walking side by side with the occasional brushing of his shoulder against yours.

You responded to his playful jab by lightly smacking his arm. “Careful there. Keep saying such poetic words and you’ll make me fall in love with you, Min Yoongi.”

He went quiet, but you could feel him looking at you from the corner of his eye. His gaze was a weight that burned through you, a light shining through the night.

The rest of the walk passed by pretty quickly, especially when nobody jumped out of an alleyway to rob you at knifepoint. Whether or not that was because of the man walking at your side, or something else, it didn’t matter. Not when the building you were headed to for the night popped up in the distance.

It looked like any other building on the street, with rough brick siding and a glowing red and green sign advertising the bar. Situated on the corner, you were just about to head inside when Yoongi’s hand caught your arm.

“It’s this way.” He answered your confused look by tugging you gently down the alleyway right next to the bar.

“But I thought it was inside.” You glanced back behind you before looking back towards the dead ended alley.

Yoongi dropped his hand from your arm. “It is.”

“Ah, makes sense.” You nodded sarcastically, successfully drawing a smile from your escort.

“Be patient and you’ll see.”

True to his word, you saw what he meant when he came to a stop outside of a side door. There weren’t any signs or anything indicated what it led to, but you could take a guess as Yoongi pulled it open and gestured for you to enter first.

It was dark inside and you had to squint in the dim lighting in order to see anything. You were in what appeared to be some kind of entrance that reminded you of one of the speakeasies downtown. Though there wasn’t a soul in sight, just a staircase at the end of the short hall. Unless you counted the loud base of music pounding through your feet and straight to your bones. The door slammed shut behind Yoongi and then he was taking the lead towards the stairs.

The further down you went, the louder the music got until it was all you could hear. And once you got to the bottom of the stairs and turned into the room, you found out why. Bodies were packed wall-to-wall, some moving to the music pouring from the speakers and others nodding their heads with drinks in their hands. Red and purple lights made the room seem bigger than it actually was, made it easier to lose yourself in the crowd.

Yoongi had taken you to an underground club. Which just made you all the more curious about just what kind of show he was going to be performing in.

“Want a drink?” Yoongi’s voice, even though spoken directly in your ear, was barely distinguishable from the lyrics bleeding through the room.

You simply nodded, taking care not to bash your head into his nose from where he was leaning over for you to hear him. He said something you couldn’t hear, words lost to the crowd. But you assumed he wanted you to follow him when he started to merge himself into the throngs of people. Just when you thought that you’d have to try and fight your way through to keep up with him, he was reaching back to grab your hand.

Wrapped his slender fingers around yours without sparing you a second look.

He was just trying to make sure you didn’t get lost in the crowd. Yeah, that was it. There was no other reason for it, so therefore your heart had no reason to speed up. To thump in time with the bass as you followed behind him. Especially when the warmth from his palm slid into yours.

“What do you want?” Yoongi turned back to speak in your ear. Shit, you hadn’t even realized that you’d already reached the packed bar. So you forced yourself to focus on the two bartenders running around behind it, rather than the hand still in yours.

“Tequila.” You answered. Yoongi raised both eyebrows in surprise before turning back to the bar. With his eyes no longer on you, it made breathing a whole lot easier. And you turned your attention away from Yoongi’s slim back and towards the stage.

It was all the way on the other side of the room and you watched as a guy walked across it with a mic in his hands. The music was lowered and his voice cracked to life through the speakers. Whatever announcement he was making went in one ear and out the other because Yoongi turned back around with a plastic cup extended out towards you. His other hand was empty and you sent him a questioning look.

Whether or not he knew what you were silently asking, or was just making a general announcement, he answered your question. “I have to perform soon.”

You made an ‘o’ with your mouth and accepted the drink with a smile in thanks. “You still haven’t told me what you’re gonna be doing.”

You had to stand on your tippy-toes in order for Yoongi to hear you, which didn’t go unnoticed by him if the amused gleam in his eyes was anything to go by. “You’ll see.”

Which was exactly how you found yourself with another drink in your hands and your back leaning against the bar. If you were being completely honest, you hadn’t been sure what to expect. A lot of different things had popped into your mind about what kind of shows your partner liked to put on. Some ranging from completely ridiculous, to weird, to funny.

But none of them had been this.

Min Yoongi was a lot of things. A talented producer, a deep thinker, a musical genius.

Never would you have thought to add “rapper” to the list. You should have known, was a little surprised at yourself for not being able to guess. Like all other things Min Yoongi, he was incredibly good at it. Took to the stage like a natural. And you were completely awestruck, unable to look away the whole time he was up on that stage, letting words flow from his lips like some kind of poetic river.

Calm, yet bubbling over with the effortless way he captured the attention of everyone in the room. The track he rapped over was fast paced, but he had no trouble keeping up and keeping the crowd engaged at the same time. He performed three songs, but it wasn’t enough. And judging by the one last look at the crowd Yoongi took before exiting the stage, it wasn’t enough for him either.

Whoever took his place didn’t have one ounce of your attention. And maybe that was rude or whatever, but you didn’t care. Not when you caught sight of his blond head making its way towards you. He got stopped multiple times along the way by people congratulating him with pats on the back or short conversations.

By the time Yoongi finally made his way back to your side, your second drink was extended out to him with a grin on your face. You’d barely even taken a sip from it, so it was completely full and beginning to sweat water. “That was amazing!”

The performer on stage was loud, but you could tell that Yoongi heard you by the smile he tried and failed to hide behind the rim of the plastic cup. But you weren’t going to leave it at that, grabbing a hold of his shoulders and squeezing to make sure you got your point across. “Like, incredibly amazing! Why didn’t you tell me you could rap like that?”

“You never asked.” He shrugged. Yoongi wasn’t the type of person to feed off of compliments, you knew that. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t appreciate them. The way his onyx colored eyes glittered told as much. And when he tilted the plastic cup back and drained the contents, the confidence that flowed beneath his skin gave it away too. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Where are we going?”

“Patience, young padawan.”

A snort of amusement from the passenger side of your car had you throwing Yoongi a wink. He completely ignored you in favor of thumbing through the playlist on your phone. It was hooked up to the radio via bluetooth and ever since you’d left the underground club, he’d been focused on silently judging you for your music choices.

When Yoongi had suggested bailing on the club, he hadn’t really had a particular place in mind. Which you’d soon figured out the moment you stepped out the door. He’d taken the subway to the place, so you’d all but shoved him into your car before he had a chance to say no.

“You really have Ariana Grande on here?” He wiggled your phone in your peripheral and you would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t too busy merging off the freeway.

“What’s wrong with Ari?” You huffed in mock offense.

“Nothing.”

“I can literally hear the judgement in your voice.”

“Maybe you should focus on the road then.”

Now you really did roll your eyes. Though the bark of laughter that accompanied it showed your lack of annoyance. “I would if we weren’t already here.”

Yoongi looked up from your phone just as you were putting the car into park. His eyes squinted into the dark with a furrow of his eyebrows. “We’re at the beach?”

“Nope.” You popped the ‘p’ and turned off your car, quickly hopping out before you could fall victim to his flatline stare.

The scent of sea salt lingered in the semi-humid air and you paused for a moment to inhale deeply. There was nothing quite like the smell of the ocean, and when the passenger side door opened and closed, you rounded the car to wave Yoongi along. He caught up to you right as your shoe hit the wooden planks of the boardwalk. You’d had to park way back in one of the lots far away from the beach for whatever godforsaken reason.

Shopfronts, closed and shuttered by metal grates due to the late hour, greeted you as you walked down the path. And Yoongi’s presence at your side was calming. Hell, everything about that man was. Never would you have thought that about him, not at first. Not with the rocky way your friendship had started.

Neither would you have expected the warmth that bloomed in your chest everytime he looked at you with those pretty eyes of his. Or flashed you one of his patented gummy smiles. He’d somehow wormed a place into your heart with that sarcastic wit of his. No, the last thing you would have expected from your final project was this.

But you didn’t mind. Even if he didn’t feel the same way, only looked at you like a friend, you didn’t mind. Because you’d take anything he offered you. And if a friendship was all he was willing to give, that was okay too.

“Where are we going exactly?” Yoongi’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts and you glanced up at him to see that he was already looking at you.

“Do we need to have a destination?” You shot back with a wiggle of your eyebrows. “It’s all in the journey.”

He rolled his eyes skyward as if silently asking why me, but let a smile touch his lips anyway “And this journey leads to the beach I’m guessing?”

“Maybe.” You dragged out the syllables, nudging your shoulder with his playfully. “Don’t tell me you don’t like the beach.”

“Who doesn’t like the beach?”

“That’s exactly what I’m--whoa.” Your feet came to a halt right as you stepped out from between two shops, where the boardwalk met the beach. Yoongi stopped at your side, but you didn’t even notice.

Because you were too busy staring at the apparent concert that was being held further down the beach. Apparently the loud music you’d heard from the parking lot wasn’t from one of the many speakers placed throughout the boardwalk. Well, that would explain the lack of parking at least.

Even from where the two of you stood, you could tell that the crowd was huge. They took up a big chunk of the beach, bodies nothing but a dark mass in the distance as they danced to the music from the stage. You couldn’t tell who it was, not that far away. But the multicolored lights flashed into the sky like a beacon.

“I wonder who’s performing.” Yoongi’s mumble had you bending down to unlace your shoes. “What’re you doing?”

“You wanna know who’s performing?” Slipping off your socks, you threw both those and your shoes into your bag. Once it was closed up, you sent Yoongi a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s go find out.”

He didn’t move, just gave you a look before realization dawned on his face. “You want to sneak in.”

It was a statement, not a question, but you nodded your head anyway. “Come on, when will you ever have the chance to do something like this again. Don’t tell me you’re scared we’ll get caught.”

Yoongi scoffed, but leaned down to slip off his shoes in an uncharacteristic move. You knew he wasn’t much of a partier and didn’t do things like this very often. So the fact that he was caving to your suggestion had your mind whirling. “I’m just surprised, is all.”

“At what?”

A smirk was thrown your way as he stood back up, but that was all the answer you got. After all the time you’ve spent with the man, you’d like to consider yourself a Yoongi Whisperer. So that smirk probably meant something along the lines of: I’m surprised that you’re a super awesome badass.

Or something.

“Just come on.” You grabbed his hand without thinking, dragging him behind you onto the sand. When he failed to complain, you took that as a greenlight to continue doing so.

When his fingers linked themselves with yours, it took all you had to not falter in your steps. To pretend like you weren’t affected by such a thoughtless action. To calm the rapid beating of your heart.

The closer you got to the concert, the louder the music got, until you could hear the roar of the crowd over the artist on stage. It was EDM, or at least sounded like it. Of course, as soon as you got closer, you spotted your first hurdle. One you’d been unable to see from far away.

A chain link fence stood between the two of you and a night of fun. It had your shoulders deflating before you even realized it, and you turned to the blond at your side. “Should we climb it or something?”

Biting your lip, you eyed just how far up it was. Even if the two of you managed to climb it, there was no way that you wouldn’t be spotted by security. And being arrested was the last thing on your to-do list.

“Or.” Yoongi crossed over to the fence and wrapped his hands along the bottom of it. With a quick glance around to make sure that no one was looking, he lifted it up and back, bending it backwards with just enough space left at the bottom for someone to squeeze underneath.

There was no way that he would have been strong enough on his own to lift it, and a closer look had you snorting a laugh. Apparently the two of you weren’t the only ones who’d had the idea to sneak in.

“You going?” He questioned and you started forward before a smartass remark could leave his mouth.

The sand was cool beneath your body as you shimmied underneath the space between the fence and the ground. And once you were on the other side, you crouched down and grabbed the fence from Yoongi to pull back towards your side. “I’m surprised that you’re going along with this, to be honest. Don’t you hate music like this?”

He grunted as he crawled across the sand towards you. “You wanted to.”

“So?” Your voice was soft, but he was still able to hear you over the pounding bass. The fence dropped from your fingers once he was on your side, but you didn’t move, just stared up at him as he stood.

“So.” Yoongi started, extending a hand down to help you up. “Are you coming?”

His answer had warmth blossoming in your chest and a tiny smile blooming on your face. Had you reaching out to let him help you up off the sand. He didn’t let go while you brushed yourself off, but he did guide the both of you towards the writhing crowd, if only to avoid being spotted by security.

It was a good thing that Yoongi was a slim man, because it made slipping through the numerous dancing bodies closer towards the stage a whole lot easier. You’d made it to about the middle when he stopped and tugged you closer to join him in a pocket of space between two different groups of people. The scent of marijuana mixed in with sea salt from the ocean in a cocktail that usually accompanied things like that.

“Dance with me.” You spoke into Yoongi’s ear, ignoring the excited flush you felt at being so close to him.

“I can’t dance.” He stated, despite the hand he slipped around your waist and pressed into your back. Whether or not to move you out of the range of the group of girls dancing wildly behind you, or something else, you didn’t know.

Chest to chest, you’d be surprised if he couldn’t feel how fast your heart was beating. “Mm. I don’t believe you. Everyone can dance.”

“That’s a lie.” Yoongi’s lips were titled up at the corners and his gaze on you was soft. Gentle.

The flashing lights on the stage flickered through his dark colored eyes. Turned those once pools of onyx into a glittering galaxy that you couldn’t look away from. That hypnotized you like the beat that pulsed beneath your skin and drowned your ears.

“That’s not true.” Your mumble was lost to the crowd. Buried somewhere underneath the music as he moved closer. And the butterflies nestled deep in your gut fluttered their wings when his other hand cupped the side of your face.

Your eyes fluttered closed when his nose brushed yours and his breath fanned across your cheek. That was the only warning you got before his mouth was on yours. His lips were soft and he tasted like the strawberry chapstick he liked to wear. And the kiss, like everything Min Yoongi, was slow. Not in a lazy way. More like he was taking the time to savor it. To remember what your hair felt like as he slid his hand into it.

Or the way you involuntarily sighed into his mouth when his teeth caught your bottom lip. How your fingers found their way into the short hairs at the nape of his neck when you pulled him closer. How he’d had to hold back a laugh at the way you were standing on your tippy-toes in order to reach him.

You probably wouldn’t have pulled away and neither would he, if it weren’t for the rain that suddenly tore from the sky like an opened dam. Drenching anything and everything around it faster than you could blink. It had you forcing yourself away from the magnetizing pull of Yoongi’s lips to give him an eye crinkling smile.

“What was that for?” You didn’t care if you were getting wet.

Neither did he apparently, because he ran a thumb over the lips he’d just kissed, sending shivers down your spine. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No. Break it down for me.”

He met your imploring gaze almost bashfully, eyes squinting from the rain. “I’ve liked you since practically the beginning of the semester.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “What? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Yoongi shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t know how.”

Shaking your head in disbelief, you let out a small laugh. “I can’t believe you, Min Yoongi.”

He opened his mouth to respond when he was cut off by a loud clap of thunder. Both of you glanced up at the dark sky at the same time.

Everyone around you was either ignoring the torrential downpour or shrieking and attempting to use anything to shield themselves from getting wet. Once the sound of thunder echoed a streak of lightning, you knew what was about to happen next and turned to meet Yoongi’s eyes. He, like everyone else, was drenched and his blond hair stuck to the damp skin of his face. It had you grinning at the pout on his mouth and you leaned forward to press your lips to his one final time before pulling away.

“We should get out of here before everyone else decides to do the same.” You had to shout to be heard over both the rain and the noise from everything else. It was only a matter of time before the concert got either canceled or postponed due to the thunderstorm and you didn’t want to be caught in the middle.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Yoongi wiped water from his eyes and grabbed your hand to start navigating the hell out of there.

And as your eyes trained themselves to his slim back and your fingers interlocked themselves with his, you smiled. The lyrics that you’d been struggling so hard to write came to life beneath the fire in your chest. You had no one but the man in front of you to thank for the inspiration.

Min Yoongi was a lot of things.

A musical genius, a poet, a light in a sea of darkness.

Min Yoongi was nothing if not beautiful.

