#which is an option that's now on the table given that the ritual has been thrown out the window

[pochapal]

gonna be honest i hadn't even really thought about a master key until now. that's...hm.

[wardenparker]

The Stars Re-Align, part 1

Frankie Morales x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Rating: M for Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 12.1k Warnings: Reader is given an age and a grown daughter. Starts out as Santiago x reader. Cursing, food/alcohol, meddlesome friends, mentions of military service (obviously), glancing mention of Tom's death, past drug use, off-page abusive relationship, panic attacks, complicated relationships, family drama. Summary: When your daughter and your boyfriend talk you into having a birthday party, you are not prepared for all of the surprises that come your way. Notes: A little love triangle and 'one that got away' vibe for your Feral Frankie Friday!

“Rachel!” Calling from the kitchen is an old, unbreakable habit by now, but dinner is almost ready and you know your daughter is in the living room studying. She has plans with her boyfriend tonight which means she’s getting her reading out of the way, and you’re proud of her for having such good habits and steady resolve. It’s not at all what you were like at her age, and you’ve worked hard to make sure that she has opportunities that you never could have. Being a young single mom was rough, but every second you have with your little-girl-turned-young-woman is worth it. “Supper’s ready, honey. Find your bookmark!”

“Sure thing!” There’s no point in reminding you that her book is a digital copy, no bookmark needed, but she dutifully saves the spot and closes her laptop. “It smells good.” She compliments, walking into the kitchen and over to the fridge to bust out the bottle of wine that had become a habit with dinner since high school. Nothing fancy, just a cheap sangria, but it was a ritual that both mom and daughter enjoyed. “Are you going out with Santiago tonight?” She asks as she gets down the glasses to pour.

“He might come over to watch a movie since you’re going out.” Your two-month-old relationship isn’t deeply committed or deeply anything yet, really, but you like him. He’s attentive, handsome, and funny, and deeply — okay there’s one deeply — good in bed. “Do you want the good parmesan, or the shaker can? We have both.” Spaghetti with onions, peppers, and sausage isn’t necessarily gourmet, but it’s a family staple. Something your dad used to make you when you were growing up in New York City and you have made for your daughter her whole life afterwards.

“Good parmesan.” She hums. “Let’s be fancy tonight.” Bringing the glasses over to the small kitchen table, she moves on to set out the silverware. A chore when she was younger, it’s now just become habit when you eat together. ‘Working together as a team’ is how you always phrased it and it’s something she loves about her relationship with you now. You’re a team. “I’m going to stay at Ben’s tonight, so you and Santiago can have wild sex.”

“Be safe.” She’s twenty-four, so you’re not going to quibble about her sleeping over with her boyfriend, but you do give her a meaningful look when you set down the plates on the table. “Don’t make me a grandmother and I won’t make you a sister.”

Rachel laughs, it’s the same statement you have been using since she was first dating boys after puberty. “But Mom!” She pouts playfully. “I really want a baby sister!”

“Think I’m getting a little too old for that option, honey,” you huff, but laugh anyway. “Ask Santa for one at Christmas.”

She grins at you, bringing over the basket of breadsticks that are an Olive Garden copycat. Plain frozen ones that you brush with butter and garlic salt. So many of the meals you have together are mocks of the restaurant meals she had wanted when she was younger and you couldn’t afford. As an adult, it’s humbling to see the lengths you went to in order to make her happy.

“You’re coming back tomorrow, though, right?” Though you typically aren’t one to make a big deal out of such things, Santiago had offhandedly mentioned to your daughter a few weeks ago that it was a shame you weren’t doing anything for your birthday and Rachel had jumped on board with talking you into a party. The backyard barbecue will be small, but a chance to meet your boyfriend’s friends and have a few of your own friends from work come over. “It was half your idea, after all.”

“Yeah, I’m going to be there.” She promises. “Oh, is it okay if I bring Ben?” She asks. “He’s got another party to go to if not, but he said he would rather spend time with me.”

“Yes, you can bring Ben.” He’s a few years older than Rachel and has had a very different life experience, but you like Ben Miller. He’s doing his best to make an honest way in the world and he treats Rachel with love and respect. And probably in ways that you want to know absolutely nothing about. “There’s going to be plenty of food. Santiago and I are managing that end.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Of course you are cooking for your own party.” She huffs.

“Get sassy with me and I’ll send every stitch of leftovers home with other people,” you threaten, though it’s hollow and comes with laughter.

“Not like you won’t make enough to still bring home food.” She shoots back with a grin. If there was ever a party, you always made too much food. It might be pasta salad, but you and she would be eating it for a solid week after everyone had gone home.

“Nothing fancy,” you assure her even though you know she’s right. “Burgers and dogs. And veggie burgers for the few people that skip red meat. All the accoutrements. Santiago is in charge of the grill, which he’s very happy about. And I’m making that cheese dip you like along with my guac. Salsa is coming out of a jar despite protests.”

“Let Ben bring the salsa.” She volunteers immediately with a grin. “He’s got some recipe he got from friends he used to serve with.” She explains. “He was going to make it for their party but we can hijack it and bring it to yours.”

“Deal.” That’s one more thing off your checklist and you’re fine with that. “And the cake is coming from an actual bakery, not a supermarket. I do listen to your protests most of the time.”

“The buttercream is far superior.” She huffs happily and lifts her glass when you are both sitting down at the table. “To a wonderful birthday weekend.” She offers. “One you never forget.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” You tap your glass against hers and smile. “Forty-two feels like it will be a good one.”

******

“We have the cake, the burgers are all ready to throw on the grill. Fish is bringing the baked beans, Ironhead is bringing the potato salad and you said Rach’s boyfriend is going to bring the salsa?” He arches a brow in concern. “What do you know about this guy? Is it good salsa? Because I’m going to be offended if it’s Pace.”

“I was told he has a recipe from somebody he served with.” The Pace is in its jars in the cupboard where Santiago can’t be offended by it, and you slip past him to look at your checklist taped to the cupboards one more time. “Coleslaw is made, cheese dip is made, and you filled up the outside fridge last night so that’s all set. I think we’re okay. The last thing is the guac and that only makes a few minutes.”

Santiago slides behind you and wraps his arms around your stomach and hums. “So we have time to go back to the bedroom?” He asks playfully, even if he would haul you back there if you said yes.

“Only if you’re planning on disappointing me,” you tease, knowing he never has and never would. Not on purpose. Still, you twist to kiss away the pout that has certainly formed there. “People are going to be here any minute.”

“We could always tell them to go the fuck away.” He laughs as he suggests it and then the doorbell peels out right afterwards. “That’ll be Ironhead.” He predicts. “Will’s always early.”

“Is that his real name? Will?” You call back when Santiago goes to open the door. You can make guacamole with your eyes closed due to the fact that you’ve had this recipe longer than your daughter has been alive, and you go to the fridge to get the ingredients.

“Yeah!” He calls back over his shoulder before he opens the door to find his friend on the doorstep. The smiles are genuine, almost guilty considering the shit they’ve gone through for the past five months since South America. Grief and sorrow have pulled at them, but it also has finally started to let them live again. “You made it!”

“Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d miss out on seeing your ass do something domestic, did you?” Will ‘Ironhead’ Miller slaps Pope’s shoulder. “Nice place she’s got. You tried to move in yet?”

Pope chuckles quietly and shrugs. “Maybe in another month.” He jokes. “Gotta get in good with the kid first.”

“Right, the kid.” With another friendly slap, Will Miller steps inside the house. It’s well-appointed, clean, and obviously loved. “She coming today?” He thinks so, but he can’t remember. Although a barbecue and pool party seems like a kid thing. But somehow Will remembers the kid not being kid. Teenager? He can’t remember now.

“She spent the night with her boyfriend, but she’ll be here.” Pope nods. “Although she’s already said she won’t call me daddy but I can take her for ice cream.”

“Nobody ought to be calling you ‘Daddy’,” Ironhead huffs.

Santiago laughs and shrugs. “You’re right.” He admits, knowing that he’s not father material. One of the reasons you were an attractive option was that your kid was grown. He didn’t have to play daddy, although from what he’s understood, the dad was your first love and was too immature to stick around. “Benny didn’t ride with you?”

“His girlfriend’s got a family thing today.” Will shrugs slightly, but honestly he’s impressed. His kid brother is crazy about this girl. It’s six months in and he’s starting to use some very committed language — which is fucking thrilling to Will as it signals Benny finally starting to grow up where sex and relationships are concerned. “He’s gonna come by later.”

“That’s good. I want him to come and have a few beers. Fish should be here shortly.” Pope will be happy to see everyone, it’s better than just checking in and having a beer. This will be a good time to really catch up. “How’s things with Marie?” He asks Will softly, knowing that Frank has been a little closed mouth about things between him and his lady. South America hadn’t been great for their relationship, although no one really likes her, she’s the one who was dabbling in drugs and got Fish hooked on coke.

“She was throwing some fit last night about Fish being out with another woman.” Which is obviously bullshit. Frankie would never step out on the mother of his child. But living in the apartment next to Frankie and Marie means he overhears plenty of bullshit. “All he was doing was asking if she wanted to come today. So who knows what kind of mood he’ll show up in.”

“Shit.” Pope sighs and shakes his head as he escorts Will though the living room and towards the kitchen where you are. “He needs to just bite the bullet and leave her.”

“We all know that. But it’s Fish. Too loyal for his own fucking good.” Will hadn’t been expecting to see anyone standing in the kitchen, let alone you, and he clears his throat. “Um—sorry, ma’am. Soldier’s habit,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine,” you promise him, actually laughing at the sheer display of manners. “I survived my daughter’s teenage years. You want to know who swears more than soldiers? Teenage girls.”

It’s been a long goddamn time since Will has been around teenage girls, but he just nods politely and offers his hand. “Will Miller.” He introduces himself. “Santiago has talked you up to be some kind of Wonder Woman, and it looks like he was underestimating your worth.”

"That's very kind of you, Will." You take his hand and introduce yourself easily enough, reflecting momentarily that Santiago has pretty friends. Blonde and blue-eyed isn't your type, but good looking is good looking. "Would you mind helping us get the last few things outside? And the pool is open, I hope Santiago told everyone."

“Absolutely, ma’am.” Like any good solider, Will is going to follow orders and he immediately picks up the heavier items to carry outside. “You have a beautiful home.”

"Thank you." It's something you worked hard for, and you continue to work hard for every day. Everything in your life has been to make sure your daughter is healthy, happy, and well taken care of. It was a lucky break that you got a well-paying job in your field to boot. "And you don't have to call me ma'am. Though I appreciate the manners."

“We need to give her a nickname before Taz does.” Will snorts.

"Taz?" You haven't heard that name before, and it piques your interest as Santiago helps you set things out on the table on the deck.

Will chuckles. “Youngest in our team.” He explains. “Short for Tasmanian Devil. Brother’s like a whirlwind of stirring up shit.”

"Got it." The Army nickname thing had taken you a second to get used to, but you're on board now. It's a brotherhood thing, and you like that Santiago has such a tightknit group of friends still. It's not something you've really had much of in your life, so you're glad to see when it happens for people you care about it. "Well, I told Santiago, but whenever your friends get here just let them into the backyard. The bathroom is off the living room, but everything else worth getting at is outside."

“Yes ma’am.” He smirks slightly when he says that again before disappearing out of the sliding glass doors.

"Are all your friends polite and helpful?" You glance back at the man you've been seeing for the last few months and crack a smile. "I'm glad you invited them. It's about time we started to meet each other's friends."

“Until they are assholes.” He jokes, giving you a bittersweet smile. “We lost a friend half a year ago and it seems like we’ve had a hard time getting back in the routine. Thought this might be the little jolt we needed.”

"Then we'll make sure it's a fantastic day." He hasn't confided too much about his years in the service or about where he was before moving back to Florida a few months ago, but this is probably a large part of the reason why. Either way, you slip your arms around him for a comforting hug. It's the least you can do, when he's gone through something terrible and is willing to open about it a little.

“It’s your day.” He protests, turning and kissing your lips. “It’s supposed to be good for you, not me. We will have a few drinks, have a few laughs and then…” He waggles his brows. “Well kick everyone out and I’ll make you cum until you pass out.”

The hum that forms in the back of your throat is as pleased as it is dirty, and you kiss him once more before your doorbell rings again. "I'll get it," you nudge his nose with yours and step back, albeit reluctantly. "Go hang out with your friend."

People trickle in little by little. Friends from work, mostly, and the one mom from Rachel's school days that you stayed friends with despite Rachel and her son never actually having been friends. Eventually the text comes through from your daughter that she's a few minutes away and that makes you smile brighter than just about anything else today.

Pope pulls out his phone and texts Frankie, wondering when he’s coming – or if he’s going to come at all. He is worried about him, knowing that he’s under a lot of pressure. Marie blames him for losing his license and then going down to South America for two weeks when it was only supposed to be one. He couldn’t even tell her what happened and that was causing issues.

Had to wait for the babysitter. On my way now. Says the text that comes through a few minutes later, but there is a temporary distraction from waiting for Catfish: Rachel's car pulls up and parks outside the house, expelling both your daughter and her boyfriend onto the front lawn.

“Come on, Ben.” Rachel grabs his hand and rushes him towards the door. They are running behind because of the pre-party activities he had talked her into and while she’s not regretting that in the least, she wants to get inside and wish you happy birthday.

“Sounds like everybody’s out back, baby,” he steers her toward the fence surrounding the backyard instead of the front door, but when that brings him closer to the actual driveway of his girlfriend’s house he frowns — deeply — in confusion. He shouldn’t recognize the two vehicles sitting behind Rachel’s car and her mother’s, but there they are: Pope’s slick vintage Corvette right next to Will’s jacked up picked up truck. There’s no denying the two vehicles, he’s seen them together far too often. “The hell?” Benny breathes, but Rachel doesn’t hear him. She’s too excited to see her mom and moving them through the gate before he can hang back to do a double take at the cars.

“Mom!” Pope looks up at soon as he hears a familiar happy cry but then he’s immediately frowning. Watching as Ben Miller moves through the fence gate with Rachel. “What the fuck?”

“I told you she was bringing her boyfriend, didn’t I?” Santiago’s level of confusion is confusing in its own right, but you ignore it in favor of meeting your daughter at the edge of the porch to give her a massive hug. “Hey sweet pea!”

It helps that Benny looks just as stunned as Pope does, Will stopping short when he sees his younger brother and doesn’t hesitate to call out. “You made it!” He huffs out and shaking his head at his brother’s fickleness. “Girlfriend’s family already kick you out?”

“Nooo…” Benny blinks against the sunlight, having left his sunglasses in his truck. “You’re at the wrong party, assholes.”

The ball busting smirk immediately slides off of Will’s face, due to the knowledge that there is no way they could be at the wrong party. “Benny…” He glances at a stunned Pope and sighs heavily. “We’re at the right party.”

It only takes about a second more, but by the time Benny breathes “Ohhh shit.” He’s also cackling with laughter. “Are you telling me—” The younger Miller brother looks around and drops his voice for the sake of not embarrassing the girl he adores. “Are you telling me Pope is banging my girl’s mom?”

Will snorts and shakes his head. “Looks like.” He agrees quietly. “Hell of a birthday surprise.” He hopes that it won’t change your daughter’s mind on dating him, Rachel has been fantastic for Ben.

“Fuck….” Pope snickers quietly, shaking his head at the irony. He should probably go spell this out for you so you don’t take it the wrong way. No one knew. Even after hearing about Benny’s girlfriend for months, only Will and Fish had met her so far.

Rachel pulls back and gives you a beaming smile. “Happy Birthday Mom.” She hums, winking at you. “Santiago spend the night last night since I was with Ben?” She’s not been paying attention to the guys, too focused on you.

“We fell asleep watching our second movie.” It’s mostly true — true enough that you can play it off as innocent because you did technically nod off during the second movie — but the empty bowl of popcorn and wine glasses in the living room had waited until this morning to be cleared away once you hauled each other off to bed. “Did Ben have a fight last night or did you guys just go out?”

“No fight.” She shakes her head. “Next weekend, so we just got to go out. Although he wants to know if you would like to come to the fight.” You’ve met Benny and she thinks you like him, but she wants you to get to know him better. Which is why she had suggested they go to your party today instead of his friends’.

“If you want me to.” You don’t feel too excited to watch your daughter’s boyfriend get beat up, but you do want to get to know him better. Rach is so obviously head over heels for him.

“It’s up to you.” She smiles and looks back at Ben, curious to find Will here. “Um— what’s his brother doing here?”

“Whose brother?” Turning to follow her eyes, your head tilts slightly in interest. Santiago and Will are deep in conversation with Benny already. “That’s one of Santiago’s friends. Will.”

“Mom…” Rachel’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s Will Miller…Benny’s older brother.”

“That…” You swallow, slowly registering the situation as you watch the men interact. “That makes things interesting…” You’re dating a man who served with your daughter’s boyfriend…this is going to get complicated…

“Oh god.” Rachel bites her lip as Benny and Pope quickly break away and come over to the two of you. “So…”

“So, this is interesting.” You repeat the phrase almost disbelieving.

“Kind of a funny coincidence, huh?” Benny wraps his arms around Rachel and plants a kiss in her hair.

“I didn’t know.” Rachel promises you with a small shake of her head. “Shit, Ben. I can’t believe I didn’t know it.”

“I think I know why.” You observe, clearing your throat and accepting the comfort of Santiago’s arm around your waist as you look up (and up) at Ben. “I’m going to guess that your nickname while you were serving together was Taz?”

“Yeah.” Benny nods and looks back between all the other men. “Oh fuck, we’ve been just using our nicknames and they didn’t know.” He groans. "I'm sorry baby." He turns to Rachel with an apologetic look. "Pope was talking about his new girl and spending as much time as possible with her, so he missed the last fight you were at."

“It’s a little unconventional,” you admit, wondering what Santiago thinks of all this. “But not terrible, right?” As close in age as you and Rachel are, it wouldn’t be the first time you have had mutual friends. Just the first time you were ever dating mutual friends.

"He's a good guy." Pope assures you, like it's the first time you've met Benny. "And we can kick his ass if needed."

Benny snorts and rolls his eyes. "You wish, old man."

“Rach?” Your fingers run through her loose curls gently and you give her a questioning look. While this isn’t the day you want to have — after all, you do like Santiago — it’s ultimately up to her. Everything is and always has been in your life, and you made that decision for a reason.

"I don't think that you need to stop seeing Santiago just because he knows Ben." She rationalizes. "I think it's fine, what do you think?"

“Just as long as you’re comfortable with it.” That goes for the men involved, too. But they don’t seem to mind beyond being apologetic.

Rachel snorts and shrugs. "Just as long as they don't share sex stories." She giggles and shoots Santiago a smirk. "And we won't either."

“I was not planning on it, sweet pea.” You might be close, but that’s a step too far even for you. “Never ever.”

Agreeing completely, she walks up to Pope and gives him a hug. "So if you make my mom cry, I'll have my boyfriend beat you up." She teases.

“Got it.” She’s a grown woman, but he can’t resist the urge to mess with her thick hair, watching her face wrinkle in disapproval before she moves back to Benny, who smooths the familiar curls with care. “Now we just need Catfish to get here and we’ll have everybody.”

"I'm here!" A hand appears over the fence before he opens it, hat pulled low, and he grunts when he picks up the cooler full of ice and beer that he had stopped and picked up on the way. "Sorry I'm late."

“Fish!” Benny kisses the side of Rachel’s head before peeling off to grab the cooler from him and take it to the porch so his friend can catch his breath. He doesn’t see the tick in the tilt of your head or the way your eyes widen just a second later.

'Fish', or Francisco Morales, looks up and smirks at Benny when he grabs the cooler. Thankful, although he wouldn't make too much of a fuss about it. Getting older sucked and he's still feeling the effects of that workout he helped the other man do just two days ago when his normal sparring partner was sick. "'Bout time you made yourself useful." He huffs playfully and looking towards Pope to wave. Freezing with his arm halfway up in greeting when he sees someone that he had never expected to see before – you.

The way you shrink into yourself immediately is instinct. As much shock as anything else. But within seconds you’re stepping forward to block Rachel from view and shakily a demand an explanation. “What the shit is going on?” You hiss, though you’re not exactly sure who you’re talking to, you just don’t want to make a scene in front of your coworkers. They consider you to be such a calm, collected woman.

Frowning, Pope turns towards you, reaching out to touch your arm and stepping closer to you. "Babe— what's wrong? What are you talking about?" He follows your gaze back to Fish and he grunts in confusion. "Fish? He's another teammate. One of my best friends."

“Fuck.” Deflating on the spot, you feel like you could just collapse where you stand but that wouldn’t help the situation any. “We—we, um—know each other,” you explain quietly. “But it’s been a long time.”

Feeling like he's been kicked in the chest by one of those fucking mules, Frankie stumbles forward and murmurs your name softly. "I— what are you doing here?" He asks, frowning slightly.

“This is my house.” You wonder if Santiago even explained where he was inviting him, or if you have a nickname to their group just like they all do to each other. “I wouldn’t expect you to still remember my birthday.”

All the blood drains from his face and it falls into a wounded look. Realizing that you have to be Pope's girl. "I— remembered." He murmurs quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Seven billion people in the world. Figured someone else would have the same day too." It's almost a kick in the teeth, that comment of yours. Considering he had a fight with Marie because he had said your name this morning when he was talking to himself after waking up. You were the reason he had fought, again, with the mother of his child and she had pitched a fit and left. Making him wait on a babysitter so he could come to this party. To find out that it was for you. He's so fucking lucky that Marie isn't here. He clears his throat roughly and bites his lip. "Happy birthday, gatita." He uses the nickname from a million years ago and steps back. "I should go."

A press of overwhelming guilt and the instinct to stop him makes you reach out, grabbing his arm before you can stop yourself. “No. You shouldn’t.” You admit, even though it hurts.

"No," He shakes his head and gives you a wry smile. "I should." He sighs softly and looks over at Pope. "This is your girl, huh?" He asks, confusing the other man even more. "Keep her and take care of her." He tells him. "You'll regret it if you don't." He reaches for your hand and pries it off his arm gently, squeezing it before letting it go.

“Where’s Fish going?” Benny returns from the deck just a second too late, but just in time to watch Frankie leave again and see the bewildered looks on his friends’ faces.

"I don't fucking know." The entire day has been one big bag of surprises and Pope doesn't particularly like surprises. He turns towards you for some kind of explanation, although the nickname gatita sounds familiar, like Fish has mentioned it before. "You know Frank?"

“We grew up together.” It’s the best you can hiccup out before you take off like a shot, following Frankie through the gate. “Frankie!” He’s already down at the street, but he pauses when you call his name and it gives you time to catch up.

Waiting for you as you rush towards him, Frankie takes off his Standard Oil hat and scratches his hair. Struck by how nostalgic the moment is, waiting for you to catch up to him so many times once upon a lifetime ago. “Look, I’m sorry.” He sighs when you are closer. “I didn’t know, okay? I’m going.”

“I think you should stay.” Not as fit as you once were, you puff a little and put your arms around your waist. “We, uh—for Santiago, if nothing else. You’re his friend and I—I’m somebody you used to know.” And there is so, so much to tell him…

The idea that you might want him there makes him pause and he frowns slightly as he stares at you for a moment. “Only if you’re sure.” He still hesitates. “It’s your birthday after all.”

“It is.” And you’re not sure. You’re really not. But since he’s reappearing in your life almost twenty-five years later, the lump in your throat is winning over logic.

“Last time I saw you was on your birthday.” Frankie frowns, wondering how he could have been such a shit head back then. “Seems like the circle is complete.”

“Eighteen was a long time ago.” It was right before he left for boot camp, and you’d been pushing him to commit to you before he left. A stupid thing to do at such a young age. You know that now. But you were so stupid in love with him back then and there was so much going on.

“Yes it was.” He can admit that, biting his lip and shuffling slightly. “And I was an asshole.” He had broken his own damn heart, even if he hadn’t known it at the time.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.” Squeezing your eyes shut makes you feel like your heart is going to burst, but the universe has decided that it’s time to finally time to come clean. “I was scared. And I’m sorry.”

“I was stupid.” Frankie has so many regrets from that time of his life, just compounded over the years and he almost steps closer to you, but he doesn’t. He can’t, he doesn’t have that right anymore. “I proved you right. I didn’t come back.” The argument is still confusing in his memory, just as much as it had confused him then. You had pushed to get married before he left and he had wanted to wait. It had become a sticking point and in his stubbornness, he had broken up with you.

“You didn’t come back and you didn’t have a cell phone…and then your parents moved.” With their only child moved on, Frankie’s father had accepted a transfer upstate from the Standard Heating & Oil Co that both of your fathers worked for. “I had—I had no way to talk to you. To—to tell you—” Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, surprising you since you thought you had cried every last tear you had over Frankie Morales.

“Tell me?” Frankie frowns and he does step closer, hating to see tears in your eyes again on a birthday. Especially because they seem to be because of him again. “Tell me what, gatita?”

“Fair warning.” Wiping at the corners of your eyes, you can’t quite look him in his even when you straighten out again. “You’ll hate me. And you probably should, at this point.”

“I don’t think I could hate you.” Frankie admits quietly, unable to even imagine a world where he would.

“You might.” Wiping your hands down your face and breathing out a deep, frustrated groan, you look up again to see the eyes of the boy who was your first everything looking back at you, and you crumble. “I didn’t have any way to contact you,” you repeat again, knowing you could and should have tried harder anyway. “And I was scared of losing you because — because I was pregnant.”

The way his brows pull down is instantaneous and he immediately puts his hands on his hips and twists around as he absorbs your news. “You— you were pregnant?” He chokes out, looking back at you with a wounded expression. “I— what? No? What— pregnant?”

“That’s…that’s why I was pushing you so hard to propose.” You admit, eyes cast down at the ground.

“You didn’t say a word.” Frankie shakes his head. “Why— why didn’t you tell me? If I had known—”

“I thought if I told you that you’d only run away from me faster.” Which, at eighteen years old, had seemed like pretty sound logic to you. “By the time I was scared enough to just want you there regardless, it was too late. You were…you were gone.”

“By the time—” he shakes his head, eyes wide and he swallows harshly. “What happened? Don’t— I— what are you saying?”

"I'm saying that you have a daughter." A fact which sticks in your throat now like you had tried to swallow a pinecone. "Who is smart, and kind, and headstrong, and stubborn as hell. But she's doing so well for herself that a lot of that stubbornness just slides right by."

Frankie blanks out for a minute, staring at you before he turns away. Grappling with his emotions as he bends over and tries to take a breath, groaning slightly in disbelief. “No.” He shakes his head, turning back to you. “No! Don’t tell me that!”

"I'm sorry." It isn't worth much, as apologies go, but you kneel down beside him on the grass and wonder if he'll be mad enough to strike out if you put a hand on his back. "I really am. You should have known a long time ago."

“Twenty-four,” he chokes out. “You are telling me I have a twenty-four year old daughter?” His face screws up in the regret and tears. “Please tell me you’re fucking joking.”

"I had no way to tell you." It's a lame excuse, or at least it feels lame, and you do rest your hand on his back but it's so gentle you don't even know if he can feel it.

“Oh fuck….fuck, fuck, fuck…..” Frankie moans, closing his eyes and his fists bunch against his thighs. “I-I-I— don’t— I can’t –”

"Frankie?" His breathing sounds panicked, and you soothe one hand in circles around his back. "Breathe, okay? Just breathe. Everything's okay. She—she's grown. She's raised. No one is asking you to do anything."

“I—I missed it.” He manages. “I missed everything.” Closing his eyes as he realizes that his trajectory of his life would have been vastly different if he had known.

Oh. It's the opposite. The exact opposite. He's not panicked that you're going to expect him to stay, like you thought he was. He's upset that he missed Rachel's childhood. "There's...there's still the whole rest of her life ahead."

“I— I should have been there.” He drops his head down even more. “Fuck— you must hate me. She must hate me.”

"It's my fault you didn't know. Why would I hate you?" As much as it has ever hurt to lose him, you've never actually hated him. Just missed him. Which isn't the same although they can be confused for each other. "And Rachel— Frankie, she knows the truth. That we were young and lost touch."

“Rachel.” He shakes his head, focusing on her name and it’s so goddamn familiar. “Her name is Rachel?”

"My aunt Rachel died right before she was born," you explain, wondering if he even remembers meeting your mother's sister a million and a half times at different family functions while you were together. He was always invited for every holiday.

“God.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, hating that he had been such a fucking idiot back then. “I’m so sorry.” He whispers.

"I am, too." More sorry than you can possibly say, but what else can you do at this point but try to move forward?

“So I managed to ruin another birthday of yours.” He pushes aside the grief and sorrow that is threatening to overwhelm him and locks it down. Compartmentalize, shutting down, it’s what he knows best. He can freak out about this later when he’s left.

"It's not ruined." It's awkward, and it's uncomfortable, and you're not really sure what to do now. But it's not ruined. "It's—it's not—I don't know what today is, but it's..." you sigh heavily and stand up again. "I don't know, Frankie. If you want to leave that's up to you. But our lives cross now, and I know...I know Rachel would want to meet you."

“Oh god. Is she— is she there? Here?” He asks, shaking his head. “Can I meet her?”

"If I wasn't going to let you meet her, I would have just kept my mouth shut about the whole thing," you needle him gently. Just wishing he could or would do as much as crack a smile. It seems desperately needed.

The huff, the quarter of a smile is almost involuntary. Almost in disbelief and he looks over at you with a heavy stare. “I want to meet her.” He tells you quietly. “If I had known, things would have been so different for us, gatita.”

"No use crying over spilled milk, I think." Twenty-four years of regret is a lot to process, but you nod in acknowledgement. Just a small motion of thanks that he is at least saying out loud what you suspected.

“Fuck.” He huffs again and uncurls his hands to wipe them on his jeans. “I’m nervous.”

"Telling you not to be seems cruel," you huff, though you're not sure what else to say. "No one planned this. No one saw this coming. It will be as much of a shock to her as it is to you. As—as it was to me to see you."

“Forty-two.” He shakes his head and looks back over at you in awe. “You don’t look a day over fucking eighteen.” It might be a small embellishment, but you look amazing and so much like the girl he has loved for so long.

"You're not so bad yourself." Santiago may be on the other side of that fence, but a part of your heart has always and will always belong to scrawny Frankie Morales from Brooklyn. Even if he isn't scrawny anymore – which is a thing you can't help but notice.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, centering himself before he nods. “We should go back.” He murmurs.

"I promise she's not scary." Although you'll understand when it is a complete shock to her. And to the others. "Just...let me tell her first? I ran after you so fast that I didn't explain to anyone else yet."

Both of you stand up and he scrubs his hands on his jeans again. “Sure, sure.” He agrees, knowing that it could be sort of a shock, even if she’s known about him her whole life.

"Remember to breathe," you advise him with a wry chuckle, even though it's good advice for you too.

“When I remember how.” Frankie snorts, slightly pacing in place as he glances towards the back yard gate.

"Come on." Nodding toward the yard, you take a step in that direction to see if it will spur him on. The urge to offer him your hand is misplaced, and you have to quell it by putting your hands in your jeans pockets. "We've kept them waiting long enough."

Frankie exhales roughly and trails along behind you, wanting you to take the lead. He has to tell you about Luna at some point, but he will do that after he meets the daughter he never knew he had.

“Sorry about that.” Once you’re on the other side of the gate again, you see Rachel standing in the midst of Santiago, Benny, and Will all looking concerned. “That was…unexpected? Shall we say?”

“Mom?” Rachel moves closer to you and frowns as her eyes slide back to where Frankie is hanging back. “Why are you upset with Fish?” She asks softly, looking back at the other three men and then back at you. “You said you knew him? When? I don’t remember you dating him.” Your dates had been few and far between, even rarer that she had met them, but she would have remembered someone called Catfish.

“I’m not upset, sweet pea. I’m just surprised.” It’s a lie, but a prudent one. You are upset, and it’s because your little slice of peace has been disturbed. But no one did that on purpose, so you’ll just have to live with it. “Why don’t we—we should talk about this inside.”

“No. Here. Now.” She has inherited her stubbornness both you and Frankie. And she’s eyeing the man she had met a few months ago and hung out with suspiciously. He looks like he’s about to be sick and she’s not above taking a baseball bat to his knees if needed, whether or not she had liked him before.

“Rach, I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” you murmur, looking around the backyard. Most people are milling about and a few are in the pool, but they obviously all know something is up.

Rachel stares at you for a minute and then she shoots Frankie a glare because you look so upset before she turns around and marches towards the house.

“You guys, too,” you decide, figuring it’s probably best to get all of this over with. Santiago is dating you, Benny is dating Rachel, and Will is bound to find everything out soon enough.

There’s not a lot of hope for him with the glare shot his way, so Frankie hangs back for a moment. Reconciling the fact that Rachel is the girl that Benny has been dating. His daughter is dating his friend. His friend who has been bragging about his girl to him. And their sex life. He’s going to throw up or punch Ben in the mouth.