[aterlupus]

Varis’s Speech Transcription (Part 2 of 2)

Part One: Link Here

I’ve been meaning to post this for a while since I talk about it a lot but I want to finally have it written out. This will be a long post since I am essentially posting the entire cutscene three times over (The English Text, the JP Text, and my translation of the JP text.) Please note I don’t consider myself fluent in Japanese and I do not claim this translation is perfect. This is why I post the JP text alongside it in case there is some things of note I might have missed.

If you ever see an asterisk in parenthesis like this: (***) it corresponds to a footnote at the bottom of the post.

OK to Reblog

...

ENG: Varis: Now then, who will have the floor?

JP: ヴァリス・ゾス・ガルヴァス：さて、会談を再開するとしよう。 TL: Varis: Well, let us continue the talks.

ENG: Nanamo: Before we resume, I wish to offer you an apology. After you graciously accepted our invitation to discuss an armistice, we have done naught but rebuke you at every opportunity. I believe I speak for all of us when I say we are deeply sorry for our discourtesy.

JP: ナナモ・ウル・ナモ：本題に入る前に、まずは感謝を……先程はこちらの主張を述べるばかりになってしまったが、会談に応じてくれたこと、礼を伝えるべきであった。 TL: Before getting into the main subject, I wanted to thank you first... I made this claim now, but I should have thanked you before, for accepting this meeting.

ENG: Merlwyb: I’ll admit, your familiarity with our affairs surprised me -- and served to remind me how little I know of yours.

JP: メルウィブ：率直に言って、そちらがエオルゼア諸国の歴史や文化を、深く知っていることに驚いた。対して、我らは帝国の事情に通じているとは言い難い。 TL: Frankly, I was surprised that you had a deep understanding of the history and culture of the Eorzean countries. On the other hand, it is hard to say that we are familiar with the circumstances of the Empire.

ENG: Raubahn: I think all here can understand the desire to reclaim one’s homeland. But why expand further -- that is my question.

JP: ラウバーン：寒冷地に追いやられたガレアン族が、魔導技術を得た後、かつての故郷に戻ろうとしたのはわかる。だが、その後も領土拡大を続けたのはなぜだ？ TL: I understand that the Garleans, who had been driven into the cold, tried to return to their former homelands after gaining the ability to wield Magics, but why did it continue to expand after that?

ENG: Hien: If I may -- the answer can be found in the imperial doctrine they took great pains to impart to my people.

JP: ヒエン：わしは、幼き頃より帝国式の教育を受けてきたそこで教えられた歴史は、こうだ。 TL: Hien: I have been educated in an Imperial Style since I was but a child, and the history taught there is as follows.

ENG: Hien: Recognizing the threat eikons pose to the world, Solus zos Galvus decreed that they were to be eradicated. To this end, he began a campaign to unite all the lands under the Garlean banner.

JP: ヒエン：蛮神の脅威を知った初代ソル帝は世界を��うべく、その討滅を国是に掲げた。そして、全土統一に向けて動き始めたのだ……と。 TL: Hien: Knowing the threat of the Primals, the first Emperor Solus put up a national policy to annihilate it in order to save the world. And he started to move towards unification all over the country...

ENG: Hien: Or so we were taught. Yet the Emperor only reached the Burn -- the barrens said to have been laid to waste by eikons -- after conquering all the lands that lay between. What is more, I am quite certain the practice of summoning was not nearly so widespread in the days before the Empire’s founding.

JP: ヒエン：が、帝国の拡大は、ザ・バーンの荒廃を見る以前からのもの。さらに言えば、近年の神降ろしは、いずれも帝国成立後に、行われている……これでは辻棲が合わん。 TL: Hien: But... the Empire’s expansion was before the devastation of The Burn. Furthermore, it was only in recent years that the Primals began to plague this world... long after the establishment of the Empire. (****)

ENG: Lyse: When you put it like that, it all starts to sound like an excuse, doesn’t it? But to distract from what? Why are you really waging this war?

JP: リセ：あなたは……帝国はいったい何を求めているの戦いを避けたいと言いながらも、侵略を続ける真意を、どうか聞かせてちょうだい。 TL: Lyse: You.... tell me what the Empire is trying to avoid, what is the meaning for you to continue this invasion...?

ENG: Finally, you ask the right question.

JP: ヴァリスゾスガルヴァス：よくぞ、言った。 TL: Varis: Well... I have already said.

ENG: I can but hope you heed mine answer and at last accept the righteousness of our cause.

JP:ヴァリスゾスガルヴァス：こちらも真意を語ることで、我が理想への道に、エオルゼア諸国が加わるというのなら、大いに歓迎しよう。繰り返すが、戦いを望んでいるわけではないのだからな。 TL: Varis: If by telling you the truth, Eorzea’s nations will join the path to my ideals, I would greatly welcome them. Again... I don’t want to fight.

ENG: Varis: My goal is this: to return the world to the way it once was. The way it was always meant to be. In doing so, mankind will be made whole once more.

JP: ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：私が築かんとする理想の世界とは…すなわち、本来のあるべき世界だ。それは同時に、我々人類が、本来のあるべき姿に戻る道でもある。 TL: Varis: The ideal world I am trying to build is... in other words, the world as it should be. At the same time... it is also the way for us human beings to return to our original form.

ENG: No longer will we suffer from the dissension born of our differences.

JP: ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：我々は、それぞれの種族に、長所と短所を併せ持つつまり、みな不完全だなぜか？ TL: Varis: We have both strengths and differences in each race, that is to say... why are we all imperfect?(*****)

ENG: There will be but one race -- a perfect race -- as we were when time began.

JP: ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：それは、始原の時代……「ひとつの民」だったものが、分かたれたため。 TL: That is because of the Primordial Era... what was once “One People” were separated.

ENG: Lyse: What in Rhalgr’s name are you talking about?

JP: リセ：い、いったい、何の話をしているの？ TL: Lyse: W... what are you going on about?

ENG: Varis: I am talking about the origins of this star. Of the Source, and its thirteen reflections.

JP:ヴァリス・ゾス・ガルヴァス：有史以前に、世界が複数に分断されたことは知っていよう。原初世界と、13の鏡像世界にな・…。 TL: Varis: You know that the world was divided into multiple parts, long before recorded history. This Primordial World became the Source, and 13 Mirror Worlds...

ENG: At the instant of this great sundering, ‘twas not only the world that was shattered, but mankind itself. Thus we were divided into myriad races, each with its own unique imperfections. That is why man looks upon his neighbor and feels fear and hatred. Why he wages war. Why he kills his brother.

JP: ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：この「世界分断」とともに、我ら人類もまた分かたれたのだ。人の争いが、永劫無限に終わらぬのも、それゆえだ。不完全ゆえに他者を妬み狭き視野で正義を定め、戦い、奪い合うのだ。 TL: With this “Dividing of the World” We as human beings also were divided. That is why the struggle of humanity will never end. Because of our imperfections, we become jealous of others, we set justice with a narrow view, we fight, we compete. 

ENG: You all in your own way have proven as much today. The peace you seek is but a fleeting solution to a fundamental problem. One which calls for more drastic measures.

JP: ヴァリス・ゾス・ガルヴァス：貴公らの、先の主張も同じこと。いかに聞こえが良くとも、一時の解決にしかならぬ。 TL: The same is true of your own ambitions. No matter how good it sounds... it’s only a temporary solution.

ENG: To bring about everlasting peace, our worlds must be rejoined.

JP: ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：よいか……本当の平穏のために目指すべきは、世界の統合。それによって真なる人になることだ。 TL: Yes... the goal for true peace is the Integration of Worlds. By doing so, we will become a true person.

ENG: That is the goal the Empire would see realized -- the glorious future unto which we shall one day shepherd mankind.

JP:ヴァリス・ゾス・ガルヴァス：その大願の成就に向けて、我らは突き進む！万難を排し、力を取り込んで、人の明日を目指すのだ！ TL: We rush forward towards the fulfillment of that ambition! Eliminate all the troubles, take in the power, and aim for the human beings of tomorrow!

ENG: Merlwyb: A rejoining of worlds...?

JP: メルウィブ：世界の…統合。 TL: Merlwyb: The World’s... Integration...

ENG: Kan E Senna: I have heard this tale of the Source and its reflections before...

JP: カヌ・エ・センナ：「暁」からそのような報告はいただいてますしかし、しかしそれは。 TL: Kan E Senna: The “Scions” have given such a report before... but...

ENG: Nanamo: Are these not the selfsame desires as the Ascians?

JP: ロナナモ・ウル・ナモ：ああ、アシエンたちの宿願と同じではないか！ TL: Ah, but it is the same long-cherised desire as the Ascians!

ENG: Aymeric: Emperor Varis! Do not trust in their words. They will lead you to your doom.

JP: アイメリク：ヴァリス帝よ、失礼を承知で申し上げる。貴殿もアシエンの口車に乗せられているのではないか！？ TL:Aymeric: Emperor Varis, please, forgive my rudeness, but surely you are not also a mouthpiece of the Ascian!?

ENG: Aymeric: My father thought to use them, but in the end he succumbed to their temptations. He embraced summoning like so many other pawns before him. Do not tell us you mean to do the same!

JP: アイメリク：我が父もまた、彼らを利用するつもりでいて、結局は神降ろしに手を染めた…それと同じことでは！？ TL: Aymeric: My dad also intended to use the Ascians, but in the end he was used for an Eikon... surely you do not wish to do the same!?

ENG: Varis: To be a pawn, free from the burden of choice, would be a blessing...

JP: ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：操られてなどいるものか。そうであったなら、どれほどよかったかとすら思うぞ。 TL: Varis: You think I have been manipulated? If only that were true... I wonder how good it would be....

ENG: Varis: But I foreswore that privilege the day I learned the Garlean Empire was built by the hand of an Ascian.

JP: ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：そもそも、ガレマール帝国とは、アシエンが興した国家なのだからな…。 TL: Varis: But the truth is, the Garlemald Empire is a nation that was established by an Ascian.

ENG: Alisaie: What!?

JP:アリゼーな、なんですって……!? TL: Wh-what did you say!?

ENG: Yes. My grandsire, the former emperor, is of their number. And who better to build an empire capable of bringing about the calamitous change we desire?

JP:ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：建国の父である、初代ソル帝の正体こそアシエン人の歴史に介入しやすくするために打ち立てた強き国が我がガレマール帝国だったのだ。 TL: Varis: The true identity of the Founding Father of Garlemald, Emperor Solus, was that he was an Ascian. Our powerful nation was established to facilitate their intervention in our history.

ENG: Would you condemn me for this alliance, for bowing to the will of these shadowy masters, when the prize is true and lasting peace?

JP:ヴァリス・ゾス・ガルヴァス：どうだ…？異形の者どもに踊らされてきたガレアン族を哀れと喋うか。 闇雲に戦うのでもなく、踊らされるのでもなく、我は我が道を征く世界の再統合までは、アシエンに協力もしてみせよう。が、それを成したとき。 TL: Varis: So then...? Do you speak of pitying me, pitying the Garleans who have been played by Strangers? I will not fight these Dark Clouds, but I will not be played, I will cooperate with the Ascians until the reunification of the Worlds has been done. But... when that time comes...

ENG: I come not to conquer, but to liberate -- to free man from the prison of divergence. Imagine a world united. One perfect race beneath a single standard. An army before whose might these servants of Darkness and Light would fly as leaves in a storm, never again to meddle in man’s affairs.

JP:ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：ひとつの完壁な生命となった、真なる人による国家を創る！ガレマールという旗印のもとに！そして、あるべき完全な姿となった全人類の力を糾合し、闇の使徒も、光の使徒も人に干渉せんとする異形をすべて倒す！ TL: Varis: We can create a nation of true people, of a complete life! Under the banner of Garlemald! And, by consolidation the power of all human beings in their perfect form, defeat the variants -- that Neither the Apostles of Darkness nor Light will interfere with humankind again!

ENG: We would be the masters of our own fate! I bid you, join me! Not as subjects of Garlemald, but of a new nation! And together we shall win freedom for ourselves and generations yet unborn!

JP:ヴァリス・ゾス・ガルヴァス：人が人として、自らの生を決める、あるべき世界を人類にもたらすために！さあ、いまこそ我らガレマール帝国いや、未来の統一一人類国家に加わるのだ我らが子らに、真なる自由を届けるためにッ····！ TL: To bring to humanity the world in which people, as human beings, decide their own lives! Yes, now is the time for us to join Garlemald -- no -- the future Nation of Humanity, unified together, to deliver true freedom for our children!

ENG: Lyse: You want to trigger another half-dozen calamites? You can’t be serious!

JP:リセ：し、正気の沙汰じゃない！霊災が起きるたび、いったいどれほどの犠牲がでるというの！ TL: Lyse: That isn’t sane! How much sacrifice will you make each time a calamity befalls us?

ENG: Raubahn: Have you forgotten how many died? There will be no one left!

JP:ラウバーン：そうだ我々は第七霊災で多くの民と仲間を失ったのだ！ TL: Raubahn: Yes, we lost many people and friends in the Seventh Calamity!

ENG: Merlwyb: Do you truly imagine we would aid you in your bloodletting?

JP:メルウィブ：あのような犠牲を、もう二度と出してなるものか。 TL: Merlwyb: Do you intend to make such a sacrifice again?

ENG: Kan E Senna: It is unthinkable! Unconscionable!

JP:カヌ・エ・センナ：悲劇を繰り返すなど、断じてあってはなりません！ TL: Kan E Senna: We cannot let this tragedy repeat itself!

ENG: And what is the alternative? To be as cattle waiting for slaughter. I would have us work together, that we might take fate into our own hands.

JP: ヴァリス・ゾス・ガルヴァス：犠牲……だと？このままでは、アシエンの家畜のままたとえ百万、千万の命が失われようとも進み続けるのみよ。 TL: Varis: Sacrifice...? At this rate, even if one million, or ten million lives are lost, so long as we continue to be livestock for the Ascian, it will continue regardless!

ENG: Alisaie: Into your hands, perhaps... But what of the other worlds, Your Radiance? With every calamity, you obliterate a star and every soul that dwells on it!

JP:アリゼー：それだけじゃない。霊災が起こるたびに消滅する、鏡像世界に生きる人々はどうなるの！？ TL: Alisaie: Not only that. What happens to the people who live in the mirror image world, which disappears every time a calamity occurs!?

ENG: Varis: To the Ascians, we are all but tiny momentary specks within an indifferent universe. We cannot hope to oppose them until we have been made whole once more.

JP:ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス人類全体の未来のためであれば、我が身を含め、すべてが些末な犠牲に過ぎん！我らが不完全なままでは、異形者どもには対抗できぬのだ！ TL: Varis: For the future of humanity as a whole, everything, including myself, is a trivial sacrifice! If we remain imperfect, we will not be able to compete with the odds!

ENG: Nanamo: Are these truly the words of Garlemald’s ruler? The flaws and foibles which you so abhor are what make us who we are. Every nation -- even yours, Emperor Varis -- is made whole through the combination of these imperfections, the strength of one compensation for the weaknesses of another. While it is true that man succumbs all too often to anger and avarice, he may yet overcome his baser instincts through the forming of bonds with others, fostering community and cooperation. That the protector of an empire should not only reject these fundamental truths, but seek to change them at so dear a cost of life is indefensible. Such a man is not fit to govern.

JP: ナナモ・ウル・ナモ：そなたは……それでも統治者か？人はみな、それぞれ違って当然じゃ国とは、不揃いで、不完全な者たちが寄り集まって形作られているものにほかならん。確かに、ときには他者を妬み、戦い、奪い合うこともある。しかし、それでも人は、懲りることなく寄り添い共生を諦めぬもの。そんな当然のことを、そなたは認めることができず、暴挙に出てまで、人そのものを変えようとするとは…。人を束ねる統治者として、敗北していると思わぬか。

TL: Nanamo: Are you... still a ruler? Every person is different, and of course, a country is nothing but an irregular, imperfect group of people. Certainly, sometimes they are jealous of others, fighting, and competing, However, people never give up on symbiosis without discipline. You can’t admit such a natural thing, and even go out of your way to control them, you even try to change the very being of people itself! Don’t you think you have forgotten what it means to be a sovereign who binds people together? (******)

ENG: Varis: And you, Warrior of Light? Would you refuse me as well?

JP:ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：エオルゼアの英雄よ、貴様はどうなのだ。 TL: Varis: Champion of Eorzea... what have you to say? (*******)

...

ENG: Nanamo: It would seem the Alliance is of one mind on this matter.

JP:ナナモ・ウルナモ：英雄の言葉をもって、我らの総意は固まった！ TL: Nanamo: And with the words of our hero, our consensus is solidified!

ENG: Varis: You Eorzeans never cease to disappoint me. Though I suppose I have only myself to blame for expecting more from savages.

JP:ヴァリス・ゾス・ガルヴァス：少しは話ができるものかと期待させられたが……盟主をはじめ「暁」の賢人も、英雄すらも、所詮は愚かな蛮族だったか……。 TL: Varis: I was hoping that I could talk a little more... but... was the Lords, the wise men of the “Scions”, even the Champion of Eorzea... after all... just stupid barbarians?

ENG: Varis: This discussion is at an end. I bid you make ready for our next meeting. It will not be at the negotiating table.

JP:ヴァリスゾス・ガルヴァス：交渉は決裂だ、去るがいい……。ほどなく戦端は開かれよう。 TL: Varis: The Negotiations are closed. Leave... for the battle will soon be opened.

...

****This came off more unclear to me in English, but in case it’s still not understandable -- Hien is saying he was intentionally mistaught to believe that the Garlean Empire came together to slay Eikons, but in truth, Eikon summoning was not nearly as big of a problem 50 years ago when the Empire was formed, and furthermore, history says Emperor Solus stopped his invasion at the Burn... which only existed recently, (essentially they are building up to the big reveal Varis is about to say about Emperor Solus.)

***** I would like to point out that Varis used  我々here, which means “we, including myself” as he also does in fact believe that Garleans are a race that is imperfect and he includes himself in it.

****** I just find it interesting to note that Nanamo instead actually lists that humans do bad things in Japanese, while in English she only mentions the good things people do.

*******This is just to point out that Varis calls the Warrior of LIght “Kisama” here, this is the only time he refers to anyone at the table by that word, which I just find... well, amusing to say the least. (The word Kisama is incredibly disrespectful, he’s clearly lost a lot of respect for the WoL in this discussion.)

--

Final Note: The game uses the word “Savages” but I want to make it clear I wrote the phrases to match the exact English text, I don’t feel comfortable using the word savage and especially not typing out the phrase ‘perfect race’ but I needed to compare to the English to show that the Japanese does, indeed, not ever actually say these words. Please try to keep in mind how disrespectful they can be in real life, even if they are the exact text from the English translations of the game!

[azdoine]

😐👀🖊

😐 What embarrasses you most about your own writing?

haha, just nuke me right out of the gate, huh?

the executive function/commitment problems are real, but those are a little more wide-reaching than just putting words on a page. something which embarrasses me about my writing in itself is probably... my dialogue?

I’m not bad at tracking characterization and personalities in my head, but distinct speaking styles are harder, and I have a habit of using my characters as exposition mouthpieces or pushing them into unreasonably bespoke debates.

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

ah... well, um, I won’t say I’ll never let it see the light of day, but I’ve definitely got something I wouldn’t otherwise promote or publish on my main accounts.

it’s a PMMM SI/OC romance - less as something I’m unironically interested in now, and more as a love letter to a time and place in my life when I sort of was. if nothing else, I also want to explore some of the writing conceits (and blatant copes) I’ve seen from other SI romance authors in recent years.

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

What is a woman meant to think, when the Devil steps out of the pages of a bible she doesn’t even believe in and tells her he has a job for her? When he tells her that she can have everything she’s ever wanted and everyone she’s ever loved, if only she tithes all other things in creation to him?

The foolish woman takes his words at face value, and allows herself to be seduced into darkness. The wise woman remembers that he is a conniver and a father to lies, and turns her back upon all his works.

The worldly woman understands that her tempter is bound to reason, as all things are, and cannot escape the implications of his own existence. Their arrangement is no more an epic for Johann Faust than for Simon Flagg. It exists not because it is being written as a story - though it may be written, all else being equal - but because someone found it necessary to see to fruition in their own reality.

Perhaps my dubious benefactor in ‘the Company’ was the Devil, and perhaps he wasn’t. I couldn’t say either way, and neither alternative really changed anything. The questions that mattered were more and less fundamental.

All the tithes I could offer my benefactor were less than ash to such a being as he claimed to be. What use was kidnapping, to a master of demons who could raise men and women out of the void like wheat from the earth? To a master of oracles who could pluck all true names out of nothingness, and of sculptors who could fulfill those images to the last? What use was shareholder value, to men who could rule forever as private kings in heavens of their own making?

And all of these questions I could have asked of him, but I hadn’t - not just because there was no reason to give him any ideas, but because it was pointless. The second purpose of a system is what it’s meant to be, and the third purpose is what it claims to be, but the first purpose of a system is what it does, and all the writ in the world had only confirmed that what his system did was give people an excuse to be evil.

It wasn’t slaves he wanted, for himself or for anyone else; it was me he wanted, and he wanted me to enslave. This was what he cared about, and I would not do him the disservice of pretending he was such an exquisite fool as to lead himself as far and deep into ineptitude as he hoped to lead me into temptation.

So why, then, had I been left a way out at the last? Walled in by one page of corporate soundbytes after another until there was nothing left for me but to rape and pillage, and then permitted an escape in a handful of paragraphs that were obviously all but written on a napkin by someone else’s hand?

I wasn’t smart for having outwitted him; I was lucky at best, having been given the chance to defy him, or misled entirely at worst, having been deluded into optimism.

But if my enemy wanted only to lead good men into iniquity, then he would simply raise true heroes up into omnipotence and curse them by the same measure to always be left an Omelas, and in so doing create Gods to cast scapegoats into Hell, and in so doing solve the problem of evil by being greater than God altogether.

That my enemy wanted something as eccentric as this proved it couldn’t be so simple. That something as eccentric as this could come to pass, could be the purpose of anyone’s system, proved my enemy was nothing so majestically vast.

It meant he was human, or bound by something like humanity; it meant he was imperfect, or bound by something like imperfection. If not in what he was capable of, then certainly in what he desired above all else.

That was the way he was going to die.

And if I was a fool to believe that I wasn’t at the end of my rope and strung up on my adversary’s strings, then that was a burden I would have to bear, because that was just the human delusion called “faith”.

[dwellordream]

Maybe this is too much of a risky question, so feel free to not answer if you don’t want to, but how do you think Sansa actually viewed or felt about Arya, and how do you think she will react when they meet again?

Well, our introduction to how Sansa views Arya is through her very first POV chapter: Sansa comes down for breakfast at the inn, Septa Mordane asks where Arya is, Sansa knows Arya has snuck off somewhere but claims Arya wasn’t hungry. At this point I would not say Sansa is covering for Arya out of the kindness of her heart, I would say that, in typical sibling fashion, she really just does not want to be in the middle of a Mordane versus Arya conflict. She is not so hostile towards Arya that she is willing to throw Arya under the bus at a moment’s notice, but she isn’t going to concern herself much with what Arya is off doing. This, of course, is immediately foiled with Mordane tells Sansa that Cersei has invited her and Arya into the wheelhouse for the day, and that Sansa needs to go find Arya and tell her to make sure she looks presentable for their time with the queen. From the way Mordane says, “Do remind her to dress nicely today. The grey velvet, perhaps.” I get the impression that Mordane giving instructions or warnings to Arya via Sansa is not at all uncommon, and that this probably does not at all help the relationship between sisters, if Sansa is often being asked to act as Mordane’s mouthpiece when she’s fed up and doesn’t want to deal with Arya. We then get this: The only thing that scared her about today was Arya. Arya had a way of ruining everything. You never knew what she would do. "I'll tell her," Sansa said uncertainly, "but she'll dress the way she always does." She hoped it wouldn't be too embarrassing. "May I be excused?" Sansa views Arya as unpredictable, her first POV suggests. She’s never sure what Arya is going to do, but she knows it’s probably not going to be met with approval from the people around them. “Arya had a way of ruining everything.” is point blank not a nice thing to think about your sister, obviously. Why does Sansa feel Arya ruins everything, that Arya is embarrassing to her? Well, we’re about to find out: "You better put on something pretty," Sansa told her. "Septa Mordane said so. We're traveling in the queen's wheelhouse with Princess Myrcella today." "I'm not," Arya said, trying to brush a tangle out of Nymeria's matted grey fur. "Mycah and I are going to ride upstream and look for rubies at the ford." "Rubies," Sansa said, lost. "What rubies?" Arya gave her a look like she was so stupid. "Rhaegar's rubies. This is where King Robert killed him and won the crown." Sansa regarded her scrawny little sister in disbelief. "You can't look for rubies, the princess is expecting us. The queen invited us both." "I don't care," Arya said. "The wheelhouse doesn't even have windows, you can't see a thing." "What could you want to see?" Sansa said, annoyed. She had been thrilled by the invitation, and her stupid sister was going to ruin everything, just as she'd feared. "It's all just fields and farms and holdfasts." "It is not," Arya said stubbornly. "If you came with us sometimes, you'd see." The scene is both fairly comedic, in that they are such different pages they might as not even be in the same book, and pretty much sets up what we know to expect from their dynamic. Sansa doesn’t hate Arya, but she feels that if there is one thing in her personal life (as narrow a personal life as any 11 year old has) that does not fit, that does not work the way it should, it is Arya. Arya doesn’t think like Sansa. Arya doesn’t share the same interests as Sansa. Arya doesn’t seem to care (in Sansa’s perspective) what Sansa thinks or what anyone thinks. We know Arya, does, in fact, care quite a lot about what Sansa and other people think of her, but this is not apparent to Sansa.  Sansa is thrilled at the thought of spending the day with Cersei and Myrcella, viewing this invitation as the very tip of the iceberg- she’s been betrothed to the crown prince, this is going to be her life now, idyllic rides through the countryside, court gossip, spending time in the presence of the queen herself, renowned for her beauty. Traveling in a wheelhouse is a big deal for someone raised at the isolated Winterfell. Sansa doesn’t care about the outside world, she can’t stand the thought of missing out on all the excitement going on inside. In her mind, she is verging on the precipice of grownup life. Grownup ladies sit in the wheelhouse and chat and do needlework and read to one another. They do not go tearing off into the countryside looking for rubies. But it’s not just that Arya acts ‘childish’ that annoys Sansa. It’s that Arya’s behavior does not fit the standard Sansa has been raised to uphold and to see as right and proper. Arya does not nod and go, “Sure, Sansa, let me put on my grey velvet and I’ll be right there!” Arya argues with her. The big sister! The gall. Arya refuses to put on her nice grey dress. Arya plays with the butcher’s boy, someone Sansa has been taught is not a suitable companion for a highborn girl. Arya wanders off, talking to all sorts of people, regardless of class. Sansa sees herself as well on her way to becoming a woman, but not only, in her view, does her sister act like a child in comparison, it’s that she does not even act ‘like a proper little girl’. Arya disregards the gender norms Sansa has been told must be upheld. Arya is defiant, Arya is stubborn, Arya says what’s on her mind. To Sansa, this means any social situation with Arya is a ticking timebomb. She is constantly annoyed and aggravated, afraid Arya will offend Cersei, Joffrey, Myrcella, etc. Little does Sansa know, Arya is also often on edge in these situations, feeling like she can’t do anything right, that Sansa doesn’t like her and is ashamed of her.  However, what I do not read into this initial scene, though it ends with both sisters annoyed and frustrated with one another, is genuine hatred. Arya refuses to come along, Sansa pulls the classic older sibling ‘fine, I’ll go by myself, and it’ll be lots of fun!’ hoping to use some reverse psychology, and Arya gets one last jab in as Sansa stalks off. Sansa is tearful, not because she’s going to miss Arya oh so much, but because now she’s going to have to explain where Arya ran off to, and she’s afraid it will make her look bad or that Cersei and company will think less of her for having an ‘unruly sister’. All of this is pretty realistic to the behavior of some bickering 11 and 9 year olds. Both girls are sensitive, but in different ways, which again, makes sense. Even in the midst of their fierce argument, Sansa is still giggling at Arya trying to brush Nymeria’s fur, and Arya still offers to let Sansa come along with her and Mycah. We know from Arya’s POV, moving forward, that she feels genuinely hurt by Sansa’s disapproval, that she feels the absence of a close sisterly bond, that Sansa and Jeyne’s comments of ‘horse face’ whether teasingly meant or deliberately provocative, make her feel insecure and small, unworthy and unwanted. But neither Arya nor Sansa have the skills to communicate their true feelings or exactly why they aggravate one another so much. More so, why Arya aggravates Sansa so much, as Arya is not nearly as upset by Sansa’s more ‘ladylike’ behavior as Sansa is by Arya’s ‘rebellious’ behavior. Again, I think this is fairly reasonable. They’re 11 and 9 and Septa Mordane is not at all one to be promoting conflict resolution. Ned doesn’t spend much time parenting either of them on a day to day basis as they travel south. They’ve been separated from their mother, which is a pretty big deal for two little girls who’ve never traveled before, nevermind traveled without the rest of the family. They don’t have their brothers as buffers; Sansa can’t confide in Robb, Arya can’t confide in Jon. They don’t have a ton of privacy; they’re sharing a tent or an inn bed together at night, they can’t just run off to opposite ends of the keep to get away from each other, because they’re on the road. The mundane stressors are exacerbating an already rocky relationship.  But none of this is all that out of the ordinary or odd. Neither of them has flung any major insults at the other in either’s POV so far, they haven’t had any big conflicts. What really goes on to totally change the dynamic is the Trident incident, and all the emotions tied up in that. That is not a ‘normal’ situation. That is a situation none of the kids present (including Joffrey and Mycah) should ever have been in. That is four kids wandering off into the woods, miles away from any adult supervision, two of them at least tipsy, one of them carrying a weapon. Neither Sansa nor Arya woke up that day expecting things to go that way. It is so beyond the pale that what follows is the equivalent of a nuclear bomb in the relationship dynamic. There is no way either comes out of that with anything close to positive feelings, in the direct aftermath, about the other sister. It is written that way by design. It’s not a nasty spat where some cruel things or said. It’s not a shoving match over who gets to watch TV or shower first. It taints the entire relationship for the rest of the book, and it guarantees that things ‘end’ on a bad note for the sisters, because neither has any forewarning to realize that there will be no chance for a reconciliation a few months down the line. Before that, what we see is, in my current reading, a more or less ‘normal’ sibling relationship. It doesn’t excuse the bullying Arya’s experienced growing up at Winterfell (which Sansa certainly does not recognize as bullying at the time of the first book) but it is not traumatizing and earth-shattering to the level that the Trident incident becomes. This really didn’t answer how I feel Sansa will react when she and Arya meet again, but to cut things short before I go on all night: Sansa currently believes Arya is dead. She’s not thinking of reconciling with Arya or thinking of her last months with Arya because it’s painful and what is the point? Arya is dead and she’s never coming back, in Sansa’s mind. She will never have a sister again. This seems doubly true to her, no doubt, after the Tyrell scheme falls through and she is married to Tyrion.  However, we do see her, as of Winds, befriending Mya Stone and Myranda Royce, neither of whom are people the Sansa we see in AGoT would have ever thought of spending time with. And before that, we see her doing the sort of things with Margaery (such as going hawking and racing horses) that Arya might have, had the opportunity arose, offered to do with Sansa. Sansa thinks of Arya as she’s warning Margaery about Joffrey. Sansa dreams about children with Willas, sometimes a daughter who looks Arya. That does not suggest contempt or disdain or lingering loathing, in my opinion. So I would say that Sansa’s initial reaction to meeting Arya again will be shock and disbelief, then overwhelming joy that not all her family is dead (assuming Arya is the first sibling she reunites with). I do not think it will be a cold stand-off between sisters. Arya has been thinking of Sansa too, frequently in A Storm of Swords, even. I truly hope that past the initial thrill of being reunited and the awkwardness of both of them being a few years older, they are able to speak openly and honestly about their childhood, that Sansa is able to apologize, that Arya is able to express herself, that both are able to agree to move forward together as sisters who love each other and who want to support one another.