Once everyone is inside, you check to make sure the bathroom is empty and close the sliding doors tightly. Everyone outside can wait. This is far more important. “Everything is okay,” you start, making sure that right off the bat Rachel knows you aren’t mad and Santiago understands you don’t hate his best friend. His best friend. Fuck. “It was just—as surprising as it was to find out Santiago and Ben are friends…this is an even bigger surprise.”

Frankie leans on the side of the wall, staring at the tip of his boot as he tries to wait for you to tell Rachel. He can’t blurt it out, she’s your kid. Not his— not really. He hasn’t done a goddamn thing to help raise her, but he has to admire the job you’ve done.

"The thing is, Rach." Blowing out a breath, you reach out for your daughter's hand and just pray she won't hate you. "You wouldn't remember when I dated Frankie. Because it was before you were born."

“Hermano.” Pope’s eyes widen and the nickname clicks. He knew he had heard it before. “Gatita? This is—” he whistles quietly. “Mierda.”

When Rachel still looks confused, you breathe deeply and try your best not to shake. Or to chicken out. "There are a lot of blanks to fill in along the way, but...sweet pea...Frankie is—" Oh god, you're going to throw up. You're absolutely going to throw up. "He's your father."

You could hear a pin drop, or a mouse fart, the room is so quiet. Every head snapping towards Frankie in judgement and he doesn’t pay them any attention, focusing on the one person right now that matters. His daughter.

"I don't understand." Rachel stands bog still, clutching your hand with eyes as wide as saucers as she looks frantically between you and Frankie. She had liked this man. He is a good friend to Ben. But now she doesn't know what to think.

“Your mom and I were high school sweethearts.” Frankie isn’t sure what you might have told her, but he’s going to tell her what he knows to be true. “More like middle school, but you know?” He shrugs. “I didn’t know she was pregnant.” He promises. “I swear I didn’t know.”

Will sighs from the other side of the room. “Oh shit.”

"Everything I ever told you about him was the truth." You had worked hard to always be fair to Frankie when you were raising Rachel, even if it led to never telling her very much about him unless she asked. "He didn't know, and I had no way of telling him. It's been...it's been twenty-five years since we even spoke to each other. So you can understand why I was surprised to see him walk in today."

“And he’s friends with your boyfriend and mine.” There’s a note of disbelief in her voice that Frankie doesn’t blame her for.

“We were on the same team for years.” Frankie explains. “I was their pilot.”

“That’s why we lost touch,” you remind your daughter gently. “He left for boot camp.” Considering Ben isn’t the first Army boy that Rachel has dated, you have always sort of had a suspicion that she was subconsciously searching for her dad in these men. It just never occurred to you that it would actually work.

She looks at him, almost accusatory in her gaze. “Why did you never come back?” She demands. “If you loved her, why did you just walk away?”

That makes Frankie wince, and he shoves his hands in his pockets again. “Have you ever done something dumb and been too goddamn proud to admit you were wrong?” He asks quietly, and Pope, despite his own feelings about the entire situation, won’t let Frankie’s daughter twist in the wind.

“He used to talk about his gatita.” He interjects. “Regretting not making up with her and wishing he could get in contact with her.”

“It was harder back then, honey.” The gentle reminder is important, because Rachel might not have grown up in a world of luxury but she’s definitely never known a world without cell phones or social media. “When I told your grandparents that you were coming, we moved. It was just a little further outside the city, but the place was bigger and the neighborhood was safer. Your grandma found a better job and— and with neither of our families still in Brooklyn, we couldn’t have found each other. Even if your dad had come back looking for me, or tried to call our old apartment? We wouldn’t have been there.” At least she hasn’t ripped her hand out of yours yet. You’re considering that a good thing “We were kids, and we made mistakes. Very big ones. But you know he didn’t leave because he didn’t love you.”

“I would have never.” He promises, his voice thick with emotions. He shakes his head and frowns slightly. He doesn’t know why he didn’t realize who she was to him now that he knows. She looks just like a perfect combination of you and him, with your nose, thank God. But her ears curl just like his.

“Oh god…” In trying to process everything, Rachel glances up and looks at Frankie’s hat again, groaning to herself and wiping one hand at the bottom of her neck just like he does — but neither of them ever noticed the simile gesture. “I always just thought the hat was a funny coincidence,” she admits with a huff.

“My hat?” He takes it off and scrubs his hair quickly before putting it back on his head. “Had it since I was a kid.”

The Miller brothers look confused, and you offer them a wilted smile with your explanation. "Both of our fathers, Rach's grandfathers...they both worked for Standard for forever. That's how Frankie and I met."

“Oh shit.” Benny frowns slightly and moves over to Rachel’s side, squeezing her hip supportively.

"I know this is a lot." It's a lot for everyone, but you're mostly just talking to Rachel. Your whole adult life has been lived for your baby girl and now emotions are unraveling at light speed. "But nothing has to change. You're a grown woman, sweet pea. And whatever relationship you want with your Dad is up to you."

“I’ve spent time with him.” She admits quietly. “After a fight of Benny’s.” She looks back at Frankie and bites her lip. “But I’d like to get to know him as my dad.”

"I know this just got sprung on everybody," you murmur again. The fact is that right now you have a yard full of people and all you want to do is disappear under your comforter and pretend it isn't happening. "But...life throws you curveballs, right?"

“Yeah.” Frankie huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling like his entire world has turned on its head. Wishing like hell he could snort a line but he promised himself he wouldn’t touch that shit again.

"We should give you guys some privacy." When Will finally speaks up, it's to motion to his brother and to Pope that maybe they should step outside. There are a lot of emotions creating tension in this room and they're not going to be made easier by having an audience.

Pope shuffles slightly, wanting to stay, but he also needs to think about this entire thing. The situation is blowing up and he doesn’t want to make things worse.

"Maybe you could throw the burgers on the grill? And we'll be out in a few minutes?" He had offered to be in charge of the grill today but that was before everything had gone to hell and now you have no idea what he's thinking. "And I promise we'll talk through everything, too."

“Of course.” He nods and doesn’t lean in to kiss you like he might have just a few minutes before walking in this house. Feeling almost guilty for the entire situation right now.

That missing kiss is enough to tell you that everything has changed. Santiago has never shied away from affection or from public displays, and this is exactly the time that a partner might have offered that kind of comfort. Whatever you end up talking to him about later, you're now prepared for him to end things. But you can't fault him for that. You had a baby with his best friend – even if you didn't know each other then.

“Baby?” Benny looks at Rachel, checking with her before he leaves.

"It's okay," she promises him, going up on her toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. "I'll find you when we come back out." And she's going to find a White Claw or six in the garage fridge, too. Fuck.

“Okay.” He shoots Frankie a worried look, not liking the despair on his friend’s face and shuffles to the door.

"I figured it might be easiest to just tell them the facts up front and then let all of us talk," you tell them both, now wondering if that was the right move at all.

“Yeah.” Frankie nods, understanding why you did it, but he looks over at Rachel with regret and waits for her to say something.

"Do you, actually...do you mind if I talk to Frankie—" Rachel hums awkwardly over it, before reconsidering. "If I talk to my father alone for a few minutes?" She sort of feels like they're ganging up on him, and while she has questions and she's sure that you do, too...hers are going to be very different from yours.

“I don’t mind.” Frankie glances back over at you for approval.

"I should go make the rounds outside." As much as you don't want to, it is your party and they are your guests out there. Most of whom noticed that something odd has happened even if they don't know what. Still, you nod and lean over to hug your daughter. "Come back out when you’re ready. Ben looked like he'll worry until you do."

“I will.” She promises and Frankie catches your eye as you glance over at him.

“Thanks.” He murmurs, thanking you for the opportunity to talk to Rachel. He knows you could have been very different with this entire thing. Blowing out a breath when you walk out and shut the door, he looks back at his grown daughter. “So hit me with it.” He tells her.

For a second Rachel is dumbfounded. She just stands and stares at him, but then her shoulders slump and she shrugs and she blows out a long sigh. “I guess I know the real reason my middle name is Francine,” she poses, shaking her head. “Mom said it was because The Nanny is her favourite show and I completely fucking believe that because she worships Fran Drescher, but I’m willing to bet that’s one of only like six lies she’s ever told me in my whole life and it’s actually because of you.”

“Francisco Alberto Morales.” He introduces himself to her quietly, nodding and trying not to be humbled by the fact that you gave your daughter a version of his name. Something to connect the two of you.

“And you guys were…you were together for a long time?” She knows the story. She’s heard it from you over and over again. But something in her feels like she needs to hear it confirmed from him.

“Seventh grade until her 18th birthday.” He frowns at the way that makes him sound, how callous it could be construed. He has just walked away after so long.

“And she wanted to get married.” Rachel prompts, needing these landmarks of the story confirmed for her.

“We had a plan.” He shuffles slightly and looks around the neat and well decorated home. You’ve done well for yourself and it shows. “I was going to get through boot camp and my ‘A’ school while she started college and then when I got to my first duty station, she would transfer to a school nearby.” His shoulders round when he remembers that last fight, the missing piece now clicked into place and with maturity, he can see that you had been terrified, not overbearing. “Her birthday, she blind-sided me with getting married.”

“She wanted to skip forward and get married first, and you didn’t agree.” She can see it from both sides, now. As an adult it makes sense why an eighteen-year-old planning his life would think his girlfriend was just trying to trap him — or even that she wanted the wedding more than she wanted him. “But…you never got married at all? Even after Mom?”

“No.” Marie isn’t married to him, he couldn’t do that even if he had been inclined to. She was still technically married to some guy in her past, or so she claimed. “But….”

“Oh god, don’t say Marie.” Rachel bursts out, talking before she can even think. “She’s awful, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. I didn’t feel like I had a right to say anything before but I totally do now and she’s abusive and terrible, and I will absolutely help you leave her if you need help. I’ll babysit Luna anytime and — oh my god Luna is my sister—”

Frankie shuffles and looks down at his feet. Marie hadn’t been at her best the first time that Rachel had come to the bar after the fight. She had been pissed off because his hearing had been postponed again and he wasn’t closer to getting his pilot’s license back.

“Look, if you’re happy, it’s whatever.” Rachel shuffles, not realizing she’s moving the same way as Frankie, and shrugs. She senses she’s hit a nerve. “I’ll still help with Luna whenever you need. I—I always wanted a baby sister…”

“She’s not bad.” Frankie had dealt with her for a long time and it seemed harder to leave than it was to stay. “That was a bad night.”

“If you say so.” She doesn’t believe him, but the very first day she meets her father isn’t the day to push too hard.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he looks around the house again. “Did you and your mom struggle?” He asks quietly.

“My grandparents helped.” The short answer is yes, but she doesn’t want to make him feel guilty. “We lived with them when I was little, then we moved down here when I was about thirteen. Mom got a job with Disney.”

Frankie nods, frowning slightly. He has his retirement and his Thrift Savings Plan from the military, which he will hopefully be able to not use once he gets his license back. He’s not in the best position to offer any kind of help, but he will. “You’re in school, right?” He asks.

“I’m getting my masters at UCF.” Rachel nods again. “I still live with Mom. Here, I mean. She didn’t make me leave or anything when I started college.”

She’s dedicated. Frankie knows that college, especially graduate programs, are expensive. “That’s good.” He bites his lip and wonders if the offer would offend her. “I have my G.I. Bill.” He mentions. “I can gift it to a spouse – which I don’t have.” He shrugs. “Or a child.”

It's a very sweet offer, but that doesn't really surprise her. She already knows Frankie is a sweet guy. "Save it for Luna," she tells him. "I have great scholarships, and that way she'll be able to look forward to school without worrying about student loans."

It’s feels like a rejection, even though he knows it’s not. He nods and clears his throat. “That’s good.” He has an odd sense of pride for her achievements, even though he had done nothing to contribute.

"What do you want to know about me?" There's probably plenty, but now Rachel feels a bit self-conscious. She's at least heard stories about him. All he knows about her is whatever Ben has told him.

“Everything.” The word tumbles out before he can stop himself and he looks embarrassed. “I— I want to know everything.”

"Everything is a lot," she laughs, but understands. She wants to know everything about him too. She's wondered about her father forever. "What if...what if we did some father/daughter stuff? I could come over and spend time with you and Luna or we could grab a drink sometimes? Just...exist together. And all the get to know you stuff will come in time?"

“Yeah.” He nods eagerly and smiles at her, his eyes crinkling and his face lighting up at the idea. “I like that. Any time. Any time at all.”

“Okay.” She’s feeling bone tired by all of this so she can only imagine how you and Frankie feel, but as Rachel moves over to the notepad on the far table to write her number down for him, she purses her lips slightly and tilts her head. Her thinking face. “Don’t…please don’t be too hard on Mom?” She asks, holding the slip of paper out to him a second later. “She doesn’t ever say it, but I know she’s missed you. And she worked so hard to raise me alone, she just…she deserves the world.”

“I’m not mad at your mother, querida.” He promises, taking the paper and looking down at it before he folds it up carefully and tucks it into his pocket. “I’m mad at myself.” He explains. “Too goddamn proud to admit I was wrong, and I apparently missed out on a hell of a life.” He looks up at her with pride. “And a hell of a daughter.”

“Well shucks, Paw,” she laughs, obviously very touched by the sentiment. “I guess we both have a bunch to catch up on. But we can do that.”

He snorts and huffs out a grin. “By the way, I’m going to punch your boyfriend in the mouth.” He warns Rachel. “So don’t go screaming at me when it happens.”

“Benny?” She makes an audible huffing sound. “What did he do?”

“You’ll find out.” He won’t say now, but he shrugs. “He deserves it, and he’ll know it.”

“Seems weird, but okay.” Men do weird things sometimes. She’s not so young that she doesn’t know that.

He chuckles and sweeps his head off his head again. “You look like your mother when you wrinkle your nose.”

“It’s funny.” She wrinkles her nose again but consciously, wondering if she really does look like you that way. “She always said I had your smile. And your ears.”

Frankie reaches out and brushes her curls back behind her ears and smiles. “You do have my ears.” He admits.

“Is it weird? She asks, stifling a laugh. “To realize that?”

“Surreal.” He admits with a sigh. “I don’t know what to think. I went from being too old to have a six-month-old, to being the dad to a grown ass woman.”

“I was teasing Mom about wanting a little sister last night,” Rachel admits with a groan at the irony. “Shows me right.”

Frankie smirks slightly and shrugs. “Isn’t life sometimes a kick in the teeth?”

******

“What a Fucking kick in the teeth.” Will pushes out a sigh in the backyard, cracking open the beer he grabbed from the cooler Fish brought.

“Yeah.” Pope frowns at the grill, pushing the perfectly aligned burgers with the spatula. “Who would have thought?”

"What are you gonna do?" It's not as though Pope has had a lot of time to think, but Will knows him long enough to know that the wheels are already spinning. They have all heard Fish talk about his gatita, and now that they know who she is? It at least warrants a reaction.

Pope glances over at Will before he looks back at the grill, his movements a little stiffer than just a moment before. “What can I do?” He asks rhetorically. “She was his first.”

"Just because she was his first doesn't mean that he has to be her last," Benny offers, not quite sure what else to say. They all know that Pope had been starting to fall for you, even if it had never been said. Now he is very obviously pulling back.

"No, but she would want him to be." He admits quietly. "She had told me about her first love. She didn't tell me his name." He says pointedly when Benny opens his mouth to ask the obvious question. "But she told me enough to know that she's still in love with him. And we know that Frankie never got over her."

"So it's not about stepping back," Will observes, sipping his beer in the hot Florida sun. "It's about letting them be together."

Closing the grill, Pope sighs, hands on his hips as he looks around the backyard and comes to his decision. "Don't you think Fish deserves to be happy?" He asks quietly.

"Of course he does." The idea that Will might think otherwise practically makes him clutch his proverbial pearls.

"And fuck knows we want Marie gone," Benny huffs under his breath.

"His gatita is the one to make both of those wishes come true." He's sure of it and he will bow out like a gentleman. It's the least he can do since the last half year of hell in his personal life is partially his responsibility. He had pushed Fish to come to South America. Pope looks back at both of the other men. "Want to help me fix Fish's life?"

Benny is the first to smirk, clapping his hands together and rubbing them dramatically. "You gonna pull a binder out of your ass or are we talking this one through?"

"First, I'm going to get really drunk and pretend like I'm not falling on a sword." Pope snorts, snatching the beer out of Will's hand and taking a drink. "Then, we're gonna figure out how to get Fish custody of Luna." He tells them quietly. "That little girl is the reason he's still with Marie."

"We just need proof that she's the one with the drug problem." Will mumbles, not wanting to say those words too loud. "And we need his hearing to go through so he can get his damn license back."

"Yeah." He sighs and points at Will. "Can you talk to your ex?" Pope asks, knowing it's a big favor. "She's still working in the DA's office, right? Maybe she can help us? Or know someone who can?" Being a paralegal isn't the same as being an assistant DA, but she knows people.