[poptod]

The Ivory Haunting pt. 4 (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: It’s getting a little harder to exist with your truth.

Notes: its such a struggle to find new gifs for stories these days (cause i fucking used all of them already). also quick note: this starts off kinda spooky and depressing but theres also some heavy petting shit going on WC: 2.3k

+

They come to you at any moment. Terrorizing your normal life. You hadn't considered this, hadn't even thought of it becoming reality, but it's true and clear enough to see by now.

It's ripping you apart, slowly. You're not really supposed to be here, but are you even yourself anymore? When had the change occurred when you were no longer familiar in the mirror, when you expected nails doused in Egyptian blue rather than the plain ones on your hands? Sometimes you don't respond to your name––ever since remembering the name you carried as a servant, it stuck in your head. Plaguing you. Tearing down the life you've made, duct-taping in its' place Ahk's life for you.

Memories can make you sick, and they often do, striking you anytime something remotely reminds you of something you used to know. Unlike the first time it happened, you can't seem to stay fully conscious. Now you're missing the feeling of blacking out – it's safer than when you collapse to the floor, waking up with bile in your mouth.

How dreadfully pathetic you've grown.

You barely sleep but can't seem to stay awake, desperate for rest but unable to reach it. Most food doesn't sit well in your stomach––for the past five days you've eaten three pieces of toast and drank your weight in water. Fortunately it doesn't physically show all that much, so it allows you an excuse as to why you still won't tell Ahk. He doesn't notice. He doesn't need to, and it's not important.

Your laugh is quiet, and rare these days, so it delights Ahk when you do. By now he's noticed your anxiety––he's horribly protective of you, but he understands what boundaries are. Just wants what will make you happy. So he spends time making sure there are more people in the room than just the two of you, moving the pressure of conversation off you. When he does want to speak to you alone, he takes you on these long walks.

It's cold as fuck.

Sleet lines the sidewalks, wet and slimy and full of dirt spiralling off car wheels. It can't even be called snow anymore––it's just a slush, but fortunately the actual sidewalks are still walkable. Like most evenings these days the streets are empty, barren of conversation and a social desert. That's what's safe, but it still puts you on edge. The only other movement ––cars included––is a man about a block in front of you, smoking something beside the only open store; a Tesco.

"Whoof," Ahk says as you get closer, his hand sneaking up around your waist to pull you closer. You don't trust that guy either. "That.. is very strong."

"What is?" You ask softly, looking up at him.

"That smell. I think it's what he's smoking. Can you not smell it?"

"No," you say, though you don't particularly mind. Tobacco isn't an all-too pleasant smell.

"You'll see soon, we'll have to pass him anyway," he mumbles, rubbing circles into your side with his thumb when he feels your shoulders tense.

You step slightly into Ahk's side as you pass the smoker, your mask already on from the moment you saw him. Ahk doesn't wear one––which is fair, since he's already dead and can't get sick––but this man doesn't seem like he cares whether or not you have a mask. You avert your eyes as you pass him. He does the exact opposite; stares at you, blowing a hefty cloud of smoke into your face.

That's not tobacco. Not at all. You can't even tell what it is, but it makes your vision spot out, head swirling in your skull as you lose your balance. Your eyes shut the moment you try to blink.

"Don't pay attention to him," he whispers against your temple, barely having to move with you pressed against his side.

What little sunlight gets through the tented room is turned a vibrant red, casted onto the carpet with swirling designs. They reflect from the tapestries hung on the ceilings, drooping just slightly and lined with knotted fringes. The doorway is made of the same thin cloth, a tiny crack between the two flaps letting pure sun seep in, illuminating the smoke dancing just below the ceiling.

The whole room is shaped in a circle, allowing a ring of seats, all of which are taken up by people you don't know. The prince knows them––or he says he knows them––but that in no way comforts you. Just because he's nice doesn't mean the people he knows are. They certainly don't seem nice, eyeing you up and gauging your thoughts, sizing you down to what they can get away with. It's a look you're familiar with; you got a lot of them when you were on sale, sat outside in the boiling sun all day till your skin cracked.

And suddenly you're property again. Time with Ahk sort of... made you forget about that. You're not sure if that's a good or a bad thing.

While some of the smoke in the small, humid room is coming from burning incense, the majority of it is coming from a strange glass and metal mechanism the men are handing back and forth. The smoke isn't all that thick like the incense, but the smell is pungent––unlike anything you've smelled before, which is strange, since according to Ahk it's a plant he gave you once.

He hasn't told you what it is he's smoking, giving you that single hint before falling quiet with a sly, mischievous smile. When the mechanism is handed to him he doesn't hesitate––sets his lips upon the mouthpiece and intakes a deep breath. He fiddles with something on the side that you can't see before letting go, a long breath tainted with heavy smoke leaving his chest. It spins in the air, curls in the rays of sunlight, dancing in a way that shouldn't be beautiful but mystifies you.

Their eyes are still on you. Your chest constricts, mind telling you that you mustn't move, too terrified of making the wrong one. Even breathing is suspect as the eyes drag back up to your face, demanding you look to them.

You don't.

The soft conversation in the room isn't enough to steady your nerves, and to your immense relief the prince notices. He leans away from you, towards the man that owns the smoking den, muttering something in his ear that gets him to stand. You don't miss the bag of coin Ahk slips him, either. Though the man's eyes do fall to you for a moment he doesn't linger, calling the rest of those gathered to leave the tent.

When the last person steps out your shoulders instantly release their tension, your breathing once more returning to you.

"Better?" He asks you.

You nod. He's had his arm around the back of your seat the entire time, but without outside stimulus, it's now all you can feel. His skin is always warm, always soft, but you never give into it first. He has to initiate it. So as much as you want to lean into him and rest your head against him, you don't.

"Have you ever smoked?" He asks, reaching forward to put the glass contraption back in his lap.

"No," you say. "What is it?"

"It's... a mix of things. Won't do much but calm you down," he assures you, and though you know that's probably not the whole truth, you allow him to hand it to you anyway.

It's a little heavy––the weight is unbalanced, but Ahk helps balance it in your lap, instructing you with his hands in how to use it. When you take in the smoke––or is it vapor?––it slides hot down your throat, drying you out and swelling in your lungs. A long sigh allows the smoke to leave you, plumes of it coming from your lips and drifting up into the low ceiling. You don't cough but you do need water.

"See?" He says. "That was a very smooth draw. I'm impressed."

You blush a bright red at the compliment, visible even in the dim of the room, and he doesn't even give you the courtesy of hiding his reaction. He chuckles softly, leans over and presses a kiss to your temple before taking in more smoke.

Two more draws and you're feeling it heavy on your skull. There's pressure around your chest, like you're being squeezed, but it's a pleasant sensation. A bit like being hugged. Everything else is just warm––dry on your tongue, hot on your cheeks and down between your thighs. You shift in your seat, hoping to relieve some of the pressure without giving anything away. How inappropriately your body reacts to something simple in the presence of the Prince.

"You're very quiet company," he notes softly, and you can feel his eyes on the top of your head. Slowly you turn, meeting his almost concerned gaze. "Do you ever have anything on your mind? You can speak freely around me."

Now he has to ask you what you're thinking about? Now of all times? Couldn't have done it when the two of you were staring at the stars, or when he took you by the riverside––it has to be now, when all you can think about is the places on you he hasn't touched, places that burn with desperation to be touched for once, away from the hunger affection's absence has given you.

Now.

"My mind is... a little... not alive right now," you say in slow, enunciated words that shake on your lips.

"Ah, yes," he says as though he understands, and considering how familiar he was with smoking, you're sure he does. But he lets out a soft sigh as he speaks, leaning into you as you press your back against a wall of cushions, allowing him to rest his head upon your chest. "I understand perfectly well. Blue lotus can do that. Mmm..."

He drifts off, words falling flat as he moves against you. Not once does he stop––just keeps shifting till he's wedged gently between your legs, lips on your collar. It isn't quite fear that courses through you, though it is familiar in a way that should be frightening. Just the touch is familiar, and with each grace you can feel echoes in your mind of other times you were touched in such ways. Times where you didn't have a choice. His fingers run down your back, and now he feels the marks of whips.

He's felt them before. When he feels them again, his kisses are softer, sweeter on your skin than anyone before ever cared to do. Your heart beats out of its' chest but you know you can make him stop. You find you don't especially want to––that heat between your legs couples nicely with the feel of his hips on yours, pushing and grinding against you until a moan falls unwillingly from your mouth.

Too good––your body shakes at simple stimulation, too sensitive just from his hand climbing lower against your waist. You breathe in sharply each time his fingertips brush your skin. It's then that he rests his palm on your knee, climbing upwards on the skin of your thighs. You know he can feel your nerves––it practically burns you, but he chuckles, rumbles warm against your chest as he just climbs higher. The tip of his thumb reaches your heat and you jump, shocked at the sudden gentle touch.

"Breathe, my love," he murmurs right in your ear, low and sweet and oh so assuring. "Breathe."

Your eyes flutter shut, darkness encompassing you as his touch turns cold.

"(Y/N)? Breathe, please," he pants out, hands unable to choose which part of you to hold; your face, your hands, your waist. You open your eyes and the stars are above you, muted by a bright streetlight.

"Ahk?" You mumble, half-slurred in your half-conscious state. There’s a piercing freeze around you.

"There you are," he says, relief staining his eyes with tears when he pulls you into a tight hug, practically ripping you away from the cold ground and into his touch. You melt into him––of course you do.

"Shit, I'm sorry man," says a strange voice, rough and soft-spoken. You turn away from Ahk, finding the smoking man above you, his cigarette put out on the ground a few feet away. "Didn't know you had asthma. You should probably get that checked out, could'a died without an inhaler."

"Why.. didn't I, then?" You ask quietly, still unable to fully keep your balance.

"I had an inhaler," another voice says. Over Ahk's shoulder there's yet another stranger, but this one has a mask. "Don't worry about the germs, I disinfected it before we used it," he assures you.

"Thank you," you mutter.

You sway even in your seated position, counting on Ahk to catch you, which he does. Your head lolls onto his shoulder as he moves to his feet. Before leaving he thanks both strangers––even the one who caused it, since he's nice––and keeps you close as the two of you head back to the museum.

"You didn't tell me you have asthma," Ahk says, one arm still set protectively around you.

"I don't," you answer hoarsely.

"Oh. Then what do you think caused it?"

"Maybe it's the scent," you say, as nothing rings clearer in your mind than the scent of burning blue lotus.

"Makes sense. The man––he told me he was smoking blue lotus. Have you ever been around that before?"

There’s your trigger right there, then.

"... no," you say. It's technically true; you, as yourself, in this body, have never been around it.

"I'll make sure to keep it away from you, now that we know. Alright?"

"Yeah, um.. yes. Thank you," you mumble, leaning into him with eyes that can't seem to stay open.

"Of course, my love."

[santorodante]

If The Heavens Ever Did Speak

She’s The Last True Mouthpiece

It was agony. He tried to breathe in, but it felt like his ribcage was actually fighting against the air coming in, depriving his lungs of that sweet fresh morning air. Dante’s vision went hazy, grey dots floating at its periphery. Then the bright sun was blocked by the shadow of his mentor, as he towered above him. Dante tried to speak, but there was no air left in his lungs to make a sound. Pressure built up in his chest, and in his head. The older man moved fast, gripping Dante’s jaw, and pouring a freezing liquid into his mouth. Dante gulped it down, and as it slid down his throat, he felt his airways opening up. He turned on his side coughing, barely able to focus on his mentor’s voice.

“And that, lad, is what a werewolf will feel once ye toss woflsbane in their faces.” He used the tip of his boot to poke Dante’s side. “But ye shouldn’t get cocky, nay. They got teeth, and claws, but they’re smart, too. And some know our weaknesses as well.”

Dante took a deep breath, and slowly stood on his knees, looking up at the older Druid. He was in his late thirties, with wavy dark blond hair, and a pair of bright grey eyes. His angular features made him look stern, a characteristic that was only enhanced by his sharp Scottish accent, and harsh words. Deep down, he was really affectionate, and cared about his pupil. He was a good teacher. But he had his secrets. Dante had been trying to confront him about one of them, that morning, when they started training. “Something’s troublin ya.” He said, extending his hand to help Dante up. “Out with it, lad.”

“I am not sure...” Dante hesitated, and then took a deep breath. “Rowan, what’s a Darrach?”

It was like Dante had punched him, the way Rowan flinched, and actually took a step back. A series of emotions danced in the man’s eyes. Surprise. Confusion. Anger. And pain. “How’d ye learn the word?”

The question Dante dreaded. But if he wanted honesty, he owed Rowan the truth. “I didn’t... I didn’t mean to. I stumbled on your journal, thought it was your grimoire. You said I could read it, and well... By the time I realized what it really was... I read what you wrote about the Darrach in Beacon Hills. The one that was killing people. They weren’t shifters, so, what were they?”

Rowan ran a hand through his hair, the sound of his leather jacket twisting filling the clearing they were at. He dug into he forest floor with the tip of his boot. Dante could see his throat tightening before he cleared it. “They used to be Druids. They forsake their vows to uphold balance, in order to sate their thirst for power. To achieve that power, they sacrifice innocents to a sacred altar, corrupting the land it sit on, in the process.” He was looking away from Dante as he spoke. There was a pain in his eyes when he explained what a Darrach was that made Dante’s own eyes fill with tears. How corrupt must one become, to resort to sacrificing people, murdering innocents, in order to obtain more power.

And then dread started to fill him, and Dante took a step back. When they had met, Dante had asked Rowan if he was a Druid. He had told him he could use magic, but that he was something else, something Dante shouldn’t aspire to be. Rowan smiled sadly at the unspoken question in Dante’s mind, that was clear in his features. “Aye. Ye figured it out, finally...”

“The Darrach in Beacon Hills...”

“The one I speak of in my journal? It could be either I, or my father. We were both there, at the same time” Rowan admitted. “He was the reason... But, alas, the time for excuses has passed, already. I understand if ye no longer want me to teach ye.”

Dante shook his head. “I... I will have to think about it. I need to know more about Darrachs. About what you did in Beacon Hills.” 

Rowan nodded, and pointed at his messenger bag, carelessly tossed against a tree stump. “Take my journal from there.” He said. “The one ye’ve caught a glimpse of.”

Dante moved carefully towards the bag, and took the leather-bound journal out. He had no idea this would be the last time he would see Rowan. He had honestly considered giving him a chance, before he read the journal. When he had gone looking for Rowan, two nights later, he had come with the intention of making him pay for the things he had done, even though Rowan was clearly more powerful than Dante would ever be. But he had vowed to his Nonna he would maintain nature’s balance, and Rowan had corrupted it. All he had found, however, was Rowan’s cabin trashed, blood everywhere, claw marks decorating the walls. It was not hard to imagine what had happened. And given that none of Rowan’s things were missing, Dante assumed the Darrach had been gone for good. But he didn’t bother check the backyard, as he walked away.

[the-durin-boys]

Sorry Bilbo!

I’ve been gone for a long time, sorry about that!!

--

You like Thorin. There’s a mutual respect between you and for the past few days (weeks but it’s been on the down-low). You have been pushing Thorin to talk to you more and more, waking up early with him, scooping just a little bit more food into is bowl, offering to take up watches and wash the dishes, and while this definitely caught the attention of the entire company (Bilbo not included) it certainly hasn’t  been picked up by the Dwarf King, one of the sharpest yet most oblivious people you know. And that’s how you started your day, waking up early and gently waking everyone else before Thorin could kick them awake. You then had Bilbo help you make up a quick breakfast and get everyone on their feet and ready to start the day.