"I'll see if she can at least point me in the right direction," Will nods in agreement, knowing that as uncomfortable as talking to his ex-fiancée will be, it's definitely the right course of action. "She always like Fish. It shouldn't be too hard to get her to give an e-mail or phone number of who can help."

“Marie isn’t going be happy learning about Rachel.” Pope glances at Benny. “You know that.”

"She's going to be furious." Ben agrees, wiping his hand through his hair and blowing out a raspberry. "She's gonna think Fish kept it from her on purpose."

“Poor bastard looked like he was about to fall over.” Pope sighs. “I hate this.”

"We're gonna make it work," Benny promises him. "Sorry you got shoved into the middle of it, though."

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t and it actually really hurt that he was going to have to end things with you and pretend that he’s just friends with you, but his brother is worth it.

"Better to find out now than a year from now," Will offers, knowing it isn't a whole lot of comfort. But at least it's honest.

“Yeah.” You walk out of the house and he immediately turns to watch you. “Better now.” Santi murmurs, his heart aching.

******

Most people leave around dinner time, splintering off to nighttime plans or to go home to their families. Santiago, Frankie, and the Miller brothers stayed long enough to help you clean up and Rachel is loading the dishwasher when you realize Santiago has gone temporarily missing. On a hunch, you go down the hall to your bedroom and frown to see him there, tucking things back into his duffel bag.

"Decided not the stay the night?"

He hates that you caught him and he stands tall after shoving in a t-shirt and tamping down the guilty feeling. “It’s been a…surprising day.” He tells you. “Figured it might be better to change the plan for tonight.”

"Just for tonight?" You have a feeling you know the answer, but you want it out in the open. No questions or doubts.

His eyes slide away from you and for a moment, he falters. Wondering if this is the wrong thing to do. “No.” He admits, walking over to you and cupping your cheeks in his hand. “I am— was— falling in love with you.” He won’t lie to you. “But you’ve been in love with Frank for far longer than you’ve loved me.”

It's enormously frustrating for him to be both presumptuous and right. The last thing you want is to admit it, especially as tears press at the back of your eyes, and so a protest comes out of your mouth instead. "He's with someone else," you point out, knowing that someone mentioned it earlier. One of the Miller brothers, you think. "He's—he's—it's so complicated, Santi."

“I know it is.” His brow pinches together and he leans forward to kiss your forehead. “And if it’s too complicated, I won’t let you twist in the wind.” He promises. “But you deserve to find out if your love for him is still there.”

"This isn't how I saw today ending." Overwhelmed and next to tears was definitely not on the docket, but you're not going to beg him to stay. That's not the kind of girl you are anymore. You haven't been in a long time. "What a shitty birthday."

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Pope closes his own eyes and leans his forehead against yours. “I can stay if you want.” He offers in a whisper, feeling guilty all over as his resolve crumbles.

"You'd feel guilty if you did." He's a good man, that's why. It's part of what you liked so much about him when you met, and part of what's grown on you. "Like you were betraying Frankie."

“I would still stay.” He promises.

"You'd feel guilty and then you'd start to resent me." The defense mechanism of crossing your arms over your chest might guard you in spirit, but it doesn't stop you from feeling like utter dogshit in this moment. "Just...know that this isn't how I wanted things to go between us. That's all."

“I know.” He murmurs softly, the slight smile on his lips ironic. “I know, baby. I didn’t want this either.” He admits. “But I’m still going to be here for you. That won’t change.”

“Could I just ask you one favor before you go?” All things considered, it’s very minor and sort of the least you could possibly ask.

“Anything.” Pope would do anything for you, he’s proving that, but he wouldn’t deny you simple request if it’s in his power to take care of it.

“I don’t know if you’re going to see them at all tonight or not but just…don’t tell Rachel yet? She’s going to spend the night with Ben again and I know her. She’ll come straight home to be with me instead. I don’t want to ruin her night.”

He chuckles softly, aware of what that says about you as a mom. “You are a good woman.” He murmurs, leaning in kissing your forehead again. “I won’t say anything to her.”

“I’ll tell her tomorrow.” You promise him. It’s not that you want to hide things from her — it’s that you know she’ll act rashly out of loyalty to you if she finds out tonight. She might even break up with Ben, which is the last thing she actually wants or that you want for her.

“When you tell her is up to you.” He would never think that he should have an input on your relationship with Rachel or when you tell her. “Whenever you are comfortable.”

“Well…” A shrug and a half sigh are the best you can do, not really sure of what else to say. Maybe you’ll get on Pet Finder tonight and look for a cat. Or three.

“Oh…” Pope reaches into his bag and pulls out your gift. “I didn’t want to give this to you in front of everyone.” He tells you quietly. “But this is for you.”

“You didn’t have to.” Especially now. Especially with everything that’s happened today. But you still smile weakly and accept the bag. Yup. It’s gonna be me and three cranky, elderly cats. That’s my future. “I—um, thank you. It’s…very sweet of you. You’re a very sweet person.”

“No, I’m not.” Pope snorts as he steps back. “But you are worth the effort.”

Impulsively, it does make you want to ask why he’s leaving, then. But you know the answer. You know this is about you and Frankie having a past and that nothing is going to change Santiago’s loyalty to his best friend. What’s even more annoying is that you like that about him, it hits harder and hurts more. All you can say without letting the emotions through the floodgates is just to excuse yourself to grab the book of his that you borrowed because it’s downstairs in the living room.

Staring at the door, Pope sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket to text Will. Deciding that he needs a drink after the emotional rollercoaster of the day.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

My Masterlist!

[nightmarist]

Some Zevlor Things —

EDIT 12/2/23: Added a few more things

A fellow Tiefling Hellrider, Tilses, is with him in the caves acting as his bodyguard. He sometimes calls her Tilly.

There is one bedroll in the caves shoved off in the far corner with a book titled "The Devil You Know: An Autobiography" - not sure if it's his personal writing or if he's reading it, either way it adds to the flavor of his of his tiefling pride (and/or anguish).

It reads:

Have you ever had a god change your blood? It is a horrifying thing, even for those who may desire it. Yet few tieflings wished for Asmodeus to claim their bodies, only be given no choice in the matter. It is not as if we were well-loved before the archdevil's gambit. Our people have always struggled against the notion of 'devilkin', as if a single drop of infernal ichor inescapably corrupts. How amusing, when so many others willingly sell their souls to fiends, yet their culture as a whole escapes the blame. By what method can we redeem ourselves, when the crime is not ours? I would drive a blade into every warlock that aided Asmodeus' damned ritual, but personal vengeance cannot undo the will of a god, much less one as slippery as the Lord of Lies. When every passerby thinks you a thief and heretic, it is deeply tempting to become one. (cut off) The only thing that has stopped me is knowing Asmodeus wants nothing more than for all of us to fall from grace.

Around the his table are Invasion Plans for Elturgard, Traveler's Guide to Baldur's Gate, Traveler's Guide to the Sword Coast Vol IV: The Risen Road (which aligns when he tells you earlier there are gnolls on the road), and "Front and Center: a Thespian's Memoir" that reads:

"... in fact, the greatest joy of my life hasn't been acting, but becoming. When you choose a character to play, you don't just wear a mask - you take a little bit of their soul for your own. Whoever you are in your heart of hearts, if only by the faintest note."

Zevlor aside I think this is a sweet quote for the player and player character relationship <3

Dialogue in the Caves:

Zevlor: I Hardly need a bodyguard, Tilses. This isn't Avernus. Tilses: No sir. At least the monsters there looked like monsters.

—

Tilses: Commander— Zevlor: Just Zevlor, Tilly. We're civilians now, remember? Tilses: With respect, sir — being a Hellrider is for life. They can't take — Zevlor: They can, and did. Avernus changed things — best we get used to that. Tilses: ... Yes, Zevlor

—

Tilses: The Watch or the Flaming Fist? Zevlor: Pardon? Tilses: When we get to Baldur's Gate. Where are we enlisting? Zevlor: I'm done soldiering, Tilly. I'd like a clean start. But go with the Watch. You're too honest to be a mercenary.

—

Zevlor: No word from the scouts, yet? Tilses: No sir. But if there's a clear path past the goblins, they'll find it. Zevlor: Yes, of course.

ITEMS —

in the Chest there is a bronze goblet, 46 gold, and a battle-worn blade. On his person he has his gloves (Hellrider's Pride), an apple, a camp supply pack, and the key to his chest.

The blade says:

A fine by well-used sword. It seemed to have once belonged to a holy order, but the indication of rank and patron deity at the hilt have recently been filed down.

The gloves' flavor text says:

A waft of sulphur emanates from this proudly-kept piece.

Celebration at the Camp:

"I should be out there, talking with them. In... Just a moment, maybe." "Is this everyone? Our numbers have grown so few..." "No more. I can't afford to lose any more of them." "No. Let them have fun. I'll be ruining it come morning anyway."

Mindfayer Colony:

Things he mumbles in the Pod:

The pod will show you his memories of Elturel:

After saving Zevlor, I forced myself to pick the "mean" options just to see how it goes.

If you tell him its his fault tieflings were imprisoned in moonrise, he says:

If you tell him "Do yo have a right to ask?" when he asks about the tieflings:

He doesn't argue with any of your remarks except one, when he says "For a moment I welcomed it" and you tell him "For a moment until you realized your reward would be a tadpole" he corrects you:

If you tell him if he wanted power he should live up to his own ideal:

If you tell him to get out of your sight:

When you tell him it's not his fault he was enthralled:

If you tell him "Fine. Good luck, Zevlor."

If you say you could use another blade in the fight to come:

At the Netherbrain:

(smiling <3)

"The journey has been brutal, but I stand here a Hellrider once more, and I would die a proud man if I died this day."

I know it's a Soldier thing to be proud to die for a cause but it still makes me worry for him given his background so far <:]

If you click on him, he has two unvoiced lines:

if you pickpocket him at this point, he'll have the same items on him as before (in this save he has a carrot instead of an apple for me).

His stats at this time: (Steeped in Bliss is from one of my items)

Post Game (Patch 5)

I don't know if there are other permutations of this letter, yet, but this is what I received:

I hope my penmanship has improved somewhat in the past months. When I first stumbled into this city, I shook so badly that I could scarcely hold the soup the priests pressed into my hands - let alone write and thank you as you deserve. It is only when the city itself began to shake that I felt my hands grow still. Along with the other veterans sheltering at the temple - discards of Elturel's 'unworthy' legions - I watched that monstrosity rise over the city. We felt no fear. Only anger. Disgust. Purpose - and with it, power. I do not know what oath we cling to now, or how long it will last - but we shall use it to ensure that this city will not suffer as Elturel did. Whether it wants us or not. It is more than thanks alone I owe. No words can make amends for what I did to my people, but that is as it should be. More come to the temple every day to aid in the relief efforts, and if I am permitted to work alongside them, then I am content. Come and see us, when you can. Zevlor

It's interesting — if not bitterswet, tragic, and inspiring — to hear that Zevlor and other Paladins regained their Oaths via pure, stubborn devotion to saving people when it began to look as bad as Elturel.

[cagemasterfantasy]

Changes to Wizard in One DnD

Disclaimer: I may not have all of the changes made what I am going over is just what was revealed. So please don't go getting your panties in a bunch. With that being said here are the changes to Wizard for the next edition of DND.

Spellcasting: One of the biggest changes to the new Wizard is the number of spells you can have prepared is no longer based on your Intelligence modifier plus Wizard level. Instead the number of spells you can have prepared at one given time is set as fixed value listed in the Wizard class table. In addition the Cantrip Formula feature (which was an optional rule from Tasha’s Cauldron of Everything) is now a core feature of the new Wizard. So to put it simply on what Cantrip Formula does pretty much it allows you to replace a cantrip you know with another cantrip from the Wizard spell list whenever you finish a long rest. The way spellbooks work has also been updated. In the new rules a spellbook can now be used as a Spellcasting Focus and are impossible to be read by anyone but you without the use of the Identify spell.

Level 1 Ritual Adept: This is really formalizing the 5e Ritual Casting rules as their own standalone feature for Wizards under the new name Ritual Adept. This allows you to cast a Wizard spell as a ritual if the spell has the ritual tag and is in your spellbook. Using this method you do not have to have the spell prepared.

Level 2 Scholar: The new Wizard also gains Expertise (letting you double your proficiency bonus) in one of the following skills: Arcana History Investigation Medicine Nature or Religion (you must be proficient in the skill to get this bonus).

Level 5 Memorize Spell: This new feature lets you swap out one prepared spell for one in their spellbook whenever they take a Short Rest.

Level 18 Spell Mastery: Spell Mastery has also changed from how it was first presented. In the 5e rules, you could choose one 1st-level and one 2nd-level Wizard spell from your spellbook. If you had them prepared you could then cast these spells at their lowest level without burning a spell slot. You could also swap one or both of these spells for others by spending 8 hours in study. In the new rules however the chosen spells must have a casting time of one action and you can only swap one spell at a time rather than both. The chosen spells however now count as always prepared and can be swapped out on a Long Rest rather than requiring 8 hours of dedicated study.

Before revealing what the subclasses are a note is that Wizards now get their subclass at level 3 instead of level 2. Now the subclasses for Wizard for the next edition are: School of Abjuration, School of Evocation, School of Divination and School of Illusion. All of which have been changed to Abjurer, Evoker, Diviner and Illusionist respectively. Here are the changes:

Abjurer (School of Abjuration): Arcane Ward can be now refilled as a Bonus Action by expending a spell slot. At level 10 Abjurer also gets a new feature called Spell Breaker granting them Counterspell and Dispel Magic, which are always prepared with the latter cast as a Bonus Action. Additionally if you use either spell and fail no spell slot is burned.

Evoker (School of Evocation): Potent Cantrip now provides half damage on both missed spell attacks and successful saving throws against your cantrips.

Diviner (School of Divination): Third Eye now uses a Bonus Action while Darkvision has increased its range to 120 feet. The See Invisibility option also now allows you to cast the See Invisibility spell without using a spell slot. Additionally Ethereal Sight has been removed.

Illusionist (School of Illusion): Improved Illusion now replaces Improved Minor Illusion. This allows you to ignore Verbal components for Illusion spells and increases the range of certain spells. Level 6 Illusionists now also get the new feature called Phantasmal Creatures which grants Summon Beast and Summon Fey as always-prepared spells. These can be cast as Illusion spells which summons a modified version of the creature and also allows a free casting of each once per Long Rest. Finally Illusory Self can be restored by expending a level 2+ spell slot without requiring any action.

[hewantshisbrideback]

Jonrya AU: Other Engagements

Summary: The remaining Starks gather some time after the Long Night is won to discuss possible plans for marriages and alliances. With Jon crowned King of the Wall, ruling under Daenerys, High Queen of Westeros, discussion of who will reign by his side as queen over the north is paramount. But Jon is not the only wolf for whom a match must be made.

“Proposals," Rickon groaned and tossed back his head, auburn curls glinting. "My spear is still crusted with blood, and we're already talking of politics?"

"And how long a grace period were you expecting?" Arya snorted, shaking her head. Her dismissive words were born partially of relief. 

She had been speaking with the washer women when Jon found her and pulled her away. He had lead her to a small, stony room, recently rebuilt, containing only two windows, a small side table of wood, and her siblings gathered around in a semi-circle as if for a ritual. 

Her hackles had risen in an instant, but Bran had quickly laid her greatest fears to rest. There was no new tragedy to break their hearts, no new disaster to ravage their land; only the tedious intricacies of a civil society.

“A longer one,” the boy groused. Arya imagined that in his mind, there was likely no tragedy more agonizing than such tedious complexities.

“Oh? Are you inconvenienced?” She tilted her head at him. "Shall we postpone rebuilding the kingdom until the armory's polished nice and new?"

"Can we?" He asked. For a moment it was difficult for her to tell whether he was serious. Maybe the boy didn’t know himself. She cuffed him lightly over the head with a scoff just to be safe, and the grin that broke on his lips was wild.

Still, she had to admit he wasn’t exaggerating. Hardly a moon had past since the last dregs of the Others had been sighted, had been felled, and already there were talks of contracts, engagements, and promises between names she recognized only from war letters and fireside whispers.

During the blight, there had been hurried ceremonies in Great Halls, like that between Princess Val of the Free Folk and the gentle Willas Tyrell. However, there was no need for hushed vows in torch-lit gatherings anymore. What was left of the nobility, and whatever names had been gilded by the Long Winter, would want feasts, balls, parades through the streets.

Arya thought she almost preferred a quiet cloaking in the night. Perhaps that was only natural. After all, she had been present for the wedding of Val and Willas, and no better a pair had been made than they.

She recalled what a sight they’d been: the free woman’s flushed cheeks painted orange with firelight, the lord of the Reach’s nervous brown eyes pinned to his bride’s easy smile, rapt and adoring. They had danced for only a short song, but they had whispered all throughout, and had been whispering to each other ever since whenever she saw them.

The warrior princess and her lord of roses. She could count at least three songs that had been written of them since, the battles the lady fought and the bed of flowers her lord laid down for her, but none of them noted how they made each other laugh, how they sat at each other’s side like old friends.

"Bran is right,” Arya blinked from her thoughts in time to see Sansa grimace and continue, “We may have put aside our differences to face a greater threat, but that won't make for a lasting peace now that the threat is extinguished.”

"Fine," Rickon groused, then pursed his lips, surveying the room sullenly. "So, we're looking to pick up a queen already?"

Arya flinched, eyes snapping to Jon. Perhaps Rickon had been right to moan and whine. She knew her cousin would be married off eventually, now that he'd had a crown foisted onto him, but the idea of helping select his bride settled like shards of ice beneath her ribs. She cursed herself. How selfish she was. Finding a queen for the North was in the best interest of all who inhabited it, and here she was, unable to look at this as of yet faceless woman as anything but another competitor for Jon’s attention.

"A queen for the North?" Sansa contemplated, sounding as equally troubled as Arya felt. Her hopes that Sansa might object in her stead were dashed in an instant. "I suppose it bears discussing--”

"We can't," Arya blurted, panic coursing through her like lightning. Her siblings turned to stare at her. She flushed under their baffled eyes. Swallowing her shame and clearing her throat, she leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. "Well, we can't. We can't start making decisions yet. Not on our own. The dragons. They have a stake in this, too."

Jon lingered on her for a moment. She held her breath, brow cocked defiantly, but he made a noise of agreement that showed she need not have worried. "That's true. I'm heir, second to Aegon. Daenerys lets me keep my name, but she will want a say in who shares our blood all the same."

"You're right. It may be one day that the children of your union and hers are married themselves," Bran conceded. “It won't do to decide without her.”

Her sister nodded, expression poised and thoughtful. "That’s true. I suppose there should be some talk between us and her, even Aegon perhaps, before we think about who would be a suitable choice.”

The ice in Arya's chest melted, soft like relief, but colder and heavier, and she made an effort to ignore the stab of resentment at her sister’s next words.

“Jon, you can send her a message, invite her to share her thoughts. Of course, you could always visit her in person as well, if she prefers it.”

Jon's jaw ticked as he nodded, eyes flickering towards Arya, only to snap away as if it burned when she returned his gaze. For a moment, she was petrified. Had he noticed? Had he noticed how upset this talk of queens had made her?

"Alright," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "I'll draft a letter after supper."

His words were disappointing, and his tone was resigned, but it was also familiar. She felt her heart calm. It was no use to fret, over any of it. They were close, and given all that happened, it only made sense for her to be worried. She shouldn’t be afraid for him to see it. 

And at least the decision itself had been delayed some, Arya thought, staring at the ceiling, even if only until Daenerys had enough time to consider the best use of her nephew.

"Great!" Rickon looked around at each of them. "That's that, then, isn't it?” Sansa tutted at him for his impatience, and Bran shook his head, and Rickon threw up his hands. “If we can’t do anything without the queen’s say-so, why stand here brooding over it now? Just wait until she tells you what to do."

“She’s not just going to tell us what to do.” Arya tried not to quibble over semantics with Rickon, as he was still learning the world of kings and courts, but she couldn’t stop herself this time. “Daenerys isn’t a tyrant. No doubt she has prospects in mind, but the choice is ultimately Jon’s.”

“Which is why it’s worth going over the options now,” Sansa added on, “to prepare ourselves for when we do make that decision.”

“And we will,” Bran intercut, "but we can afford to set it aside today. There are still some other arrangements we need to consider.”

“What arrangements?” Jon rumbled, but the stiff set to his jaw and the scowl inching onto his lips made it clear he had some idea and, evidently, disapproved already.

If Bran sensed his ire, he ignored it. “Arrangements for the rest of the Starks."

Arya blinked. She had seen the eyes of visiting nobles and their kin lingering on her brothers and her sister. Even she had received some curious glances. But somehow she’d still managed to overlook the obvious, managed to fool herself into thinking that they had more time.

“Are we really to be parted from each other so soon?” she murmured.

Bran gave her an appreciative glance tinged with grief, and in that glance she felt all those lonely years already spent apart, a splintered pack. After spending this many fighting so hard to reunite, she felt sick imagining any of her family leaving Winterfell. No wonder Jon was on edge.

“I don’t like it,” Rickon grumbled in tandem with her thoughts, and from the looks on everyone else’s faces, they weren't the only ones. 

Sansa had folded in on herself, a brooding edge to her perfect mouth, but with Rickon’s complaint, she moved beside him, tucking his stray red curls behind his ear, a gesture that smacked of their late mother to a degree which hurt.

“Nevertheless,” she muttered after a moment, hand retracting and interlacing with the other, but she could not bring herself to follow through and continue the thought. No one could.

The room was still and heavy with preemptive sorrow, until Arya could bear it no longer. What would they do, sit in silence in this room until the fire dwindled and the sun set? There were meals to be had and men to appease, even just this evening, and waiting wouldn't stall the inevitable. Bran knew that. They all knew that. Sucking in a solemn, silent breath, she asked, “So then which of us is to be married first? And to who?”

Sansa opened her mouth, face wilted with regret, but Bran shook his head dismissing her, and the rest of them mirrored him. There was no need for a defense to be made.

“I’m well aware of the union between you and Sandor Clegane,” Bran assured her. “I would never ask you to break your vows. Aside from this, your first two marriages would have diminished your prospects regardless, one of which still needs to be annulled. Sansa is not an option. I mean you no offense, sister."

Sansa did not look offended. If anything, her expression spoke to some small, secret amusement. Arya was just glad that she wasn't weeping.

“No,” Bran continued, “by now, the attention of our allies has wandered to our other sister, Princess Arya.”

Arya was still beneath her brother’s cool, blue stare. She used to squirm whenever someone referred to her title aloud. By now, she’d nearly grown used to it. After all, she’d answered to far too many ill-fitting names to abandon Arya Stark for her accompanying titles, so she wasn’t left with much choice. 

Now, something in her felt hollow, as though if the wind began to blow, it would whistle through her insides, and she’d be able to hum without using her mouth.

“They intend to offer their sons to Arya." Jon's words were slow and pointed and metered all the way through. “Have they no daughters for you or Rickon?”

“I did not say that they are not looking out for their daughters as well,” Bran reasoned, just as slowly and emphatic as his cousin had. “But of the three of us, Arya is the most attractive option. She cannot give them a royal title, but it’s no secret what she means to you, and the North at large, or that she’s earned the favor of Daenerys. Every wifeless heir on the continent will be interested.”

She must’ve imagined the way his fists clenched. Jon was smart. Men underestimated him, always, but he was smarter than all of them. He should've expected this, even if, somehow, she hadn’t. Of course suitors would seek a princess’s hand. It would not matter to them whether that hand was supple or calloused. Jon knew that. If he didn’t, he should’ve.

If the world had taught her anything, it had taught her that nothing staves the ambition of powerful men. Not even death. Not even ugliness.

“Good.” The word startled her, even more than her sister’s soft hand suddenly pressing to her cheek. But she smiled, albeit with closed lips, as Sansa's furrowed gaze swept over her features like she'd never seen them, like she was trying to absorb all she could for safe keeping. “You’ll have your pick of the lot.”

“Septa Mordane would be quaking to hear such talk of Arya Horseface,” Arya snorted in response, provoking a wry smile from Bran, an expression she sheepishly mirrored.

“Be serious, Arya,” Sansa huffed with a noble frown, hand falling from her face to clutch her wrist in earnest. Arya adjusted her clasp so that they held hands instead, and Sansa's thumb swept the back of her hand in search of comfort. “That silly, old nickname couldn’t be more ill-fitting. You’re quite pretty now.”

Jon made an ill-tempered rumbling noise, and Arya wanted to press him, but refrained in front of the others. He’d been reserved since he was a child, but ever since the Long Night began, he’d been downright secretive. She wouldn’t pry, at least not until she’d gotten him alone.

“It’s true," Rickon cut in, offering a rakish grin. “You should hear the free folk talk of you, sister. They say such things I’ve had to threaten to gut near half of them. They might’ve tried to steal you already, if they weren’t so frightened of Jon. And me, too, of course!”

The others stiffened, but Arya saw his assurance for what it was and spared a moment to thank the old gods for her littlest brother. Though her gratitude didn’t prevent her from rolling her eyes.

“The freefolk have a might different set of standards than the noble lords of Westeros. I can only hope that my reputation is not too far spread. It’s too much harder to see a she-wolf wed than a proper lady,” she drawled, letting go of Sansa as she paused and turned to him with a shrug. “Though I suppose in another world, a marriage with some wily freefolk warrior might've suited, and done well to unite the North.”

Rickon puffed up with pride, though on behalf of whom she had no idea.

“You can’t be serious,” Sansa huffed, then turned an admonishing glare on her brothers. “I know that you have all grown quite fond of the wildlings, having spent so much time with them, but however helpful they’ve been, there is hardly a suitable match for a lady amongst them.”

“A princess, now,” Bran reminded her, and Sansa nodded firmly.

“Suitable how?”  A sneer curved on Rickon's mouth. “I’m not the one who wants to marry her off, but a free man can be good as any lord of Westeros. It wasn’t a wildling who tortured the poor girl in Arya’s stead, was it? And your good Joffrey was a prince. It seems that didn’t stop him from being vile.”

“Rickon!” Arya snapped in warning.

The youngest Stark stared her sister down, burning as remorselessly as the sun, but Sansa’s face was stone and her eyes blue flint.

“That is not what I meant,” she amended calmly. “Of course, the wildlings are no more capable of cruelty than the rest of us. That being said,” her words sharpened to points, like they were her talons, "the lords of Westeros will not stand to see one Stark sister married to a former knight and the other to a wildling. Not when order has just been settled and peace is still in question. If we marry Arya to a wildling, we spit in the faces of our Northern lords and our Southron neighbors both.”

“Aside from that, we don’t need another tie to the free folk,” Bran noted mildly. “With Tormund in our council, Val in the reach, and Jon their chosen king, their loyalty is as guaranteed as we could hope.”

Arya shrugged. “Well, as far as I've heard, if I were to be stolen, I'd hardly be in a position to refuse."

"Perhaps not, but I don't think Jon would be all too pleased to wake up and find you stolen by one of his subjects." Bran was watching Jon as if it were his sole, solemn duty. "I imagine they'd only get so far before he stole you back."

Jon flinched violently and it was a shock, how pale and harrowed he looked. 

"It’s not like anyone could ever steal me away in the first place," Arya reminded him quietly, and when he looked at her, his mouth was pressed into a bitter facsimile of a smile.

“Unfortunately,” Rickon mumbled, and when Sansa and Jon simultaneously turned to glare, he merely scuffed his foot against the ground defiantly. "I mean it. At least then she could've stayed in Winterfell.”

Ridiculous boy. Arya nearly pulled him into a hug, but Bran interrupted her before she could move and his next words kept her still.

"It's not entirely out of the question,” he professed. “It’s possible she’ll find a suitor who will be able to reside in the North."

Arya felt her heart stutter. “You mean, like someone who’s not an heir?”

“No,” Sansa asserted. “If you snub the heir of one house for another’s second son, their entire territory will take it as an offense.”

“No, I was not specifically thinking along those lines,” Bran amended. “There are those with other circumstances under which you may be able to remain.” His eyes slid curiously to one of the windows as he tilted his head. "Ned Dayne, for example. We’ve received word that he intends to act in service to the Queen’s Greater Westerosi Council. You get along well, don't you?"

Jon stepped forward before she could reply, straightened to his full height. His stare was locked on her, stark and unyielding against the pallor of his cheeks, like stones atop snow dunes. "How do you know the Sword of the Morning?"

Arya felt apprehension tighten like a cord around her throat.

This had been the way since they’d reunited.

When Jon introduced her to his allies, she’d beamed like the sun. They had delighted her, despite her jealousy, for all the years she’d spent apart from him, that he’d been with them instead. The jealousy didn’t matter as much as the relief that he’d found friends. She took them as her own. She had been excited for him to do the same with hers. She had been so sure he would, it hadn’t even felt like hope. She’d just known.

But when she brought Jon to Gendry, explained who he’d been to her, he met the smith with suspicious words and a dark glare. When she told him of Hot Pie, or Lommy, or Weasel, or any of the number of sailors and whores from Braavos, he answered only with sarcasm and silence. And the Hound...

Now she’d be the first to point out that Sandor Clegane had not been her friend, or her ally, when they first travelled together. But she would also admit, begrudgingly, that he’d become something close by the time he accompanied her to the Wall with the Brotherhood. Jon had known that. Still, when Sansa brought the Hound into their home as her husband, Arya had heard the King of the Wall bellowing his objections from the other side of Winterfell.

"We travelled together, for a time," she replied carefully. Her tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth. "Not very long.”

“When?” he prompted impatiently.

“When I was with the Brotherhood,” she confessed, “back when it was still lead by Beric Dondarrion.”

“You didn’t say anything.” In other circumstances, these words might’ve been a mere observation, or even an expression of concern, but here and now, they were an accusation.

He had mentioned the Sword of the Morning to her before in passing, but by that time, around the time poor Morgan Umber started running away whenever she waved in his direction, she had heard just about everything he had to say about her friends. So she had decided not to mention it. That would be easier.

Except now it looked like she’d been keeping secrets. She cursed the gods and all they stood for. “He wasn't the Sword of the Morning then — just a boy."

"Oh, just a boy," Rickon snorted. "Just another boy, you mean?"

Jon glowered but said nothing.

"That's right," Sansa tittered, with a sudden little smile. "You’ve collected so many. The blacksmith, the baker. Even that boy from House Umber. And now, the heir of Starfall."

"Gendry wouldn’t be a bad match either," Rickon piped up, a grin forming. Like Jon, he had been wary of the smith when Arya first introduced them, but unlike Jon, that had since changed. There was a higher degree of respect between the Free Folk and the Brotherhood than between either of them and any of the other factions. They worked together more easily, and more often, and Rickon was always with Osha and the free folk. Between this growing familiarity and Gendry's formidable reputations both as the Bull of the Brotherhood and the Arm of Stoneheart, a friendship had formed.

Her sister, on the other hand, had been entirely lukewarm when it came to the blacksmith. It was clear she saw him as beneath Arya’s station, but he was useful and she’d kept any complaints to herself, likely as recompense for Arya’s support for her and Sandor. This worked in Gendry’s favor as Sansa hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, only saying, "Who knew your habit of collecting strays would come so in handy?"

Arya's cheeks warmed. "They're not strays."

Rickon shrugged. "Not anymore, I suppose.”

"They're allies!” She insisted. “They're vital allies."

This time, Bran shrugged. "They can be both," he suggested innocently.

Arya growled and whacked his shoulder gently, turning to Jon for even a drop of support, but the only thing she found was frustration marring his brow. They were stalling again, wasting time. Arya sobered. She felt a bit like a child, finding Jon so troubled and having been so oblivious.

"Jon?” she ventured. “What are you thinking?"

He was quiet for a moment and she thought he might scold them, but instead he responded, "It's as Sansa said before. A knight is hardly a suitable match for a princess, let alone a smith."

Arya prickled at his words. True as they may be, in the political sense, the insinuation that her friends were somehow beneath her would never sit well with her. She knew that Jon was just being practical, that he had too much sense to hold a man's status against his character. 

But then, he seemed to make many exceptions to sense when it came to those she cared about. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to marry Gendry, but she knew she’d prefer him to most, and she wasn’t about to let Jon discount him without objection.

"Gendry isn't just a smith.” She reminded him stiffly, fighting to remain civil as he huffed and turned away. "He leads the Brotherhood without Banners. He has earned the respect of Westeros.”

"And the smallfolk adore him. He's not just some war hero to them," Rickon added eagerly, looking to her, and she nodded him on. “He means something more. The whole Brotherhood does. They love them.”

"And he may not be a lord, by his own choice," Arya concluded, "but he is a Baratheon. That could mollify at least some of the lords."

"And would it mollify Daenerys? Or Aegon?" Jon snapped. "When it was a Baratheon who killed their family and sent them into exile in the first place? I may be their kin but I can only do so much to protect you."

"I thought that Daenerys granted immunity and legitimacy to Robert's children in exchange for recognizing Targaryen rule?" Sansa asked, hands moving to her hips. "Even Edric Baratheon has bent the knee."