Balin was the first to wake after you, and though his eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, he can still see the stolen glances you take in Thorin’s direction, so when Thorin does wake, Balin sits down next to his king, but in this moment, his friend. 

“Are you oblivious or just cruel, old friend?” Thorin blinks, not fully understanding the question. 

“What do you speak of so early in the morning?” Balin sighs and smiles. 

“The lassie. She isn’t exactly being subtle about anything.” Thorin begins to roll up his bedroll. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Balin just shakes his head and pats Thorin on the shoulder before walking away and muttering under his breath, a big smile on his face. 

“Poor oblivious man.”

On the other side of the camp, you’re sitting with Bilbo, taking your time in tying the water skins to your belt, so caught up in your little world that you don’t even notice yourself letting out a dreamy sigh. Bilbo looks at you and quirks an eyebrow, puffing into his pipe as he does so. 

“Something on your mind, (Y/N)?” You don’t even mean to glance up at Thorin, but all you’ve been thinking about for the past ten minutes is how Thorin reacted to being woken up. You had to be gentle, of course (Thorin is a warrior always on guard), so when you woke Thorin up, you had to catch his dagger. Thorin was confused, still mostly asleep but it only took a few words of reassurance and then, for some odd reason, Thorin and his sleep clouded mind tucked his cheek into your hand and gently kissed your palm, saying:

“Good morning, Amrâlimê.” After which he dozed, leaving you with a bright red face and fingers tangled in his hair. As soon as you were able to slip away from Thorin, you had to take a good long while to settle your beating heart and cool your flaming cheeks before you could actually wake the rest of your friends. 

Bilbo’s eye catches yours and he’s quick to follow your line of sight to see Thorin. His eyes move away from Thorin who’s standing with Balin, discussing something or the other, and back to you. Bilbo sputters on his pipe and he stands. You, confused and concerned, stand also, trying to comfort your brother out of his coughing fit, but all Bilbo does is wave the mouthpiece of his pipe in your face. 

“No. Absolutely not. I do agree, and as your brother, I forbid you from doing anything with that man.” You make an offended sound and knock Bilbo’s pipe away from your face. You feel your cheeks flush as you glance over Bilbo’s shoulder and see Thorin looking your way. 

“Excuse you, Bilbo, I think I will do whatever I please, thank you very much.”

“I am your brother-”

“Not my father.” 

“If he was here he would agree with me. You are being reckless and you should have never come, you are in constant danger, and now you’re throwing yourself at some-some-some dwarf who you’ve only just met!” The resounding sound from the back of your hand against Bilbo’s cheek completely silences the entire camp as everyone stares in shock. Bilbo stumbles back into the arms of Ori, but he’s quick to his feet and storms towards you, furious. You don’t back down, puffing your chest and staring him in the eyes. As Bilbo approaches you with determination, Thorin steps forward, quickly placing himself between you and your brother. Bilbo huffs, staring behind Thorin and to you, and you do nothing to hide your vicious glare.

“Bilbo. That is enough. You need to calm down.” You bite at your lip as Bilbo cowers under the mighty stare of the King, and you feel tears pick up in your eyes. 

“Thorin,” You gently place a hand on his arm. Thorin looks down at you, but you don’t look up at him, tears welling. “It’s okay. I was the one that hit him.” You look up at Bilbo who’s shoulders relax at the sight of your tears. “I’m sorry Bilbo.” 

“(Y/N)-” Bilbo steps forward and you take two steps back, quickly swiping up your bag and making your way into the surrounding bush.

“I’ll be back.” 

“(Y/N), I’m sorry!” Bilbo tries to run after you but is stopped by Thorin’s arm. 

“Master Baggins.” Thorin gently pushes the burglar back towards the camp. “I will go after her. I do not think it wise to continue to ignite the situation.” Bilbo wants to protest but he knows that Thorin is right, and that he shouldn’t have said those things to you during your argument, because in all honesty, Thorin is a respectable dwarf who would never do anything to you, but you are Bilbo’s little sister, and he didn’t want you coming for fear of you getting hurt or dying, and now he can see that you aren’t so little anymore and that scares him, so Bilbo just sits down with his back to the company and relights his pipe, muttering angrily to himself.

Thorin, true to his word, quietly follows after you, stepping carefully through the undergrowth trying to find you before something else does. He follows gently in your footsteps, careful not to lose the very angry trail that you’re leaving behind. As he approaches you, he tries to make himself known, as to not startle you when he called for your attention.

“Who does he even think he is? I’m not a fauntling, I make my own decisions!” Thorin hears the distant clack of a rock being thrown, and as he enters the clearing that you’ve sat yourself in, he sees you lob another rock an impressive distance followed by some angry mumbling as you search for another rock. Thorin, despite himself, smiles and picks up a rather interesting looking rock - valueless, but with pretty colors that he thinks you’ll like. 

“Try this rock, I think you’ll like it.” You flinch, startled. 

“Thorin!” You exclaimed. “You scared me!” He smiles. 

“Apologies, that was not my intention.” He offers the rock to you and you gently take it out of his hand, turning it over in your palm. You look it over, but instead of throwing it like you have all the other rocks, you pocket it. “You know it’s not safe to be out here alone.” Your cheeks flush red and you look away from him. 

“I know, I’m sorry. I overreacted.” Thorin hums and for a minute neither of you say anything. 

“If I may ask, what happened to upset you so?” You look at him but don’t say anything, and for a brief moment, Thorin’s stomach twists in fear that he asked a personal question. You haven’t even known each other for long, of course you wouldn’t want to answer that. Mahal, you must be feeling so uncomfortable right now-

“Bilbo doesn’t see me as an adult. He treats me like I’m a faunt.” Thorin almost sighs from relief. “I mean, I’m an adult, I’m capable of making my own decisions! I don’t need him interfering with my life and the choices that I choose to make!” You pause for a second, hand reaching into the pocket with the rock. You fiddle with it for a moment, staring out into the woods. “Like I know that he’s trying to do his best, cause we’re the only family that we have, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t take care of myself. He didn’t even want me to come with him! It’s ridiculous!” You sigh. “I’m sorry, I just dumped a whole lot on you, didn’t I?” 

“It’s alright,” Thorin assures. “Sometimes you just need someone to talk to. Though I don’t think you should have hit Bilbo.” 

“I know!” You bury your face in your hands, the tips of your ears turning a burning red. “He just made me really upset, and I would never even do that! But he was talking about my love life like that’s something that he gets a say in, and I-!” You sigh. “I don’t know. I need to apologize to him, I acted brash and rude, not very Hobbit-like of me at all. Perhaps I’ll bring him back a flower crown. He’ll like that.” 

“Oh?” Thorin looks at you incredulously. “What will a flower crown do?” You seem to perk up at Thorin’s question.

“Oh, well you see, flowers have different meanings, but when you put them together, they can spell out a message like ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘I love you,’. I don’t really know where to start looking though, maybe I can pick some while we walk, I don’t want to take up too much time.” 

“Don’t worry about time. We have a river in our path, but because of the rain last night, it is probably too swollen to cross. We’ll be waiting around for a while anyways.” You look up at him with big round eyes. 

“Are you sure?”

“As long as you teach me how to make a crown.”

“Really?” Thorin nods.

“A favor for a favor.” You smile up at him, and Thorin feels his heart jump as he returns the affection. “Should we get started?”

The pair of you are out in the woods for far too long, but time seems to escape Thorin as you ramble on about different flowers. He had no idea that they could mean so many things.

“My cousin, she’s a Sackville-Baggins - wretched woman - sent over twenty-four bouquets of orange lilies! Can you believe the nerve of her? Right after I helped her weed her garden too. Apparently, I pulled too many weeds and then her flowers started to die. To die! I had to tell her that that’s not how gardening works, and I even sent over a close friend of mine to help her out! He was very much obliged, but he was sent make in the same hour, and behind him, orange lilies!” Thorin hands you another blue hyacinth, which you take absently as you continue to talk, weaving it into the crown with ease. You managed to find a small field of different flowers, and you were overjoyed, grabbing Thorin by the hand and tugging him towards it to find a spot to sit.

“What do orange lilies mean?”

“They mean hatred. And she sent a lot of them, too. Let me tell you, she was not invited to afternoon tea that day. That showed her. Though she never formally apologized, she did send over one blue hyacinth, which was good enough for her apparently.” You tie off the flower and sigh, looking over the crown. “Do you think Bilbo will like it? I hope he accepts it, I feel really bad about the whole situation.” Thorin smiles gently at you, a smile that you do not see, but that’s okay. 

“I think he will.” Thorin picks a white flower next to him. “What is this?” You set the crown in your lap.

“That’s a daisy.” You gently take it from him, your fingers brushing his. “It means innocence and purity.” 

“And this?”

“That’s a daffodil. It means regard and chivalry.” Thorin lets you take the flower as he picks another. 

“What does this one mean?”

“That flower is a white heather. It symbolizes protection.” You also take this flower, and you take a second to ponder a thought as you look over the flowers in your hand. “Thorin, is it okay if I make you one? A crown, I mean.” Thorin looks surprised. 

“Only if I may make you one as well.” You grin.

“You don’t even know how!”

“Well I do have an amazing teacher here with me, don’t I?” 

“That you do.” And then you set off, Thorin close behind, and yet again, time passes by much too quickly.

“This...is much harder than I thought.” You laugh, bumping your shoulder against his as you watch Thorin struggle to weave together steams. 

“You’re doing great!” Thorin frowns. The flowers are falling apart and the band of the crown is loose. 

“I don’t feel like I’m doing great.”

“You’re doing much better than I did when I first learned how to make crowns. At least yours is being held together, I couldn’t get mine to stay for two weeks!” You giggle as Thorin lets out a frustrated sigh. “Here, let me.” You carefully take the crown from his hands, fiddling with the stems for a second before giving a gentle tug to one, and then the whole crown tightens. “See? There you go, all better.” Thorin takes the crown back from you. He had taken a while picking out the flowers, asking you the different meanings. The colors of the crown clash, but you’ve reassured him many times that the colors don’t matter, it’s the message that he’s trying to convey that matters. The crown is filled with carnations and asters. Thorin thinks that it looks rather simple but you’ve told him that you think that it’s beautiful. Your crown, on the other hand, is one that Thorin envies. 

It’s magnificent, full of different colors, each flower weaving in and out, creating a pattern on the crown so complex that once you think you’ve found it, another one appears. Thorin doesn’t know a lot of the flowers, and he can’t remember most of the meanings, but he does know that he’s going to wear it with pride. He does remember daisies though, innocence and purity, but he hasn’t commented on how many of those are in the crown. He sees the white heather and another white flower, one that you said was a gardenia. You said that it indicates purity and sweetness. Another flower thrown into the mix are the yellow acacias, but you wouldn’t tell Thorin what they meant. 

“Well, I think I’m all done with my crown. May I?” You ask as you lift the crown that you made. Thorin smiles and tips his head towards you, and you gently set the crown on his head, trying not to think about how your fingers were tangled in his hair just his morning. The crown sits heavier than Thorin thought. He straightens out and you look at him with pride, and suddenly, Thorin’s hands are shaking as he lifts your crown. You also tilt your head, and Thorin sets the crown onto your hair, the softness not going unnoticed. You straighten back out and give him a goofy smile.

“Now we match.” Thorin smiles. 

“That we do.” And then everything is quite, comfortable, and Thorin can’t help but think about how beautiful you look, with the sun in your hair and a smile in your eyes. His eyes flick to your lips, soft and full, and he’s leaning down, and then your lips meet his and the kiss is gentle and it’s sweet as you lean into him and the break for air only lasts for a second before you’re connected again, Thorin’s hands finding their way to your waist as your fingers tangle in his hair. His fingers hook under the edge of your shirt, hand smoothing over your bare stomach as his lips make their way to the crook of your neck. He tugs you closer, and you straddle him, settling into his lap with ease.

“Thorin…” You whisper, and it isn’t anything but his name, but it’s enough for him as he gently moves you to lay in the field of flowers beneath him, pushing up your shirt as you unclip his coat. He dips down again to nip at your neck as you tug at his hair and-

“Thorin Oakenshield you get off of my sister this instant!” Thorin is ripped away by the back of his shirt and you yelp in surprise. 

“Bilbo!” Bilbo ignores you as he yanks Thorin up to his feet. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing? To my SISTER?” 

“Bilbo, I-” Thorin stammers as he tries to right his hair. 

“Are you wearing a flower crown?” Bilbo turns to you. “You made him a flower crown? You’re wearing a flower crown?”

“Well, yes.” You hide your face the best that you can in your hair. “I wanted to make one for you, and Thorin escorted me-”

“He ESCORTED you? I wouldn’t call this escorting you at all! You made him a flower crown! A very obvious flower crown!”

“I did make you one!” You look to your side where you left it, only to see that it had been accidentally crushed. “But, um, it - uh..” Bilbo looks to the apology crown that you made him, and then back to Thorin, and then back to you. 

“Does Thorin know what his crown means?” You flush deep red.

“Well, I mean, kind of?”

“Kind of? Kind of?!”

“Well I told him some of what it means, just not all of it..”

“And what does it mean, (Y/N)?”

“It means ‘I love you’..” Thorin looks to you, eyes wide., 

“That’s right.” Bilbo turns to Thorin. “And do you know what that means Thorin?”

“It means that she loves me?” 

“And what do you feel about that?”

“Well I feel that I love her as well.” Bilbo looks shocked, looking between you and Thorin, before finally landing on you. 

“You are so lucky that I came out here by myself.” He turns to Thorin. “If I catch you again, so help me Yavanna. You will treat her right,” Bilbo pokes a finger into Thorin’s chest. “You will love her, you will cherish her, and if you so much as make her cry..” Bilbo doesn’t finish his sentence but Thorin gets the picture. 

“On my honor, I will love her as my Queen, and as my One.” Bilbo glares at Thorin a second more before he seems satisfied. 

“The reason why I came out here was to tell you that breakfast is ready, and the group is looking for you.” Bilbo says as he turns away. You and Thorin share a look before you’re swept up into Thorin’s arms, and you laugh as you throw your arms around his neck. Thorin sets you down before cradling your face into a kiss. 

“THORIN!” You pull away and look over Thorin’s shoulder to see Bilbo glaring at you. 

“Sorry Bilbo!”

--

Words: 3198

The flower crown that Thorin is wearing means love, secret love, longing, purity, and sweetness.

[flibbertigiblet]

Episode 1: FORESHADOWING GALORE

Was it a perfect episode? No. The pacing is still a bit iffy, the dialogue bland, and important scenes felt rushed/undeveloped. But did it give me hope and/or satisfaction? Yes. Light on action, but heavy on foreshadowing, this episode lays the groundwork for three of our favorite theories – Dark!Dany, Political!Jon, and Jonsa.

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I never thought that we would get all our theories openly confirmed in the first episode. The showrunners are giving us the last moments of calm before the storm, and it makes sense that they allow the viewers to enjoy Jon’s homecoming and the various reunions between several beloved characters before they hit us with the major twists those theories entail. What they do instead is pepper the episode with strong hints of these outcomes. In this post, I’ll be highlighting the plot points and dialogue that support these theories, rather than going through the premiere scene by scene.

Let’s jump right into it. This is a long one.

Arrival at Winterfell

After a heartfelt hug with Bran (and thank the gods that we finally get a semblance of humanity from the Three-Eyed Raven in this), Jon turns to Sansa, who had been watching their reunion with a small but fond smile on her face. As Jon rears up to embrace his “sister”, the camera makes sure to cut away from them to focus on Daenerys and Jorah, watching them from a distance. Bran is kept in frame, observing their reactions. Sansa too, turns her gaze on the newcomers, even as she wraps her arms around Jon.