"So how do you think she feels about Gendry, then, the only bastard to refuse her offer of a title and land? And the leader of a band of fools," Jon spat the word like it tasted foul on his tongue, "who reject the authority of anyone who wears a crown?"

Why Jon was suddenly spouting hostility at the Brotherhood he'd vocally appreciated during the war, Arya wasn't sure, but as much as she took issue with his slander, it wasn’t the time to bring it up. "If Daenerys does see the Brotherhood as a threat, then a marriage between us could be a means of establishing peace before a conflict breaks out...”

The look Jon gave her was that of a wounded animal with its prey cornered. She forgot what she had been about to say.

"If you think," he hissed, "that I'm going to risk your life on the premise that it might prevent disputes between that menace and the Crown, then I am going to have to disappoint you."

"And what of Edric Dayne?"

Arya could only watch as Jon turned away to face her sister, whose chin jutted out defiantly at the king. That imperious timbre sent shivers down Arya’s spine. She hadn’t heard her sister take such a lofty tone with Jon in ten years.

Jon, on the other hand, just sounded irritated. "What of him?"

"As a candidate for Arya's husband,” Sansa deadpanned, as unamused with him as he was with her. “Is something wrong with him?"

"Is this not the boy that used to traipse around with the same Brotherhood?" Jon enunciated his words as if he was speaking to someone extraordinarily slow and particularly annoying, and if his goal was to offend, then by the way Sansa bristled, he had succeeded.

"His involvement with the Brotherhood was minimal, contingent on his position as Ser Dondarrion's squire, and has already ended," she pointed out hotly. "It would have to, either way, seeing as he's not just a lord, but the heir to Starfall." 

"And you think as the heir to Starfall, he and his bride will not be obligated to return to Starfall?" Jon replied just as impatiently. "He could afford to pick up the mantle of Sword of the Morning and run around the continent as a knight during the war, but do you truly think he will forfeit his responsibilities at the behest of a girl he knew when he was a squire?"

"But what if he forfeits his claim? If he intends to work for the council, he will."

"Then there is no guarantee he settles here."

“Oh,” Sansa made a cruel, ladylike sound, something like a laugh but not. "Is that all?"

The whites of Jon’s eyes had never been so visible. "Is that all?"

"Is that all, that she may have to leave? Is that your only qualm?"

"He offers her nothing!"

"He's a lord. He's an heir." Sansa lifted a finger with each point she made. "He's a war hero. He's a celebrated ally to the Martells, and to the Targaryens!"

Jon scoffed, loud, and so unlike him at all that Arya's jaw fell a little. "If a king with Targaryen blood is not enough to guarantee peace with the Targaryens, then a marriage to Edric Dayne will do no better! He offers her nothing!"

"He offers her security and kindness!" Sansa roared, calm breaking like the sea against cliffs. "He and Arya are not just familiar with each other — they're friends. Do you understand how rare and precious it is? As far as safety and happiness can go, there's no better assurance than that."

"What of our assurance?" Rickon snapped, stepping into line with his cousin, opposing Sansa. "We can offer her better than that."

"Exactly, Rickon!" Jon crowed, towering above them all even as he leaned in to emphasize his point. "Her family, in Winterfell, is better than that."

Her sister sputtered at his malice, turning to Arya, but she could only stare back, face still slack with surprise. Helpless, Sansa seethed, shaking her head at them all. "And so, what? She will never marry anyone?"

"I don't see why she has to," Rickon grumbled, but Arya barely heard him as Jon crossed over to her, took her by the shoulder, and tucked her into his side. "At least right away.”

"She doesn't," Jon agreed, gaze soft and raw, as if he’d been stripped bare and bleeding before her and didn't mind at all. What was she supposed to do? This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Time? But then he said, “She won’t.”

Sansa shrunk back as if slapped and Arya stilled under his arm. This was a voice she'd only heard him wield on the battlefield, or in court, deep as a wolf and imperious as a dragon. He had never been the king with them, not with his family, no matter how they'd fought or what over. But now, he’d raised his head to look at Sansa with narrowed eyes, and did not seem to see a cousin at all.

He continued steadily, "We have every right to keep her."

Sansa’s teeth were small and peeked out from her mouth like she wanted to run but when she met Arya's gaze, her mouth shut. She straightened her posture, her chin dipped low and humble this time. "You are a Targaryen king, but you're not her head of house. You may have a say, but the final word is Bran's."

Jon’s grip tightened and Arya winced as he positioned himself between the two sisters, almost as if to make sure Sansa wouldn’t reach out and grab her.

"Oh, did you forget?" she asked, so elegantly applying salt in the wound.

"It seems Bran has," Arya interjected. "Surely he has something to add?"

She looked to her brother, silently imploring, but he merely made a contented hum. Part of her wanted to tear her hair out, another wanted a go at his. She did not see what was so amusing about their siblings spitting and hissing at one another over her marriage prospects. Jon and Sansa were volatile enough as it is, some days managing genuine cordiality and others only just barely maintaining a facade of civility. This couldn’t help.

"Bran will do what's best for Arya," Jon spoke on his behalf, drawing her even closer, so her chest was pressed to his ribs. His heat warmed her like a furnace. "I trust him with that much. He loves his sister."

"And I don't," Sansa inhaled, eyes wide and stepping back. "That's what you mean, isn't it? Be honest with us, Jon. Arya and I have made our peace and moved past our childhood quarrels, but clearly, you haven't. You still hold them against me, don't you?"

"It's nothing like that," Arya assured her with a furrowed brow, gesturing for her cousin to corroborate. Jon didn't say a word.

Sansa looked down at her and soon deflated. "What would you know? He's an entirely different person to you.” She turned back to Jon, her voice low and scathing. “You’re making me look like a villain for suggesting she marry at all, but I’m just trying to find her someone who will be good for her before it’s too late. I will not allow her to suffer like I did.”

"No, you would just exile her from her home, to live with strangers.” There was no room for argument. There never had been. “Arya has been away from home long enough without you sending her away once more."

"Away from home, or away from you?”

She might’ve said more, she must’ve said more, and Jon must’ve said more too, but Arya couldn’t stand to hear another a word of it. What was the point of this bickering and bullshit? All the while Bran just sat there with that inscrutable certainty as his eyes trailed after Jon, and what did any of it matter?

“Enough!” she howled, pushing at his chest and ripping out of Jon’s reach.

His arm hung in the air for a moment, expression hurt, but she didn't have the time to be sorry.

"Were either of you going to ask me what I thought? Or are you two happy assuming you know what's best for me, as well as the North, and the rest of the kingdoms?" she snapped. Sansa, Jon, and even Rickon all began speaking at once, but she'd had enough of listening for an entire week. “Shut up! I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all of you.” She sneered. “What a waste of time.”

Sansa objected, and Jon tried to defend himself, but it had been, nothing but a waste of time and a strain on their throats. If this was the way things would go, she was better off being stolen by the free folk. She was half tempted to leave her window open in invitation. They might not even have to bind and carry her.

"We are not going to make these decisions in a single evening," Bran's voice raised now, cutting through the clamor like a sword through cloth. "I knew that when I brought it up. Although, I had thought we'd at least get the chance to discuss some of the prospects for Rickon and me. But that can wait for now. We have other engagements to attend to.”

"Right," she croaked. Meals and men. Meals and men. She was supposed to meet with Ser Davos and Lord Manderley. Through the window, the sky was orange. She swallowed, but her throat kept dry. "I'm already late. I have to go.”

She moved to leave, and Jon moved to follow, but Bran called out and asked him to wait as the door swung shut behind her, and that was the last she allowed herself to hear before breaking into a sprint.

X

@mysticalmuddle This isn’t the fic I was talking about before, but I thought you might like to be tagged anyway, seeing as you’re basically the sole reason I ever post my fics! Thank you for all your encouragement, you are amazing.

[dmsden]

A History Lesson - Looking back at D&D’s history

Hullo, Gentle Readers. Well, this is the 5th Monday in March, and that means I get to write about anything I want! It’s also my birth month, which means it’s my anniversary of getting into D&D (42 years!), and that has me feeling nostalgic. Coupled with a discussion I had recently with some friends, I thought it would be fun to look back at the various editions of D&D and give you all a bit of history. I’m not going to get into Gygax vs Arneson or any of that. I’m only talking about the published game itself, not its creators or its storied origins.

The original D&D (or OD&D as it’s sometimes called) came in a small box. It had three booklets inside - Men & Magic, Monsters & Treasure, and The Underworld & Wilderness Adventures - along with reference sheets and dice. Each was softcover and roughly the same dimensions as a DVD/BluRay case. The game was pretty rudimentary - for one thing, it assumed you already had a copy of Chainmail, D&D’s direct wargame predecessor. It also recommended you have a game called Outdoor Survival for purposes of traveling through the wilderness. It had only three classes - fighting man, magic-user, and cleric - and nothing about playing other races. It did have the insane charts that 1st edition would ultimately known for, and it was possible to play a pretty fun game of D&D with it, as its popularity would come to show.

The game expanded through similar chapbooks - Greyhawk, Blackmoor, Eldritch Wizardry, Gods Demigods & Heroes, Swords & Spells. With the exception of the last one, each brought new facets to the game - new classes like Thief and Monk, new spells, new threats. It was clear the game was going to need an overhaul, and it got one.

I consider this overhaul to yield the real “1st Edition”, as so much of the game didn’t exist in those original games. The game split into a “Basic” game, just called Dungeons & Dragons and Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.

The basic game was a boxed set that included a rulebook, a full adventure module, and dice...or, well, it was supposed to contain dice. The game was so popular and new in those days that demand for dice outstripped production. My copy of D&D came with a coupon for dice when they became available and a sheet of “chits” - laminated numbers meant to be put into cups (we used Dixie Cups with the name of the die written on it), shaken, and a random number pulled out without looking. It was meant to introduce new players to the game, so it was a trimmed down version. Races were human, elf, dwarf, and halfling, and classes were fighter, cleric, magic-user, and thief. The box only included rules for going up to 3rd level, with the intention that players would then graduate into AD&D. This is where I joined, with the old blue cover box set and In Search of the Unknown, before Keep on the Borderlands even existed.

AD&D was the game in its full glory. Along with the races I mention above, we got half-elves, half-orcs, and gnomes. The four basic classes also had sub-classes, like paladin and ranger for the fighter, druid for the cleric, illusionist for the wizard, and assassin for the thief. There were rules for multi-classing, as well as “Dual-classing”, a sort of multi-class variation for humans only, which, when done in the correct combination, could yield the infamous bard...which didn’t actually yield any bard abilities until around level 13 or so.

This edition had 5 different saving throws for things like “Death Magic”, “Petrification & Polymorph”, “Spells”, and so on. It had the infamous Armor Class system that started at 10 and went down, so that having a -3 AC was very good!  It also had specific attack matricies for each class; you would literally look on a table to determine the number you needed to roll on a D20 based on your class, your level, and your opponent’s armor class. It was fun, but it was very complicated.

It also had some, frankly, shitty rules. There was gender disparity in terms of attributes, which my group totally ignored. Because the game designers wanted humans to be a competitive the game, and because non-humans had so many abilities and could multiclass, non-humans were severely limited in the levels they could achieve in most classes. In fact, some classes, such as monk and paladin, were restricted only to humans.

As the years went on, things got a bit muddled. It probably didn’t help that the rules in Basic D&D and AD&D didn’t perfectly line up. In D&D, the worst armor class was a 9. In AD&D, the worst armor class was a 10. All of this led to an overhaul, but not one considered a separate edition. AD&D mostly got new covers and new books, like the Wilderness Survival Guide and Dungeon Survival Guide, Monster Manual 2, and the Manual of the Planes. It got a number of new settings, too. In addition to the default Greyhawk setting, we got the Forgotten Realms setting for the first time, details of which had been appearing in Dragon Magazine for years, thanks to the prolific Ed Greenwood. We also, eventually, got the whole Dragonlance saga, which yielded the setting of Krynn.

In this new version, Basic D&D broke off into its own game system to some degree. Elf, Dwarf, and Halfling started being treated like classes rather than races, with specific abilities at different levels. Higher level characters could be created using progressive boxes - Expert, Companion, Master, and Immortal, each with its own boxed set and supported by Mystara, a completely different setting that got its own updates over the years. It was odd, because D&D essentially was competing for players with AD&D, and I remember arguments with friends over which version was better (I was firmly in the AD&D camp.)

In 1989, when I was in college, they finally brought forth 2nd edition D&D. This streamlined things a little. Armor Class still went down, but now attack rolls boiled into a single number called To Hit Armor Class 0, or THAC0. It made the whole process of figuring out what you needed to roll a bit less cumbersome, but it was still a bit awkward. The classes got a lot of overhaul, including making Bard its own core class. But what I remember best about 2nd edition was the boom in settings. This was the age of settings, and many beloved ones got started, including Dark Sun, Planescape, Ravenloft, and Spelljammer.

It was also the age of the “Complete Handbooks”. They brought out splatbooks about every class and race in the game, as well as books expanding several concepts for the DM, such as the Arms & Equipment Guide, the Castle Guide, and the Complete Book of Villains. There were also splatbooks about running D&D in historic periods, such as Ancient Rome, among the ancient Celts, or during the time of the Musketeers. The game got new covers for the rule books again, and a bunch of books about options started coming out. It was a boom time for books, but many people complained there was too much.

Without going too deep, TSR ended up in severe financial troubles. They declared bankruptcy, and there was real fear of the game going away. And then Wizards of the Coast (WotC) stepped in. They helped TSR get back onto its feet, and they helped produce some modules specifically engineered to help DM’s bring an end to their campaign...possibly even their whole campaign world...because something big was coming.

That something big was, of course, 3rd edition D&D. The game got majorly streamlined, and many sacred cows ended up as hamburger. AC finally started going up instead of down. Everything was refined to the “D20″ system we’ve been playing ever since. Races could be any class. There were no level or stat limits for anyone. After years of the game being forced into tight little boxes, it really felt like we could breathe. I had stopped playing D&D, but 3rd edition brought me back into the fold. I often say that 3E was made for the players who’d felt constricted and wanted more flexibility.

The trouble with 3E, and its successor 3.5, is that it was still a dense and difficult game for newcomers to get into. It’s been acknowledged that D&D essentially created many of the systems we see and know in other games - experience points, leveling up, hit points, etc. But trying to break into the experience for the first time was difficult. The look of 3E was gorgeous, but I understood that it must seem awfully daunting to someone who’d never played.

4E and its follow-up, Essentials, was an attempt to course correct that. They tried to make this edition incredibly friendly to new DMs, and, frankly, they succeeded. By creating player classes and monsters and magic-items that were all very plug and play, they did a great job of creating a game that someone who had never DMed before could dive into with no experience or mentor and start a game pretty easily. Encounter design was given a lot of ease, and there were promises of a robust online tool system that would help out with many of the more tedious aspects of playing.

There was also a lot of shake up in terms of choices. Suddenly, new classes and races were proliferating like crazy. We got the dragonborn, the tiefling, and the eladrin right in the core book, but we said good-bye to the gnome and half-orc at first. Suddenly the warlock was the new class everyone wanted to try. We got paragon paths and epic destinies that would really shape a character as time went on. The game went very tactical, as well, which some of us loved. The concept of rituals came into the game. Later books like the Player’s Handbook 2 and 3 gave us back gnomes and half-orcs, and also gave us minotaurs, wilden, shardminds, and githzerai. We got new psionic classes, brand new class concepts like the Runeknight and the Seeker...

But there was a tremendous backlash. People felt that, in making the game so very plug and play, they’d taken a ton of choice away from the players. Without the tools (which were never that robust, frankly), it was almost impossible to navigate the massive panoply of options. And, worse, it was harder and harder to develop encounters without those tools. People complained that the game had gone more tactical in order to sell miniatures and battlemats. Given that I have never played the game without miniatures and battlemats (since I started in the days when D&D was still half-wargame), I found this odd, but I also understand my style of play isn’t everyone’s.

The one argument I will never understand is that it didn’t “feel” like D&D, or it was somehow ONLY a tactical game and not a role-playing game any more. Again, given that the original game didn’t even call itself a role-playing game, this felt odd. Personally, I roleplay no matter what game I’m playing. If I’m playing Monopoly, I’m roleplaying, doing voices, and pretending to be something I’m not. I honestly enjoyed 4E, and I know a lot of folks who did, too. A lot of it may simply come down to style of play. But I also enjoyed all the games that came before, including Pathfinder. To paraphrase the YouTube content creator The Dungeon Bastard, “Does your game have dungeons? Does it have dragons? Great. I wanna play.”

As a sidenote, in the months leading up to 4E’s release, a lot of internet videos were released by WotC emphasizing the nature of change and talking about differences in the rules. They also released some preview books showing the direction they were heading. WotC must have anticipated that people were going to find this edition very different indeed. They also cleverly brought in some very funny folks - Scott Kurtz from PVPOnline and Jerry Holkins & Mike Krahulik from Penny Arcade - and got them to play D&D for podcasting purposes. Looking back, this must’ve brought in a lot of listeners who might never have played D&D and given them a reason to try it out.

After its release, WotC clearly noted that missteps had been made, as this edition of the game was losing them players. They began work on what they referred to as D&D Next, and, this time, they did massive amounts of playtesting, some of which I participated in.

I don’t feel like I have to describe 5E to any of you, Dear Readers, as you could go to virtually any store and pick it up. I am a big fan of 5E’s simplicity and elegance, and I suspect this is the edition of D&D we’re going to have for some time to come, especially given its popularity. Given the effect of podcasts like Critical Role (and I might save an article on Critical Role’s importance to D&D until my next Freestyle article), D&D is likely more popular now than it’s ever been, with a much wider and more diverse audience than ever before.

I know I’m painting with broad strokes here, but I hope this was, at least, entertaining, and maybe you learned something, Gentle Readers. Until we next meet, may all your 20s be natural.

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

Into My Body, You Just Fold

Floyd Talbert x Reader

Warnings: FLUFF, optional!smut (poorly written dirty talk, lite name calling/degradation), OOC Tabbykins, mutual pining, drunken love confessions, Reader has an unfaithful husband (but OMC isn’t the worst), period-typical restrictions of women’s rights, not vv good writing tbh, and no-no words (per usual)

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As terrible a person it made you to admit as much- you didn’t think you could imagine life without Floyd Talbert.

 You’d promised yourself at a young age that you’d never be one of those women who needed a man to complete them, far too disenchanted by the sight of your friends losing their fire and spark upon marrying their husbands. Your father had raised you with the same permissive encouragement as he had your brothers, something that horrified your mother so much that she eventually stopped inviting you to her happy home with her new husband altogether.

Now that you were older you realized that marrying Frederick had been your desperate attempt to win back your mother’s love and approval, much more than your marriage had been for any sort of actual love towards your husband. 

 You’d tried, though. 

Frederick was funny and charming and could get along with anyone. He was driven and supportive, and he always made sure that you knew how much you meant to him. You should’ve been able to love him easily and completely.

But you didn’t- You couldn’t when, more often than not, he came home smelling of liquor and another woman. 

Sometimes several other women.

It became abundantly clear to you that, as much as you meant to him, you clearly weren’t enough to keep him from straying.

 Which is why you found your love for someone like Floyd so….unexpected.

 Upon first meeting him you’d hated him, obviously. He was just like Fred, no- he was worse than Fred because at least Frederick made some effort to hide his infidelities from the world. 

If anything, Tab flaunted his conquests like a badge of honor. It made your skin crawl.

Not that your dislike for him did anything to deter him, of course. 

 On the contrary, he seemed to take it as a challenge.

 It also didn’t seem to matter much that you were married. The ring you wore on the same chain as your dog tags seemed to deter any other potential suitors- and if for some reason that didn’t dissuade any overly-confident troopers, your marksmanship and reputation nipped any nonsense in the bud. 

Not Floyd Talbert, though. 

It didn’t matter where you two were- Tab made it his personal mission to win you over. He flirted with you on the boat ride to England, in the plane as it soared towards Normandy, in the middle of a gunfight on the way to Eindhoven. Hell, he’d even tried to charm you while recovering from a stab to his gut.

 The boy was shameless.

 If you had to narrow it down on a timeline, things had become more sincere and less childish in Eindhoven- when you’d gotten mobbed by a group of drunk and curious men who’d wanted to see more of the lone woman sniper of the 506th.

Floyd had appeared from nowhere and helped you wrestle your gun away from one of the idiots who’d attempted to divest you of it. He’d wasted no time in taking his own helmet from his head and placing it onto your own upon realizing that yours had been taken, wrapping a strong arm around your waist and guiding you from the throngs of people while you shook from leftover adrenaline.

 He’d kissed you that day after he had been unable to get you to refocus on him and stop you from hyperventilating. 

You’d stood stock still for a few seconds, mind scrambling to process the gentle feeling of his lips on yours as well as the fact that you were no longer tossing in the sea of people you’d been lost in moments ago.

When he’d pulled back, you could only gape at him like an idiot.

 “W-why did you—?”

Floyd’s rough hands had come up to hold your face, taking a deep breath of his own before replying.

“I, uh…” he had stammered for a moment before shaking his head quickly and clearing his throat. “I was trying to get you to snap out of...just trying to get you back.”

 After that, things had progressed pretty quickly.

 He’d stopped seeking out any female company other than yours- not that you’d noticed at the time- spending the few nights of freedom he was afforded with you while you would ritually take apart and clean your rifle, talking with you about anything and everything. He had a knack for making you laugh harder than anyone ever had before.

Sometimes you’d talk about serious things, like your families or past loves or the foolish hopes you both had had before the war.

 Every so often, he’d ask you about Frederick.

 Thinking about Fred made you uncomfortable. Unhappy. 

 But because Floyd had been so honest with you, you tried to be honest with him as well.

No matter how innocently the questions began, they always ended with Floyd furrowing his brows and saying your name softly enough that you couldn’t help but hesitantly meet his imploring gaze. He’d always ask some variation of the same question:

“Why did you marry him?”

 Most nights you didn’t answer. Some nights you were able to deflect the question well enough that eventually you both fell into a different conversation altogether. One night you’d been in a bad mood and snappily asked him an uncomfortable question of your own.

“Why do you have such a hard time keeping it in your pants whenever a pretty girl is around?” 

That always shut him up. And, despite the fact that you could feel the upset rolling from Tab in waves, he never left. 

 That night, you had taken his fist between your hands and uncurled his fingers. You had felt his eyes on you as you purposefully dug your thumbs into his palm to ease the tension you found, eventually turning his hand over so you could carefully trace your fingertips over his war-calloused knuckles.

“That was unkind,” you had whispered, guilt churning your stomach when at the hurt you knew you had caused. His grey-blue eyes were curious as you hesitantly looked up at him, and once you had met his gaze you’d almost lost your train of thought.  “I’m sorry, Tab.”

 You hadn’t been expecting him to kiss you again, but even as he had you didn’t immediately stop him. 

It was only when he had started to pull you closer that you quickly pulled away. Your breathing had become heavy, and while you didn’t let go of his hand you still said his name admonishingly under your breath. 

“You shouldn’t do that,” you’d whispered, unable to look at him and electing to look at your feet as you brought your hand up to press your fingertips against your still-tingling lips. “You- you know I’m….you know why I can’t—”

“I know,” Floyd’s voice was low, and despite the fact that you weren’t looking at him you’d been able to see the grimace on his face. “I just….I know. I’m sorry, Y/N”

You’d cleared your throat, pulling your hand away from his and giving him a tight smile. 

“No need to apologize. Let’s just forget about it, yeah?”

Without waiting for his response, you’d gone back to the table where you had been working on your gun, desperate for a distraction.

“So, uh, what was it that you were saying about your brother? He’s graduating high school soon?”

 Despite Floyd’s willingness to play along, you had been unable to stop thinking about the feeling of his lips on yours. You wondered if this was what happened to Frederick- if this rush of adrenaline after doing something you shouldn’t was what he was chasing each time he went home with someone else.

You’d never known guilt could be so heady. In that moment, you’d started to realize just how dangerous this friendship with Tab could be.

But even then, you’d also had a sinking feeling that you weren’t going to be able to give him up, That you were no better than Frederick.

Taking your oiled rag back into your hands, you’d scrubbed the metal o-ring of your piston and tried not to think too hard about what this revelation said about you.

~

It had been during a 48-hour pass that he’d asked the question about Fred for the very last time, after you’d each finished a bottle of sweet French wine while sitting on the floor between two beds of the hotel room.

That night, you’d given him a sad smile and gestured half-heartedly with your canteen as you brought it to your lips.

 “Because I thought it was what I was supposed to do. Because…. I didn't think I was allowed to say no.”

He’d stared at you sadly, clenching his jaw a few times before clearing his throat and letting his head loll back to rest against the side of the bed. 

 “Ask me again.”

 You’d frowned at him, confused as to what he was asking you to say. Your silence must’ve given away your lack of understanding, because he laughed humorlessly before closing his eyes.

“

Ask me why I can’t keep it in my pants….'round pretty girls….”

“Oh-kay…?” you’d said slowly, leaning back and stretching your legs out in front of you. “Why can’t you keep it in your pants?”

 With a bit more effort than it probably should’ve taken, Tab twisted his body so the back of his head was resting in your lap, the strands of his hair ticking the skin of your thighs where your sleep shorts had bunched up.

 “Same fuckin’ reasons.”

 In the dim light of the hotel room, you’d been the one to kiss him, your lips trembling with heartbreak on his behalf and complex (if not unbidden) emotion. Floyd sat up so you weren’t having to hunch your body over to reach him, carefully wrapping an arm around your waist as he shifted your bodies so neither of you had to strain to reach the other. Despite Floyd being Floyd- he didn’t kiss you greedily, the plush of his mouth soft as it followed your gentle rhythm without any sign of wanting more than you were willing to give. 

 Once he’d realized that you had begun to cry, Tab broke the kiss carefully, and he had reached a gentle hand up to brush your tears away, a sad smile crossing his face.

“Now, isn’t that a sight?” he’d whispered. “Never had a girl cry for me before. Don’t think I like it much…’specially when that girl’s you.”

 He’d allowed you to cry for him, allowed you to cry for yourself and all of the hurt and pain you’d been holding inside of your chest for what felt like decades. You didn’t remember falling asleep, but when you had woken up the next morning you felt his fingers combing through your clean hair as you both lay sprawled out together on the floor. At some point, one or both of you had pulled the bedding from the bed’s mattresses and tangled yourselves in the soft fabric.

 “Is it bad that I wish I’d met you first?” Floyd had asked, his voice a warm rumble as you rested your head on his chest.

“Yeah,” you’d admitted, scratching your nails lightly across his shirt-covered stomach. “But I’m much worse for agreeing with you.”

 As he turned his body so he was leaning over you, his hand came up to rest on your collarbone while his eyes danced across your face.

 “You’re beautiful….too beautiful to be ruined by someone like me, I think.”

You’d frowned, bringing one of your hands up to trace his mouth with your fingertips.

“Oh, Floyd- you can’t ruin what was already spoiled.”

 Tab then lowered himself so his nose brushed against yours, his lips brushing yours as he spoke.

“Can’t I?”

~

Even thinking about it now broke your heart.

Now, nearly two years after the war had ended.

Now, living in the house you’d once shared with Frederick.

Now, as you lay in bed and watched Floyd brush his teeth in the bathroom of the home you shared.

 Fred had last written to you five months ago, telling you that he was probably going to be in Japan for at least another six months before he could even apply to come back to the states. 

Despite the fact that he claimed his senior ranking in the Navy and his responsibilities to oversee prisoner exchanges were the ‘sole reason for his prolonged absence, you knew that it was probably more a case of him not wanting to return to a life of expected monogamy that kept him away.

Not that you minded one bit.

Not when you had Floyd.

 You hadn’t expected him to want to stay with you, in the literal sense or in the more metaphorical sense of commitment, yet he’d barely let you finish your offer before he agreed emphatically.

If you were truly being honest with yourself, you hadn’t imagined that he’d even want to stay after you’d slept with him the first time, shortly after returning to the states. 

 But he had. He had stayed.

 You’re ripped from your thoughts when you realize that the sound of Floyd brushing his teeth has stopped, and when you shook yourself from your trance you realized that he had caught you staring at him. Judging by the smug look on his face, he’d finished getting ready for bed a while ago, and when you begin to blush he crosses his arms across his chest and leans against the doorframe.

 “You know, ma’am,” he smirks as you clear your throat and pick at your nails embarrassedly. “It’s not wise to stare at a man like that unless you’re willing to face the consequences….”

You snort a laugh despite yourself, furrowing your brows and looking back to him with a dumb grin on your face. “Oh yeah? And what consequences would those be, Sir?” 

His eyes darken with a flash, having made it very clear long ago how much he liked it when you called him that. You cannot help but smirk at his clear shift in arousal.

 He pinches his bottom lip as he considers you- something that you couldn’t deny made your heart race with dark promise. Wetting your own lips, you lean back onto your elbows and watch him watch you.

Quirking his brow, he tilts his head and pushes himself from the doorframe to stalk to the foot of the bed and brace his arms against the mattress so he’s nearly leering at you.

 “Oh Lovely, I think I’m gonna have to show rather than tell.”

~Smut interlude, doodiLEEdedoo~

You shook your head in amusement, a smile breaking across your lips as he crawled his way up your body- his softening hands smoothing your silky nightgown up your thighs and stomach as he did so. A low, pleased curse rumbled low in his throat at your lack of underwear, smiling against your skin as he ducked down to kiss your hips and soft stomach while completing his journey.

 “I knew it was only a matter of time before I convinced you to stop wearing underwear to bed,” he says warmly, encouraging your thighs over his own while he kneels between your legs.

You can’t help but scoff at the wording of his observation.

“Yeah, if that’s what you’re calling ruining all of my expensive undergarments with your impatience, then yes Floyd, you’ve thoroughly convinced me to forgo underwear.”

 With an easy familiarity, Tab slips his hands under your nightdress and ghosts his blunt fingernails over the swell of your breasts, smirking at the goosebumps his touch elicits across your bare skin.

You lift your shoulders off of the bed enough to bring the bunched-up nightdress up and over your head before tossing it somewhere on the floor beside you, allowing your eyes to drift shut as he bows his head to kiss at your nipples in near-reverence. His hands map the rest of your body in a cycle that only he can predict, the sound of his skin brushing against yours paired with the warmth of his palms and mouth relaxing you in a way that no hot bath or soft bed ever could.

Floyd groans as you rake your fingers through his hair, allowing you to guide his face up to yours for a slow, imploring kiss before one of his hands slips in between your legs and massages at the lips of your sex.

 “Was I taking too long, Sweetheart?” he asks against your lips, his voice growing rough with need. “How long have you been this wet?”

 You don’t answer, choosing rather to roll your hips into his touch. Your breath catches in your throat at the first swirl of his middle finger over your clit, something that he does again with a smug hum against your lips.

 “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he reassures you as he wets his cock with your arousal. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll make it all better.”

 Whoever said that slow sex couldn’t also be filthy had clearly never met Floyd Talbert.

 By the time he’s flipping you onto your stomach, you’ve been brought to the teetering precipice of release three times- his mouth and fingers and cock working you up while he kissed the sweetest admonishments into your skin. Tab called you needy, cockhungry, and wicked- all while kissing across your skin with such a sweet contrast to his words that it made your head spin.

When he finally, finally pulls your hips up and begins to piston into you, you’re already so delirious for him that you are pleading for him to let you cum- something that only serves to make him grip your hips harder and groan in anticipation. 

 “Dirty girl,” he grits out as he bends enough that his forehead can rest between your bunched shoulder blades, the line between admonishment and praise blurring headily as you feel that familiar flutter building in your lower belly. “Are you going to come for me? Can feel you shaking for me like a good little whore….”

You barely have to ask for more before he grips your sex possessively with one of his hands, your orgasm tearing through you and stealing your breath as well as your capabilities for speech.

 Floyd, whose curse is drowned out by the rush of blood to your ears, follows you quickly over the edge- grinding out as much of his own release as he can in between your legs before collapsing atop you. 

Almost as an afterthought, Tab slips himself from your body, rolling to lay beside you as you both come down from your highs.

 “So good,” you’re barely aware of him panting out. “You’re so fucking good, Y/N….”

You blindly reach out to drape your arm across his waist, incapable of returning the praise just yet.

He knows, though. You know he does by the way he sighs happily beside you.

~End of smut interlude, doodiLEEdedoo~

~

“Y/N?”

You look down your body to where Floyd's head rests in the valley between your ribs, your fingers having been lazily combing through his overgrown hair for the past twenty minutes. 

“Hm?” you reply, your other hand snapping out to grab one of the pillows near the top of the bed and folding it beneath your head so you can watch him.

Turning his head to press a kiss on your skin, he looks up at you lazily. When you smile down at him, he returns with a content grin of his own.

 “Can I ask you something?”

Raising an eyebrow, you narrow your eyes teasingly. “I don’t know, Floyd….can you?”

You nearly shriek when his fingers dig into your sides, rolling your lips together in an attempt to quiet your laughter as Floyd bestows biting kisses up your sternum while you wriggle beneath him. 