I will admit to being disappointed that the reunion hug between Jon and Sansa was much briefer and less intense than what we got in the HBO trailer, but in retrospect, that fact makes me go “hmm”. After all, they chose that particular sequence to be the first and only snippet from S8 to show in that trailer, despite the episode’s truncated version of the hug (or any other scene from the season, really) being a possible option. A photo of this scene shot from yet another angle from a Spanish(?) publication was circulating the internet only days ago. D&D want us to pay special attention to the relationship between Jon and Sansa.

Podrick Dany certainly is.

Dany and Sansa eye each other from across the courtyard, before the former approaches the Starks. As Lyanna Mormont and Lord Royce stare at her with suspicion, Jon makes introductions.

“My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark,” Daenerys says with a fixed smile. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you.” (You know, one way of interpreting this line was that it was Jon who told Dany that Sansa is beautiful. Because, well. She is.)

Sansa is not impressed by the transparent attempt at flattery. She looks Dany up and down and leans back slightly in thinly-veiled disdain, but her words and voice are perfectly civil. “Winterfell is yours, your Grace.” Take note: neither she nor anyone else in the courtyard bends the knee to their would-be queen.

Daenerys doesn’t buy Sansa’s act for a second, but Bran doesn’t have time for this catfight and tells everyone what’s what. The Wall has fallen, and the Army of the Dead (+ dragon) are marching to Winterfell. That sobers them up quickly.

Meeting the Lords

Everyone is gathered in the Great Hall. Pay attention to the framing. At the head table, Sansa has been relegated to Jon’s right, where Davos, as the Hand of the King, used to sit. Daenerys has taken up Sansa’s former seat to his left, where the Lady of Winterfell typically sits. In this first shot, however, Dany is standing by the fireplace, leaving a visual and metaphorical gap between the Northern pair and Team Dany, represented by Tyrion, who is seated at the far end of the table.

As acting leader of Winterfell, Sansa is the one running the meeting. She establishes the fact that she has called on all the banners to retreat to Winterfell, and asks for an update from Lord Umber, last of that once-mighty House. A young boy no older than Bran was in season 1 pops his head out from behind one of the nameless Lords. He is small, and cute, and has been singled out by the script, so clearly he is doomed.

He addresses first Sansa - “We need more horses and wagons, my Lady,” – then Jon – “and my Lord,” – who flashes him a quick smile – “and my Queen.” – and only then Daenerys, who does not love being third on this list. “Sorry,” apologizes awkwardly. His business is sorted out, and he is sent off.

Jon instructs Maester Wolkan to send ravens to the Night’s Watch to summon them to Winterfell. “At once, Your Grace,” says the man, out of habit, probably, but it’s all the excuse Lyanna Mormont needs to stand up to sass Jon for renouncing his crown (mostly because D&D have designated her the improbable mouthpiece of the North and have not bothered to introduce us to any of the other lords).

Jon tries to make his case, but nobody is convinced, not even when Tyrion tags himself in. As he tries to sway the Northern lords, the camera cuts to the other three – Jon in between the two women, Stark and Targaryen, black and white. They really couldn’t be more obvious about the symbolism here, but in case you missed it, the showrunners give us more evidence that we’re not about to get The Hair Braiding That Was Promised.

Sansa is facing the lords, addressing Tyrion, but is clearly speaking to Daenerys when she asks just how Winterfell is supposed to feed Team Dany’s massive armies and the dragons. Like the responsible leader that she is – take notes, kiddos – Sansa had spent the past few months stockpiling supplies to help her people through winter. Was the North expected to support these newcomers too? “What do dragons eat, anyway?”

“Whatever they want,” says Dany.

The two women look at each other with no further pretense at friendliness. Battle lines have been drawn.

(Jon sits there, pretending not to notice.)

A Proposed Proposal

Davos, Varys and Tyrion are discussing how to salvage the alliance between their respective sides. Davos tells the others that Northerners do not trust easily, that this trust needs to be earned. But he is hopeful that it can happen. “On the off chance that we survive the Night King, what if the Seven Kingdoms, for once in their whole shit history, were ruled by a just woman and an honorable man?”

He is talking about a possible marriage between Jon and Dany, but at this point the audience knows the truth of their relationship, and by the end of the episode – spoiler – Jon does too. Whether or not the GA realizes it yet, this makes the conversation equally applicable to the Jonsa side of the triangle.

Plus, le gasp! A Stark-Targaryen marriage? How dreadfully romantic.*

*Okay, I am actually strongly anti-Rhaegar, but the show plays them as some kind of grand romantic pairing so I will try to contain my antipathy for the purposes of this review.

A Darker Turn

Down at the courtyard, Daenerys is feeling somewhat put upon.

“Your sister doesn’t like me.”

Jon tries to mollify her. “She doesn’t know you. If it makes you feel any better, she didn’t like me either when we were growing up.”

“She doesn’t need to be my friend. But I am her queen. If she can’t respect me…”

WHAT, DANY? IF SANSA CAN’T RESPECT YOU, WHAT WILL YOU DO?

We’ve been saying it for a long while now, but guys. Dark!Dany is coming. While certain elements of the fandom persist in denying the obvious trajectory of her character arc, the foreboding undertone of this line is hard to ignore. What made this even more chilling was that she said this to Jon, a member of her family, who doesn’t yet know at this point in the episode what Dany’s extreme reaction tends to be for insubordination.

(Oh, but we know.)

When Sam learns of what Daenerys did to his father and brother, he could barely hold it together long enough to excuse himself from her presence before falling apart. Despite what Dany stans would have you think, this is a perfectly human and normal reaction to hearing such dreadful news. Also human and understandable? Mistrusting the kind of ruler who would execute a man for not bending the knee. Especially since Sam has personally seen a more humane sort of leadership before in Jon, who he later urges to take up his birthright as the true heir to the Iron Throne.

Other metas have discussed Dany’s approach to leadership and her increasingly draconian (an apt word, no?) attitude towards what she feels is her rightful position as Queen of the 7K. That she can and will take what is hers. A sense of entitlement not dissimilar to that which she attributed to her dragons earlier in that public display which did not endear her to her Northern subjects…

Side note: We’ve seen the indiscriminate destruction that an unchecked dragon can reap before when one of them – then only half-grown – killed the young daughter of a goatherd in Meereen. We even received a handy reminder of this straight from the mouth of Dany’s staunchest supporter and ally only in the episode before this one: “Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn’t. Land, livestock, children…letting them roam free around the city was a problem.” – Jorah Mormont, S07E07.

And because it hasn’t been hammered into our heads enough, we are reminded of this again later on, when her Dothraki riders list exactly how much her dragons had consumed just that same day (“only eighteen goats and eleven sheep”, which apparently means “the dragons are barely eating”). This is followed by a powerful shot of said dragons surrounded by the charred bones of the livestock that could have fed dozens of people.

The same people who cowered as the dragons flew over Mole’s Town, and whose fear she appeared to relish.

Foreshadowing much?

That Dragon Flying Scene

Oh boy. I’ll be honest. I wasn’t excited to see this one at all. In the end it was both more and less awful than I imagined it would be. The dragon riding scene is bound to be controversial. Thrilling to some, pandering of the worst kind to others. To me, it smacks of fanservice, but let’s give the show the benefit of the doubt and try to parse its storytelling purpose in the greater scheme of things.

Despite Daenerys’ unsubtle threat towards Sansa in the previous scene – which Jon was conveniently prevented from addressing due to the interruption of the Dothraki – and the sight of Drogon and Rhaegal apparently sulking whilst surrounded by the remains of the food they are “barely eating”, the showrunners made the odd decision to play this scene with a note of levity.

Out of nowhere, Dany oh-so-casually encourages her lover to try riding her dragon, a foolhardy decision based on what, exactly? The one time Jon had a moment with one of her “gorgeous beast(s)”? Dany teases him about his initial reluctance, and laughs at his ungraceful attempts to hang on as the two dragons freewheel over the snow-covered lands of the North before landing in front of a beautiful waterfall for a “romantic” moment.

In dialogue calling back to Jon and Ygritte’s famous cave scene (listen, are D&D just going to troll us by recycling  all of Jon’s best hits?):

“We could stay a thousand years, says Daenerys, looking back at Jon. “No one would find us.”

“We’d be pretty old,” says Jon with uncharacteristic humor.

I believe Jon’s lightheartedness stems as much from his being home with his family at long last as the thrill of dragonriding with a pretty girl by his side. The two flirt using cheesy lines straight out of bad fanfiction before sharing a kiss which I suppose will please the stans.

Not me, though. Romantic music playing in the background or not, like in boatbang, the supposed passion of the moment is interrupted by a third party which makes the whole thing awkward. The final shot of Jon’s eyes widening as he sees Rhaegal staring directly at him as he kisses the Dragon Queen made me snort, but it is unclear whether it was played for a laugh, is meant to underline the awkwardness of this romance, or be an ominous portent of the revelations to come.

And Now For the Good Stuff

That terrible unnecessary Disneyfied brightly lit, panoramic, even mildly comedic sequence contrasted sharply with the scene between Jon and Sansa only minutes later. We are treated to a Jonsa staple: a warm, candlelit scene full of tension, fluttering eyelashes, and heaving bosoms. This time, the air is shimmering with a new emotion – jealousy.

The two start off by discussing a message from Lord Glover, who “wishes (them) good fortune but he’s staying in Deepwood Motte with his men.” This immediately sparks an argument between them about Jon having bent the knee. They’ve had variations of this fight before, and to be honest, it’s a little tired. While I fully understand Sansa’s reservations about the presence of Dany and her armies in the North in terms of logistics, I tend to be more sympathetic to Jon’s insistence that the discussion on Northern independence needs to take a back seat for the moment given the gravity of the threats they are facing. But Sansa clings stubbornly to this old argument, and she (rather unfairly) lays the blame for Lord Glover’s desertion at Jon’s feet (let’s blame who is really at fault here, Sansa – the disloyal lord himself).

But of course, that’s not really what they’re fighting about.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to abandon your crown,” she says, voice shaking with anger as she turns her back on Jon.

Jon, frustrated, moves several steps closer. “I never wanted a crown. All I wanted was to protect the North. I brought two armies home with me, two dragons.”

Sansa spins around. “And a Targaryen queen?” she spits out.

Ah, and here we come to what appears to be the true cause of her wrath. Jon reminds Sansa that without Daenerys (and her martial strength), they don’t stand a chance against the Army of the Dead. Sansa is silent. She cannot argue the need for the armies and the dragons, but she takes particular exception to the woman who leads them. Why, Sansa? TELL US WHY.

It’s in their eyes as much as their words.

Jon heaves a deep sigh, closes his eyes. “Do you have any faith in me at all?” (Y’all, this line just about broke my heart cause he just wants her to love trust him.)

Sansa’s eyes are soft and slightly glassy. “You know I do.”

Jon takes another step or two towards Sansa, never breaking their gaze. “She’ll be a good queen. For all of us.” His eyes move away briefly. “She’s not her father.”

Sansa looks down, gathering herself with a deep breath. “No, she’s much prettier.”

Jon gives a pained smile of acknowledgment. It is his turn to avoid her stare.

“Did you bend the knee to save the North?” Sansa asks him, her eyes unfocused. “Or because you love her?”

Jon glances up at Sansa, but doesn’t respond.

END SCENE.

(Let’s give a standing ovation to Sophie and Kit for acting the hell out of this scene. I want a hundred gifs of this, people. Please get on it.)

The subtext is rich, rich, rich, my Jonsas. The dream is still alive.

One Last Thought - The Importance of Sansa Stark

Nothing made me happier than seeing our Queen in the North Lady of Winterfell given all the credit and respect that is her due after seasons of anti bullshit. See:

The people’s deference to her position and the role that she plays in the North

Tyrion’s acknowledgment of her survival skills - “Many underestimated you. Most of them are dead now.”

Arya’s steadfast defense of her - “She’s the smartest person I ever met.” - when Jon (Jon???) himself was expressing frustration towards her (check out @athimbleful 's recent ask for an explanation for Jon’s behavior in this scene)

Even Dany’s behaviour towards Sansa (first with that cringey introduction), and later when she singles her out for not “respecting” her, despite the fact that none of the Northern lords were showing her any warmth is an indication of her awareness of Sansa’s alpha status, which is right and just and exactly as it should be.

As recent promo materials, cast interviews, etc. seem be strongly pro-Sansa, I am reasonably optimistic that this all bodes well for our girl. For that alone, I will breathe a little easier...

...at least for one more week.

[neshabeingchildish]

03. Robin’s Telling

I’m using some of my head canons I shared when @writing-excuses​ was wondering about ones we have for Chasper in this fic. So, y’all’ll see some things that aren’t necessarily canon, but I’m trying to a certain degree to be canonical with who the characters are at their core, and trying to build the story on that. Try to be patient with me, as this ain’t really that popular of a ship and don’t really have a super amount of ‘canon fodder.’ Lol. I have about 5 chapters outlined, so after the next couple, it may slow down a little. 

Robin’s Telling or Tales from the Friendship Zone

So, whenever they were in 6th grade, Jasper and Charlotte were assigned to this team building experiment disguised as a creative writing project. They had to write a round robin story, which means that they took turns adding material to the story and had to try to feed off of the last of the information by their partner to write the installment of the story. Jasper started it off and Charlotte found it a challenge to sometimes make sense of whatever nonsense he had written, but she was a girl who could appreciate a good challenge. What she hadn’t appreciated was the ruse by their teacher to make her and Jasper get along better! But. she had to admit, it helped. 

The friends used the story and the notebook it was written in to continue this process and in turn, sort of built upon their friendship as the saga continued.  When they came to the end of the spiral, Jasper panicked. “It can’t be over! We never made an ending for it!!!” He was seriously freaking out. Charlotte happened to have another spiral notebook available at the time, and she said, “Look... We can keep it up. Maybe... this could be the second season of it. I’ll even start it out.” She opened it and started this new installment of the story, then passed it to him. “Chill out. One of these days, it has to end.”

“According to who?” He wondered, snatching the spiral from her. She rolled her eyes and walked off.

And now, they were in season 6 of Robin’s Telling, as she liked to call it (He called it Tales from the Friendship Zone), and they rarely ever really used it, but every now and then, one of them would either continue from where they left off or ask the other if they had continued yet. It was in Jasper’s care at the moment and after he left her house (which was done after he watched her sleep for a little bit, then realized that was probably weird and creepy, but waking her up was probably dangerous). He got home and his mom wasn’t even there. Typical. But, he was able to pull out the current spiral and get some writing done. He’d pass it off to her at Man Band practice.

.

Charlotte and Henry were laughing and playing video games whenever Jasper came into work. “Hey, Jasp!” Henry cheered. Charlotte didn’t say anything. Jasper wondered if everything was okay between them. 

“Hey,” he said and put his gym bag away. “What are you two playing?”

“I’m playing. He’s just losing,” Charlotte said, laughing. 

“I’m playing, she’s just being mean,” Henry corrected. 

“Neither of those statements answered my question, but enjoy.” He went back to the store and Henry gave Charlotte a weird look. She ignored it and continued playing, so he moved on, too.

Later, whenever it was time for them to go home, Henry and Charlotte were discussing plans for at Henry’s house. Apparently, they were hanging out after work, too. Eventually, Henry made some comment that seemed to elude that Jasper was invited too, but he didn’t know if he wanted to hangout with the two of them. Maybe he was just overly sensitive because he shared a lot of very intimate. personal information with Charlotte and she seemed to be acting like it never happened. Maybe she was avoiding speaking with him because he made her uncomfortable. At any rate, he said, “I don’t know how my mom’s gonna act if I spend two nights away from home.”

“No, you’ll be home later tonight,” Henry said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Maybe, you could call ahead and check in with her, to see if she’s more understanding, if you do it that way?” Charlotte suggested.

Jasper nodded, “Yeah, I’ll do that.” Whenever he spoke on the phone with his mom, he told her that he would be hanging out with Henry until later on... “Yeah, she’s hanging out too...” Then he sighed and was listening to something for a while. Charlotte and Henry looked at each other. “There’s nothing like that going on. We’re all just friends. She’s a good girl. Top of the class...” 

Charlotte raised an eyebrow and leaned into the mouthpiece to say, “HEY JASPER’S MOM!!!” Henry pulled her to the other side of himself and Jasper rolled his eyes, but they didn’t know whether at Charlotte instigating with his mom, or with his mom, obviously on the other line, trash talking Charlotte. 

“I’m sure that she’ll be home by a time that’s decent for a young lady. She’s a good egg. I don’t feel like doing this. Do you need anything? Okay. Yeah, love you too.” He hung up and asked Charlotte, “Why would you provoke her?”

“She’s trash,” Charlotte said, simply. Henry gasped and Jasper furrowed his eyebrows. “Sorry. I meant to say she was talking trash about me. My bad. Words got choppy in my head.” She really meant what she’d said, but that was a bit much to say to someone’s face about their mom. 

“Good save,” Henry said, sarcastically and wrapped an arm around Jasper’s shoulder, “But, what kind of trash was she talking about Charlotte?”

“I’m interested, as well.”

“She asked, if my little friend was gonna be there, said what’s her name, then pretended to say the wrong names. Then, she said that if a girl hangs out with a couple of boys this much something fresh must be going on.” 

He didn’t want to go into detail, but his mother had advised him to use protection, in case she had something and also forbid him to do anything with her if both boys were in the room..

“You know what? I’m gonna shut my mouth and move on with my life,” Charlotte said. Jasper’s mom had SOME nerve, after the child-rearing job she’d done. Which reminded her, “Oh! Hey, I found something that might be useful for you. Actually, I heard an ad when I was listening to one of my podcasts. I’ll send you the info. She texted him a link to a therapy connection that charged $30 a week and you could text a licensed therapist! He smiled to himself and put his phone away. 

Henry was curious about what she’d sent to him, but tried not to butt in. There was some kind of other friendship happening with those two that he knew he wasn’t included in. SO, he made a conversation topic that the three could participate in. 

.

At Henry's, Jasper seemed in his own world. Charlotte was concerned about it, because he usually was the most talkative and cheerful one. At some point, while Henry was in the bathroom, she asked, "You okay, Jasper?"

He sighed, "I thought maybe you didn't care one way or another. I'm… worried that I weirded you out with all my baggage. You're not supposed to unpack in front of people unless you're going to be there for a while. I feel like I just dumped it all over the place and then suddenly, you were distant."

"It wasn't like that to me. I thought that speaking about your trauma probably stirred up some things and maybe you could use a break from focusing on it. Sorry if I seemed taken aback. I wasn't. In fact, I feel closer to you than ever. I'm honestly glad you felt like you could come to me. Are you gonna use that service I sent you?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna check it out. Do you mind if I hug you?" 

She smiled and went over for the hug, fell on his lap and they laughed about it, but she didn't move. Jasper had a pretty cozy hug. They didn't usually hug much, but his arms were bigger than she'd noticed and he was soft and slightly cushioned. It was like hugging a life-size, warm, plushie, or as comforting, anyway. Plus… did Jasper always smell this good? That was definitely new. 

He strummed her back and she rested on his shoulder until they heard, "Whoa!" Henry was back and he was shocked and confused by the contact. 

Charlotte got up and said, "I fell. Shut up."

"Fell and landed right in Jasper's lap, into a hug, on his shoulder, huh?"

"That's what I said," she told him. 

Henry looked at Jasper. "What? Sometimes people fall." He smiled at Charlotte and her face went warm. Sometimes people fall. Such a simple and true statement. Sometimes people fall in more ways than one. Not as simple, but she couldn't tell yet if she minded it at all.

.

Charlotte was surprised to see that Jasper had handed her the copy of Robin’s Telling. It had been a long while since they’d passed it around, but the anticipation of whatever she was feeling lately about him was heightened by her memories of how this process had brought them closer as friends. Jasper was kinda cute, if she was honest. If you took away some of his weird quirks and gross habits and just looked at him - like... if she had seen him in passing without knowing that he picked at his scabs, or asked you to help pop pimples on his back... She’d have to say that she thought he was an attractive guy. And either he was going through some life changes or she just had started paying attention - but a lot of his gross habits she couldn’t recall seeing lately.

It was almost like he had been either getting better or at least pretending to be more dignified. She hoped that meant that he was talking to someone about his problems and improving himself as he felt healthier. It still blew her mind that he carried around pain in that jolly body of his. That behind that boyish smile were tears that he didn’t shed or didn’t show to even his closest friends. She hoped that he knew that he could, if he needed to. She hoped that he was gonna sleep well tonight. 

As she finished writing her segment in the notebook, she knew that her emotions would show up in it. They usually did. Whenever she had something on her mind, stress, sadness, or anything... it was generally reflected in the story. Jasper used to be able to tell. He’d always draw a cute and/or corny doodle on the page whenever he noticed that she was down via her entries.

And a few days later, whenever she got it back, he had drawn her a three legged pickle, “a tri-pickle, if you will.” 

[quickeningheart]

Eleven

     Naturally, the mice did not take kindly to their Charley-girl’s life being threatened, and they showed their displeasure by promptly storming Limburger’s tower and blowing it up.

    When the city shook from the impact of a hundred-thousand tons of steel and brick meeting the ground head-on, Alley shrieked and dove for cover under the desk. Charley, in the midst of replacing her damaged brake line, just rolled her eyes and kept right on working. "It's not an earthquake," she said blandly. "It's just the guys showing Limburger their appreciation."

    "By taking out half the city?" Alley crawled out from under the desk, frowning at the smears of grease now staining her skirt.

    "Don’t worry. Over the years, they’ve turned toppling that tower into something of a fine art. The destructive radius barely passes a hundred feet in any direction anymore.”

    Alley blinked at her. “I don’t know if that should impress me or make me run screaming for the hills.”

    Charley laughed. “Better go throw some dogs on the stove. And pull a few packs of root beer out of the fridge, will ya? They'll be completely hyped when they get back."

    “And feeding them carbs and sugar is your solution to calming them down, huh?”

    Charley just smirked and flipped a wrench in her hand, laying back on the platform dolly and scooting under the truck. Alley sighed and shook her head. “Call me a nut, but wouldn’t destroying Limburger’s property sort of … I dunno … royally piss him off?”

    "Definitely,” came the muffled reply. “But it'll also keep him busy and out of our hair for at least a week.” She reappeared and sat up, holding the ruined brake line tubing. “It’ll buy us some time to scout around and find out what he's up to.”

    “It only takes a week to rebuild an entire skyscraper?”

    Charley pressed her palms flat against each other and bowed her head. “As blowing up the tower has become an art form, so has Limburger turned rebuilding it into one.”

    Alley tipped back her head. “It’s the ciiiirrrcle of liiiiife!” she sang dramatically, throwing out her arm and gliding to the stairs, earning a bark of laughter from her cousin.

    “Go boil some hotdogs, you nut!”

     ~*~*~*~*~

   True to word, the boys were practically vibrating with adrenaline when they roared into the garage fifteen minutes later. Vinnie screeched to a stop with his signature howl of victory, hurling his helmet across the room. It sailed dangerously close to Charley’s computer, slammed into a nearby stack of tire rims and sent them crashing to the floor in a cacophony of scattering steel.

    “Vinnie! Dial it down a notch, you macho lunkhead!” Charley snapped, throwing the wrench she was holding at him. “You almost took out my computer! And pick those rims up!”

    “Eh, sorry, Sweetheart. Got a little carried away.” He offered a grin and a sheepish chuckle, hastily moving to clean up his mess.

    A few seconds later, Alley skittered down the stairway, holding a pair of tongs and looking around with wide eyes. “What the hell is all the racket? Are we under attack?”

    “The boys are home.” If Charley’s voice got any drier, she’d start spitting sand.

    “I see that.” A pause. “Was someone howling just now?”

    Modo snickered. “Nah. That was just Vinnie.”

    “His way of showin’ the world what a bad mammajamma he is,” Stoker added with a wicked smirk.

    “Oh.” Alley pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Because, for a second there, I thought maybe the garage was being overrun by feral dogs or something.”

    Charley put a fist to her mouth, unsuccessfully trying to stifle her amusement. The other three mice didn’t even attempt to try, and Vinnie glared at them, readying himself for an old-fashioned throw-down.

    “Don’t you dare,” Charley warned before the white mouse had a chance to pounce. “My garage is not a wrestling ring. Take it outside!”

    “Ah, forget it.” Vinnie deflated, pouting. “I’m starvin’! Where’re the dogs ‘n beer?”

    “They’re cooking upstairs.” Alley turned, then hesitated, shooting him a questioning glance over her shoulder. “Do you really howl like that every time you take out Limburger’s tower?”

    “And for any other reason he can think up,” Charley snorted.

    “It’s my battle cry!” Vinnie sniffed, brushing an imaginary speck of dirt from his arm. “Every superhero needs a battle cry.”

    “And ‘cowabunga’ was already taken,” Throttle quipped.

    Alley nodded, her expression serious. “It’s just … you know … the guys who yelp the loudest, Vinster,” she reminded him with a sigh, continuing on her way.

    Vinnie’s jaw dropped. He sputtered uselessly for a comeback, gaping at her retreating back. Modo and Stoker guffawed, Charley buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

    And Throttle just stood there looking confused, wondering what the hell was suddenly so funny.

     ~*~*~*~*~

    The rest of the week passed in relative peace.

    Well, as peaceful as it ever got around the Last Chance, anyway. Alley soon learned that the mice never seemed to be happy unless they were making as much racket as possible. “Quiet as a mouse” did not apply to the Martian variety. While Charley seemed perfectly content to let them cohabit her garage, blaring the rock stations at levels that could only be described as “deafening”, Alley took it upon herself to invest in a bottle of aspirin and some good ear plugs. She wondered at first how they didn’t go deaf, what with ears as large and sensitive as theirs, before chalking it up to their overall weirdness.

    Since the guys were always at the garage more than they weren’t (well, the trio was; Stoker came and went as he pleased, and Charley didn’t appear to give a hoot about that, either), it gave Alley a good chance to observe them. While Vinnie was always flapping his mouth and up to no good, the other two mice were far more reserved in their behavior. Especially Throttle. While they all joked around and roughhoused a lot, he tended to be a little more careful and reigned in the other two when they got too carried away. He must have been their leader of sorts, since they always deferred to him and fell in line when he told them to. Unless Stoker was around. All three of them deferred to Stoker, and it was clear the older mouse was well-respected as a mentor and a war hero.

    One thing Alley could say about the guys; they all had a very well-developed sense of self-preservation. At least when it came to females, and Charley especially. They seemed able to tune in to the times when the mechanic was extra stressed trying to finish a particular job, and her patience was close to the snapping point. That was generally the time they herded each other out the door to “patrol the city” for awhile. Which Alley suspected was code for getting out of the way before her cousin could strangle them with their own tails. Either way, she certainly did appreciate the rare times of peace and quiet their absence bought.

    Unfortunately, this particular Friday morning was not one of those times.

    Almost an entire week, and she was still trying to get the mess of Charley’s paperwork sorted out. A job she’d thought would only take a day or two was taking a heck of a lot longer than that. And the blaring hard rock that was slowly driving a small railroad spike through her skull certainly didn't make it easier to concentrate.

    The cordless phone on the desk rang, and she answered it while making a beeline for the large boombox sitting on its makeshift shelf beside the garage door. Ignoring everyone's protests, she turned the volume down to a more reasonable level before returning to the desk to arrange customer's appointment. From the corner of her eye, she noted Throttle sneakily reaching for the volume control. "Excuse me for one moment, Sir," she said politely into the receiver. Covering the mouthpiece with her palm, she mustered her fiercest glare and snarled, “Throttle. If you touch that dial, so help me, I’ll rip your fingers off one by one and stuff ‘em up your ass.”

    The others chortled loudly as Throttle raised his hands in surrender, slowly backing away from the radio with a raised eyebrow. “Sorry, princess,” he muttered, giving Vinnie a swat with his tail when the white mouse cheered, and staggered a little as Modo gave him a “friendly” clout across the back.

    “Having some problems there, Alley Cat?” Charley teased, eyes sparkling with humor.

    Alley took a deep breath and pasted a saccharine smile on her lips. “Thank you for holding, Mr. Anderson,” she told the waiting customer sweetly. “To confirm, your car will be brought in for inspection at nine AM this coming Wednesday. Are you planning to drop it off, or do you wish to wait?” She paused. “No, sir, the Last Chance doesn’t provide shuttling service, but a taxi can be called for you. There is also a bus route three blocks away. Yes. That will be fine. Thank you for choosing the Last Chance Garage. We’ll see you on Wednesday.” She hung up the phone and sighed, shooting her cousin an exasperated glance. “Did you get all that?”

    “Yep. State inspection. Wednesday. Nine o'clock,” Charley grunted, struggling to loosen a nut from part of an engine. “There’re some Post-its in the drawer. Jot it down for me, will ya?”

    “Oh, hell no.” Alley glared at her. “The jotting of appointments on sticky notes stops now, you hear me? It’s unprofessional and half the notes end up falling into the garbage anyway! You are, without a doubt, the most unorganized computer genius I've ever known. How have you managed to not tank your own business in all these years?”

    "What can I say? It’s a gift." Charley pulled a face at her.

    "Well, here’s a much better gift." Alley waved a brown leather book in the air. "See this? Say hello to your new best friend. All of your appointments are sorted and logged into this ledger. Your assignment is to actually use it."

    Charley’s brow furrowed. "I do have an appointment ledger, you know."

    "If you’re talking about that greasy, torn up notebook I found buried in the bottom of your desk drawer, I threw it out. You haven’t written any actual appointments in it for the past six months, anyway.”

    Charley shot her a dry look. “I don’t recall making you the supervisor. When did you get so bossy?”

    “I’d say during the week I just spent attempting to salvage your pitiful excuse of a business practice,” Alley deadpanned.

    “Oooooh. Burned!” Vinnie sang softly under his breath.

    Charley shot him an irritated glance. “Don’t you have something to go blow up?” she grumbled.

    “You shouldn’t criticize her, anyway,” Alley added. “You’re all part of the problem.” She raised a hand to halt the immediate protests. “Charley, when is the last time you tried to organize your finances? I mean, have you even looked at the balances in the past year? Hell, the past three years?”

    “Of course I have! That’s the one thing I did keep up with. I’m not a complete moron, you know.”

    Alley pursed her lips and folded her hands atop the desk. “Then you’re fully aware that the Last Chance is just barely keeping afloat. You’ve managed to keep your finances in the green, but you hardly pull in enough extra for basic living expenses. The only thing saving you is that you own this building outright. But you still have property taxes, the highest electric bill I’ve ever seen, you’re making payments on some of this equipment yet … and every month that line between success and bankruptcy is narrowing further and further. I see you’ve had to dip into your savings on several occasions just to make ends meet.”

    “Is this true, Charley-ma'am?” Modo wanted to know. All three mice were listening, concern etched on their faces. “You in trouble?”

    “No!” Charley protested, while at the same time Alley stated, “Yes.”

    Charley rubbed her temple, looking irritated, and just a little defeated. “I guess … things are a little tight, financial-wise,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t really concern you, though, so don’t worry about it, okay?”

    “Except it does concern them.”

    “Alley!” Charley glared at her. “Stop it.”

    “No. Let her talk.” Throttle’s voice left no room for argument. “Are you sayin’ it’s our fault?”

    “Partly.” Alley shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck. “And Limburger is at fault, too,” she added. “He's the reason this part of the city is all but abandoned. I don’t imagine that’s helped business, any. But he’s not responsible for a lot of the damage and repair that’s been done on the garage in the past few years, is he?” She tapped the computer monitor. “The garage doors had to be replaced how many times? I mean, not just worn-out parts, the whole, entire doors. Who kept putting giant holes in them?”

    “Um…” The trio glanced at each other, uneasy.

    “That’s why I had the automatic sensors installed,” Charley cut in.

    “And there’s also the matter of all the … upgrades done to your bikes. Specialized parts to be ordered in and … I don’t even know what else.” Alley fixed the mice with a questioning glance. “Has it even once occurred to you to ask where those upgraded parts come from? Or did you just assume she farts 'em out her ass on command?”

    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Alley!” Charley threw her hands in the air. Her face was suspiciously red. “It’s not their problem, so don’t involve them! I volunteered to take care of their bikes. It was entirely my decision.”

    “And it’s costing your garage way more money than you can actually afford right now. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often they just help themselves to stock off the shelves when they’re maintaining those bikes, either. More money out of your very shallow pocket.”

    “Can I see the figures?” Throttle asked, stepping forward. Charley started to protest, but he ignored her as Alley scooted away from the desk to let him look at the spreadsheet. He studied it for a few minutes, face expressionless.

    Charley glowered at her cousin. “You’re fired,” she muttered.

    Alley waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. Fire me. But it would've caught up to you eventually. I don’t get what you were trying to accomplish by keeping it from them, anyway. Why shouldn’t they know?”

    Charley sighed heavily, perching on the end of the desk. “Because … they’ve done so much for this city. And for me. I told you, without them, things would be going a lot worse with the Plutarkians. Chicago owes them a huge debt, and doesn’t even know it. I’m just … doing what little I can to repay them for their efforts. There was no need to let them in on how much it was costing me.”

    "Did you think we'd be happy if we ended up tanking your business, or mad if ya told us we were eatin' yer profits?" Modo scolded. "You oughta know better 'n that."

    "Yeah, Sweetheart, we woulda paid ya or somethin'," Vinnie put in, sounding hurt.

    "And how would you manage that, huh? Go out and get yourselves a nine-to-five?" Charley snorted. "You guys ain't exactly rollin' in cash."

    Nobody could argue with that. Alley shook her head. “You could pay her in physical labor, you know. Help her out with the garage, take some of the workload off. If she had more than just herself to finish jobs, she could take on more customers, and bring in more money.”

    “Yeah, but … we’re no wrench jockeys,” Vinnie grumbled. “An’ Charley-girl won’t let us near the equipment, anyway.”

    “That’s because you always blow up anything you touch,” Charley snapped.

    “So, teach them,” Alley said with exaggerated patience. “Start them off with simple stuff. Like motorcycles. They’re always tinkering around with theirs. An Earth bike isn’t that different, is it? Start with that and go from there.”

    Charley sighed. "I'll think about it, okay? But even if they did help, it's not gonna bring more customers or money in any faster, you know."

    "That's because you don't advertise."

    "Last I checked, advertising costs money, which we've already established I don't have."

    "Well, how have you been getting business?" Alley asked.

    "Mostly through word-of-mouth. And most of my customers have been with me since I opened the place. The ones Limburger hasn't managed to drive out of the neighborhood, anyway."

    “Which is great, but new business would be even better. We’ll have to think up some advertising schemes. Maybe print out some cheap fliers and post them around the city? Coffee shops, grocery stores; places like that usually have notice boards where you can tack stuff up, and it doesn’t cost anything. Maybe a small ad in the Sunday paper, or, I dunno, those paper place-mats they use to advertise in diners and stuff. There are ways to get more business.”

    “Great,” Charley sighed, defeated. “Just what I need. More work.”

    “You do need more work. And you need more help. And you’ve got three perfectly able-bodied me—um—mice who can give you some, if you’re willing to let them.” Alley considered. “Four, if you count Stoker. Where is that guy, anyway? I haven’t seen him since Wednesday.”

    “Probably in one of his secret labs,” Throttle replied, straightening up, finished with his perusal of Charley’s files. “He prefers to work alone.”

    “He has secret labs? What is he, a mad scientist?”

    He chuckled. “Something like that. Don’t ask us what he’s cookin’ up, though. He’s pretty hush-hush about the whole thing.”

    “Sounds like him, all right.” Charley smiled fondly. “Always the lone wolf, that one.”

    Throttle fixed her with a look. “You sure aren’t one to criticize, Miss My-garage-is-going-under-but-damned-if-I-ask-for-any-help.”

    “Okay, okay. No need to rub it in,” Charley grumbled. “I just didn’t want to make you guys worry about me, that’s all. You tend to get all protective and you hover. It’s annoying.”

    “Biker Mice do not ‘hover’,” Vinnie sniffed, crossing his arms.

    “Oh, you so hover. Like a little mother hen.” Charley shot him a teasing glance.

    Vinnie looked to Alley for help, but she just shrugged. “Hey, leave me out of it. She’s right. Don’t think we haven’t noticed how one of you guys followed us every time we had to leave the garage this week. We even made fake trips just to see who’d be next in line to tail us. You were totally hovering.”

    “Oh, yeah, that reminds me. You owe me five bucks.” Charley nudged her shoulder. “I said Throttle would be the one to follow you to the bank yesterday, and he did.”

    “Damn. Thanks a lot, Throttle.” Alley pulled a wadded bill out of her wallet and tossed it to her grinning cousin while the mice gaped at them.

    The bell went off just then, effectively bringing the conversation to a halt. The mice quickly scattered, heading back to their bikes to don protective helmets as the huge door slowly rolled up, revealing a very beat-up Chevy Caprice idling on the other side. The classic car was painted two-tone blue, at least where the large spots of rust didn’t cover the body. After a moment, the engine turned off, the doors opened, and Christopher Archer unfolded himself from the driver’s seat as his sister hopped out of the passenger’s side. “Uh, is there an Alley Davidson around?” he asked uncertainly, looking highly doubtful.

    “Guys!” Alley hopped up from the chair and trotted to them, grinning widely. “What’re you doing here? Come for some service?”

    Chris relaxed, tossing her a lopsided grin. “Actually, we came to kidnap you for the day. Got plans?”

    “Uh…” Alley looked at her cousin, who smirked and shooed her off. “Guess not. Great! I need to go phone shopping, and I thought you guys can help me out, yeah?” She turned to Chex, who had spotted the trio of gleaming bikes a few feet away and had honed in on them and their furry owners with predatory interest. Alley watched her watching them. “Hey, you okay?”

    “Yeah, sure,” Chex mumbled, taking a few steps closer. The mice looked at each other, fidgeting nervously under the unexpected scrutiny.

    “Don’t mind her. She’s got a major thing for bikers,” Chris snorted, rolling his eyes.

    Chex ignored him, reaching out to trace a finger along the mouse-shaped headlamp gracing the front of Modo’s bike. The big mouse drew himself up, prepared to defend his precious ride … but she didn’t give him the chance.

    “Holy shit!” she suddenly shouted, startling everyone into jumping and Vinnie into dropping the wrench he’d been holding. “Holy shit, holy shit!” She gave a few excited little hops, turned to slug her brother in the arm. “I told you!” she exclaimed over his pained yelp. “I told you they were real!”

    “What’s real? What the hell’s wrong with you, you psycho?” Chris snapped, rubbing his abused bicep.

    “It’s them!” Chex gestured wildly. “You know, them! I told you! They’re real! I didn’t make it up, those alien mice dudes really exist and they’re standing right over there!”

    There was a moment of stunned silence. And then Vinnie, in two words, said exactly what everyone in the room was thinking.

    “Aww, cheese.”

Next

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Found

How long have you been falling?

It's hard to tell, really. Your clock stopped working suddenly awhile ago and there's no sunlight in this endless tunnel to go off of. Nothing feels right here, not the air rushing past, not the sensation of plummeting to what should surely be your doom, not the way the walls whip past you, or the way you can't see the bottom of this death-tube. Nothing works here either, not anymore. Whatever scant Wifi signal you had is long gone now, just like every ounce of magic in your body. You can't even glow, or shift, or teleport out. All of those pressing matters aside, only one thing about this bothers you, your descent hasn't gotten any faster. You've been falling for hours and nothing has changed, it deifies the laws of physics. And as soon as you come to that conclusion, you aren't falling anymore, you're rising. Even though neither your body, nor the tunnel itself seem to change position. But still can feel it, you're rising, ever slowly like an elevator just reaching its floor.

As euphemistic as it sounds, you finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. A flickering green light like the glow of your cauldron, a watery light that is coming all too quickly. You can't stop, you can't even try to stop, and soon you hit the water hard enough to knock the air clean out of you. Your momentum from the ...fall(?) carries you up towards the surface, but your own tremendous weight starts to drag you back down almost immediately. You can't swim, you've never learned how, and given how heavy you are there just isn't any point trying. At least that's what you tell yourself, on land, where you aren't in any danger of drowning.

The familiar crackle of magic returns to you as you slowly sink. Your mind works faster than you give it credit for, as you watch the surface start to shrink away. Your magic spirals out, and you feel your humanoid shape melt into something more useful. A long, powerful tail and gills guide you through the dark water and unceremoniously deposit you onto the nearest shore where you collapse and shiver. Your new appendages wither away, turning back into your old limbs. You struggle to get to your feet to no avail, slipping on the wet sand repeatedly until you give up and just lie there, wet and cold in the near-dark. Something stalks you from the shadows, eyes glowing cartoonishly as it watches you. Your skin seethes, struggling to become any number of unpleasant, toothsome, monstrous things that may scare the onlooker off. But you're too tired to do more than shift and growl as the world goes fuzzy around the edges and you pass out.

You wake up warm and dry, curled upon a massive black cushion, surrounded by sheer silk curtains. You've been rubbed liberally with rose oil, you can still feel the slickness of it on your skin beneath the dress you are now in. Thinking about how you've come to be in this place, dressed like this, makes your skin crawl. So you don't think about it, and instead venture out of your odd little nest. Outside of your little darkened room, wherever you are is glittering and loud, locked in the middle of some boisterous bacchanal. The party-goers seem dazed and gleeful as they writhe in naked piles on cushions or tables or chairs, completely oblivious to you.

You shy away from the worst of the noise and end up following your nose towards something delicious. You find yourself in a throne room, wreathed in strange a strange haze, and swarmed with dancing, drinking, dreaming party-ers in lavish costumes or simply their own bare skin. And there, on a throne, watching these hedonistic proceedings is the Red Queen. Dressed to the nines in very little as she sucks on an elaborate hookah, blowing shimmering clouds of beautiful sugary smoke. She spots you in the crowd and silences everything with a wave of her hand.

"Hello, hello, hello," she purrs as she slithers down to greet you, the crowd parting like the red sea before her. It is her that you were seeking with your ill-fated seek-and-find, perhaps not so ill-fated after all. "Took you long enough, darling, my guards thought you dead but I knew better than that."

She wraps an arm about your shoulders and starts to guide you towards her throne. You glance around and catch your reflection in the mirrors on the ceiling, you look... regal and wild, like a faerie princess at her first revel. Ready to break her parent's hearts and almost ruin her reputation. The party-goers watch you with awe, and some of the more sober among them manage to bow or kiss your hands. Others offer you drinks from cups or the best morsels from their plates. You don't accept any of it, and Queenie jokingly scolds you about being a buzzkill. Both of you squeeze into her throne, legs thrown over the arm rests, her head is half resting on your thigh. You should be worried, frightened, furious. But you aren't. You watch her take a hit from her hookah and blow the scampering Glyph for "Play" into the empty air above your heads. The party resumes, and there is little you can do but watch. Queenie watches too, idly nibbling on the mouthpiece to her hookah.

"You have questions, I can tell." She starts, fixing those black eyes on you, "You wouldn't have wasted the time casting a seek-and-find if you didn't."

You open your mouth and are helpless to stop the torrent of inquiries from leaving your lips,"Where am I? What is all this? Who are those people? What are you smoking? How did I get here? Am I dead?" she just blinks at you for a moment before cackling. You've never heard her laugh before, not like that, it sounds normal, human almost. She wipes a red tear from her eyes.

"Well, you're not dead, I can tell you that much," she snickers, "You're in Underland, think of it as Wonderland two since I have no hopes of ever getting the original back from you." she sounds annoyed, but playfully so, as if you were a younger sibling taking toys she no longer played with but still loved. "These people are my subjects, and this is a party in your honor, take it as an early birthday present if you like." you look at her and she looks at you, you can't feel her probing your mind or twisting your emotions and she doesn't seem to be lying... But...

She takes a few delicate puffs from her hookah and exhales through her nose, watching your eyes light up as the smoke changes colors, "And this, my dear phylactery, is elysia the best drug a faerie can get their grimy hands on. I used to grow it in Wonderland, a labor of love really, pity it can only grow in corpses." she sighs, blowing more smoke in your direction. "You had other things to ask me, about your heart, the crystal and why I'm so friendly all of a sudden." you nod enthusiastically, she shrugs and continues, "If you die, I die, so there's no point in being a bitch about it and trying to hurt you, no i can't turn your heart back the way it was. If I could I still wouldn't, you know that, deep down."

She's right, you do know. She sighs, rubbing her temples, "Enough questions, this is ruining my high, why don't-- why don't go mingle?" she shoos you away, nudging you until you fall out of the throne. You huff and wade into the crowd towards the snack tables. One of the few places not covered in writhing bodies. The air here is heady, not with drugs, but with steam rolling off of mountains of food. Strips of strange meat, raw and drizzled with honey, fountains of jewel-toned wines, frothing pitchers of milk and fresh blood. Piles of fruits you cannot begin to describe, split marrow bones, roasted songbirds, things still living served in cages, and the still-beating hearts of various woodland creatures served on gleaming platters in a sauce of their own thickened and spiced blood. It's only now that you realize you're starving, here in this morbid bacchanal surrounded by both the delightful and gruesome. You stuff your face without hesitation, piling plates high with the strange and the familiar before scuttling back to sit beside Queenie. She picks off your plate, but you really don't mind.

Strangers come up to you, to offer congratulations, salutations, dances and spots in their orgies. You respectfully decline the last bit, content to sit there and eat and otherwise mind your business. Queenie frowns, flicking you with her tail,

"Must you be such a prude? You're ruining the party. Your own party might I add?" you pause, a piece of fruit halfway to your mouth, soon scowling.

"Well excuse the FUCK out of me for not wanting to get dicked down by a bunch of drunk strangers," you snap, angrily shoving the bite of food in your mouth. She doesn't flinch, she only scowls back and blows smoke in your face.

"I never said you needed to have sex with anyone, just relax for Gods' sake, when was the last time you did anything for you? And don't try to bring up the new years party, that was spite, not relaxation." she reaches over and gives your shoulders a squeeze, pressing close with a wicked grin. You can feel her worm her way into your mind, unwinding the ball of stress around your inhibitions until you're putty in her hands. You frown at her, aware of what she's doing, but too at ease to make her stop. She offers you the hookah.

You hesitate, for only a moment, before wrapping your lips around the mouthpiece and inhaling like you're a scuba diver miles beneath the pitiless ocean and its your last gulp of air. It fills your lungs with fucking stars and your mouth with poetry. You exhale auroras on the tails of nonsensical lyrics that somehow capture the moment, in true Wonderlandian fashion. You feel dreamy and strange, like floating on your back in a warm bath while half asleep. You feel free and at peace in the most subtle of ways and you never want that feeling to end. You take another drag from the hookah and entertain the crowds of horny onlookers with poems about islands made of dreams floating on a sea of nightmares. You eat, you drink, you smoke. Perched high on your pedestal with the Queen, you are gorgeous and untouchable, a pearl among pebbles. You forget your troubles, forget your stress, and forget yourself among the rainbow hued clouds of elysia smoke.

You aren't sure when you passed out, time doesn't really work down there and you're way too high to remember much of anything past the honeyed taste of elysia on your tongue. You wake up cold and alone, curled in the bottom of your cauldron, feeling empty. Your skin is on fire wherever it touches the metal, almost instantly breaking out into a blistering rash that has you screaming, scrambling to get out. The cauldron tips over and unceremoniously drops you onto the floor of your lab where you press your ruined skin to the cold concrete and shiver as the frigid emptiness yawns ever wider inside you. You feel hungry, so hungry, so lonely and pointless. Every thought you think is without grandeur or profound meaning. The world, it seems so gray now after the vividness of the party. Was it always like this? Always so boring? What's wrong with you? You can't stay here, you need to go back. Back to Underland, its parties and its elysia.