“You’re such a brat sometimes,” he grumbles as he takes your face in his hands, unable to keep the smirk from his lips. “Lucky for you that you’re a good lay….”

Rolling your eyes, you nod your chin at him.

 “Just ask me already, you jerk.”

 His wicked expression softens, eyes scanning your face as you look up at him. The beginnings of a knot start to twist in your stomach, feeling the first drops of anxiety begin to stain your blood.

 “Floyd…..what’s wrong?” you ask, not liking the way he suddenly electing to look at your mouth rather than into your eyes. “Is everything—?”

“Would you ever marry me?”

 Your eyes widen at that. That had certainly not been what you were expecting him to ask you.

 Taking in a deep breath, you consider his words for a bit before answering immediately.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love him, because you did. No, what gave you pause was all that marrying him would entail- the greatest obstacle being that you were already married, and unless more things had changed in post-war America than you realized, polyandry was still illegal. Not to mention the fact that, upon marrying Fred, anything you had once been able to call your own was now- at least legally speaking- his.

 You didn’t even have any right to the house you and Floyd had been living in. It, along with everything inside of it including you, was Frederick’s in both name and law.

And that was what scared you the most- the idea that, should you divorce Fred, you’d be penniless. Homeless. Destitute. You would have nothing.

But, as you looked into the blue eyes of the man you loved more than anything in this world, you realized that you wouldn’t mind any of that at all.

 Because you’d have Floyd Talbert.

 With a heavy sigh, you sit up so he doesn’t have to lean over you any more- taking his face in your hands and giving him a smile.

“I’d have nothing to offer you, you know.” You grin a little wider at the confusion on his face, brushing your fingertips over his bottom lip as you continued. “No savings or car or house for you to come home to at the end of a long day?”

 As the wrinkle in his brow smooths, you know that he knows what you’re really asking him. Bringing his own hand up to mess with the ends of your loose hair, he pouts for a moment.

 “Hmm, that’s a tough call, Y/N,” he says with a faux seriousness, tilting his head consideringly and narrowing his eyes at you. “I really like this bed frame—”

You nod, biting the insides of your cheeks to keep from laughing. “It’s a nice bed frame-”

“And the mattress? Best thing I’ve ever slept on.”

“I’m sure. All that built-in lumbar support cost a pretty penny, too.”

 Smirking openly now, Tab brushes his nose against yours. “Still not the best thing in the house, though. I’ve gotta say, the pretty girl who lives in it takes the cake in that regard.”

Cupping your hands around the back of his neck, you pull him in for a deep kiss, the both of you almost clicking your teeth together several times because of the stupid smiles on your faces. When you pull back, you peck a quick kiss on the tip of his nose before sitting back enough to look him full in the face.

“If I could, I’d have married you already.”

 The smile he gives you is nothing short of breathtaking.

“Yeah?” he presses, biting his bottom lip like an excited kid.

“Yeah, Floyd. I really would.”

“Good,” he says simply, carefully slipping from your grip enough to shift back down so he’s resting his head on your stomach. “Maybe I’ll ask you one of these days.”

 Looking down at him fondly, you let yourself lay back so you can grin up at the ceiling.

 “Who knows, Floyd Talbert,” you say quietly, heart feeling so full it could burst. “Maybe I’ll even say yes.”

 “Good.” he grumbles.

“Good.” you agree.

~ ~ ~

(HELLO YIKES AND SORRY MY DUDES I’M PMSING AND DEEP IN MY FEELS BUT THANKS FOR SOLDIERING THROUGH THIS PILE OF YUCK!)

Taglist: @mrseasycompany @itswormtrain @mrsalwayswrite​ @happyveday​ @sunsetmando​ @ricksmorty​ @liebgotttme​

[morganaspendragonss]

if your looking for a bth prompt what about used in sacrificial ritual where tk gets abducted on a run and carlos is the lead detective on this case of people getting murdered as sacrifices and they arrive in time to save tk but the ritual involved cutting limbs off and tk ends up losing a leg? perhaps w lots of fluff at the end? <3<3

anon, i cannot tell you how excited this prompt got me. i’d been toying with a very similar idea for weeks and this was the push i needed to actually write it - with certain modifications to fit your idea. (i promise it has a happy ending!)

i’m super proud of how this came out, and i hope you like it as much as i do!

@911lonestarangstweek day 7:  Free choice!

Two months ago, TK vanished, snatched while out on his evening run. Carlos will do anything to get him back, even if that includes running himself into the ground.

ao3 | 4.9k | cw: kidnapping, depictions of violence, death and injury, forced amputation, career-ending injuries

It’s been two months.

Two whole months since TK left for his evening run with nothing but a shouted goodbye and a promise to be home soon.

Two months since Carlos hadn’t even turned around, because apparently the dishes were more important than his husband.

Two months since they found TK’s shattered phone and wallet, abandoned in the park next to a pool of blood.

Two months since Carlos’s world came crashing down around him.

He blames himself - how could he not? He’s been the lead detective on this case for months; he’s the one who’s so far failed to catch the guys who have mutilated and killed so many people, and now might do the same to his husband. More to the point, he’s the one who is supposed to protect TK, and it’s clear he’s resoundly failed in that department.

His captain had tried to take him off the case, once they’d found out that TK had become the latest victim. But Carlos had informed him in no uncertain terms that he was going to keep looking for his husband, even if he had to go above his head to do it. 

They’d allowed him to keep the case, but Carlos knows he’s being watched. They think he’s having a breakdown and, the thing is, Carlos isn’t entirely sure they’re wrong.

He hasn’t slept in their bed since the night it happened, when he got woken up at two am to the sound of his ringtone blaring through the room.

“Reyes,” Mitchell had said, tone heavy. “I… Shit, Reyes. You gotta get here. There’s another one and I… I really didn’t want to be telling you this over the phone, but…”

She’d paused, and Carlos had sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly all too aware of the empty space next to him. And, in that moment, he’d known; even so, he’d still choked out a quiet, “No.”

“I’m sorry, Carlos. I truly am.”

*

He’s been living in a daze ever since, work and TK the only two things on his mind. He eats when he has to, barely sleeps, and never hangs out with their friends anymore, which he almost feels guilty for. They’re suffering too, Carlos knows this, but he can’t afford any distractions right now. If he were to be out somewhere and ends up missing the one chance he has to get TK back, he’d never forgive himself.

He’s just about to leave for another shift when there’s a loud, insistent knock at the door. Carlos rolls his eyes and goes to yank it open, about to tell whoever it is to leave him alone.

Only to come face-to-face with a very determined looking Grace Ryder.

“Grace,” he sighs, irritation dissipating. “Can this wait? I’ve got a -”

“I know you don’t have an official shift today, Carlos,” she interrupts, folding her arms. “Just like I know you’re working yourself to death, and I’m not going to stand for it anymore. You’re coming out with me, no arguments.”

Carlos shakes his head. “Grace… I can’t.”

“Oh, yes, you can.” She clicks her tongue, levelling him with an unimpressed stare. "You should be thanking me; Judd was planning on bringing the entire crew down here to stage a full intervention. Now, I managed to talk him out of that one, convinced him the last thing you need right now is a house full of people, but I will not hesitate to go back on that. So you've got two options. Either you go back upstairs and get changed and I'll take you out for coffee, just the two of us, or I'm gonna unleash my husband and the full force of the 126 on you. Choice is yours, Reyes."

He sighs, wearily meeting her eyes. "I'm not getting out of this, am I?"

"No, sir, you are not."

Carlos closes his eyes and hangs his head, knowing just how stubborn Grace Ryder can be. “Alright,” he says, though his every nerve is screaming at him for it, “you win. Give me a minute.”

She smiles encouragingly at him. “I’ll be here.”

*

The coffee-shop Grace takes him to is mercifully empty, both of people and memories. He wonders if she did this on purpose, but figures it’s more a stroke of pure luck, his first in months. It’s a nice place; he’ll have to remember it for when - if - they get TK back.

Grace quickly returns with their drinks, placing a sandwich in front of Carlos, too. “Don’t even argue,” she warns. “I won’t hear it.”

Carlos forces a smile. “Thanks, Grace.”

They sit in silence for a while, Carlos keeping his gaze turned to the table, picking listlessly at the sandwich. He can feel Grace’s eyes on him, feel the tension in the air between them, and part of him wishes she’d just come out with it already.

The other part wants to run for the hills, but he’s pretty sure Grace would catch him before he got too far.

Eventually, she sighs, setting her mug down and leaning across the table. “Carlos, we miss you,” she says softly. “I know it’s tough, but you’ve barely spoken to any of us since it happened. We’re worried.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“No.” She shakes her head, voice still unbearably gentle. “You’ve been keeping yourself busy. There’s a difference. And that’s okay, up to a point, but you haven’t given yourself a break in two months and that is not okay. You know TK wouldn’t want you to be doing this.”

“You say that like he’s dead.”

Grace sucks in a sharp breath. “Sweetheart, you know that is not what I meant -”

“Maybe you’re right,” he cuts in, ignoring the pain in his chest as he finally looks up at Grace. “It’s been two months; you know as well as I do what survival rates are for missing persons, even in normal circumstances.” His breathing trembles and he squeezes his eyes shut, images of the bodies they’ve found so far flashing through his mind. His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks next. “You also know that the third month is usually when the bodies appear. We’re running out of time, Grace, and I don’t - I don’t know if I believe any more.”

“Carlos Strand-Reyes, I did not just hear you give up on that boy.”

He smiles humourlessly. “Not on him, Grace. On me.”

A long silence follows his words, though Carlos can feel the disappointment and worry rolling off Grace in waves. He should probably feel guilty for ruining a perfectly fine day, but he’s just so tired. He’ll do anything to have TK by his side again, but each day that passes is another day that TK slips further and further away from him, and it’s difficult to hold on to hope.

“I’m terrified,” Carlos admits quietly, tears pricking the back of his eyes. “Any day now they’re going to tell me they’ve found another body, and it’s going to be him, and I won’t be able to handle seeing him like that. You don’t know what they do to them, Grace, it’s - it’s -”

His breath hitches, and suddenly Grace is next to him, gathering him in her arms as he breaks down in sobs against her chest. She shushes him, running a gentle hand through his hair and, for a brief moment, she makes it easy to push away memories of sightless eyes and missing limbs and slit throats.

Grace holds him close, murmuring assurances Carlos doesn’t really hear, until he’s cried himself dry. Then, she pulls back, swiping her thumbs under his eyes, unshed tears shining in her own.

“You’ll get through this, Carlos,” she says, wobbly smile on her face. “No matter the outcome, we’ll all be here to help you get through this.”

Carlos nods, but, privately, he thinks she’s wrong. If TK dies, he’s not sure he’ll be able to find a way through that, no matter how many people are by his side. Because the only one he really, truly needs, won’t be there. 

*

Carlos rubs his eyes, his vision blurring as he stares at crime scene photos, as he has been doing for the past however many hours. He must have gone through these thousands of times over the past eight months, and yet he’s still drawing a complete blank as to clues that could help them find the killers.

They’re always too careful, never leaving any DNA on scene, never caught on camera, never seen by witnesses. There’s not even much of a common denominator between the victims, aside from the fact that they’re all young - the oldest being 38 - and they were all alone when they were taken.

The only consistency in this entire thing is the bodies. Official cause of death is always a deep cut to the throat, accompanied by at least one limb being cut off when the victim was still alive, sometimes more. They never find the missing body parts, which bothers Carlos more than it probably should.

He rubs his eyes again, blinking hard to try and stay awake. He didn’t sleep well last night, which is nothing new, but the past two weeks have been exhausting. After Grace’s coffee outing, the 126 have been stopping by regularly, one or two at a time, to check up on him and make sure he’s doing okay. Carlos appreciates it, he does, but he doesn’t have the energy for it these days. 

He’s so tired that he doesn’t notice Mitchell walking up to his desk before she’s standing right next to him, casting a shadow over his papers. Carlos looks up, and dread washes over him at the grim expression on her face, the tense set to her shoulders.

“We’ve got another one.”

Carlos makes a noise halfway between a choke and a sob. “A body?” he whispers, looking up at her fearfully.

“A disappearance,” Mitchell corrects, and Carlos doesn’t even feel guilty for the relief that floods him at that. “Industrial estate across town, one of the workers got nabbed when he went for a smoke. Same MO, no witnesses - it’s them.”

He nods, praying that Mitchell doesn’t notice the way his hands shake as he gathers up his papers. If she does, she doesn’t say anything, though he catches her exasperated head shake when he turns back to face her.

“Let’s go.”

*

The crime scene is, as always, pristine, and Carlos can’t help but be frustrated, even if this is what he’s come to expect. The case had been wearing on him even before TK was taken, but now it feels like every dead end is a spit in his face, like the universe is taunting him directly.

He’s about to wrap up the scene when a young officer comes barreling towards him.

“Detective!” he yells, panting. “Detective Reyes!”

Carlos stops, raising an eyebrow as the officer skids to a halt in front of him, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he gasps. Straightening, he clears his throat, pointing across the street. “There’s a hidden speed camera over there.”

Carlos blinks. Of all the ground-breaking news he imagined might warrant such dramatics, speed cameras weren’t one of them. 

The officer heaves a long-suffering sigh, which, under any other circumstances, might be amusing. “We’re not sure yet, but, looking at the angle, we think it covers the place the guy got taken from,” he explains, and Carlos’s eyes widen. “If it does, we might be able to get some ID, maybe even a license plate. I know they’ve always been careful not to get caught on camera before, but they might not have known about this one. It’s a chance, Detective.”

Carlos breathes out shakily, mind reeling from the officer’s words. It’s a chance. An honest-to-god chance. “Have we pulled footage yet?”

“Doing that now.” The officer grins boyishly, and Carlos feels a small smile tugging at his own lips. He can’t let himself get too invested in this; there’s every chance that it’ll turn into yet another false lead. And yet.

Something like hope lights up Carlos’s chest, and he dares, just for a second, to believe in it.

*

It works.

It fucking works.

They don’t have an ID - the killers are at least smart enough to cover their faces - but they do have a plate, which they’ve managed to track to a warehouse on the outskirts of town. Carlos taps the steering wheel of his cruiser anxiously; they’re parked in some trees just out of sight of the building, and he itches with the desire to jump out and go.

Every second they wait here is one more second in which TK is still with them, suffering, dying. He chews on his lip, then turns to Mitchell.

“We clear on the plan?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I am. Are you?”

“What -”

“I know what this means for you, Reyes,” she interrupts, not unkindly. “I know what might be waiting for you in there. Now, if it were up to me, you would be benched. It’s too personal, and you’re way too close to it. But, since it’s not, you’ve gotta promise me that your head is screwed on tight, you hear me? We’ve got a good plan, and it’ll work, but it’s only good so long as we are all following it. So, you tell me. Are we clear on the plan?”

Carlos swallows thickly, glancing back in the direction of the warehouse. Mitchell is right - he is too close to it, and he’d be thinking the same thing if the situation were in reverse. He just… He can’t fathom being anywhere but here right now.

He can do this; he knows he can.

He has to, for TK. 

“Yes,” he says firmly, meeting her eyes. “We’ve got this.”

She nods. “Alright, then.” Her gaze shifts past him and she jerks her chin up. “There’s the signal. Let’s move out.”

*

It’s almost too easy, in the end. The suspects are woefully unprepared for an ambush, and Carlos doesn’t even need to fire his gun, which is always a good thing. They find the guy who was taken today in the same room as his kidnappers, a little worse for wear, but not too injured, all things considered.

Carlos wants to be happy about that, but he can’t. Not when TK is still nowhere in sight.

Mitchell takes over managing the scene and questioning the hostage. He’ll have to remember to buy something for her in thanks when this is all over; she’s been a rock over the past three months, often covering for Carlos with their supervisors when things became too much.

He glances around at the swarms of police and paramedics filling the warehouse, feeling oddly detached from it all. He’s itching to go looking for TK, but there’s only so far he can push things - though he’s being no help here, he has to maintain an appearance if he wants to not get fired.

That appearance being, the calm and collected detective, which is the furthest thing from what Carlos is right now.

His hands tap restlessly at his thighs, his senses dialled to eleven with anxiety, which only spikes when he sees an officer making her way towards him, a grim look on her face.

Please, god, no.

Carlos moves to meet her, but he’s not able to form the words for the question he needs to ask. Fortunately, she takes pity on him.

“We’ve found your husband, Detective,” she informs him.

Carlos swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to tamp down the fear. “Is he...?”

“Alive,” she says, and Carlos could cry with relief. “But he’s in bad shape. I’ve been told not to let you back there.”

He stares at her, dumbfounded. “I appreciate the concern, but my husband has been missing for nearly three months,” he says tightly. “It would not be a wise idea to keep me from him any longer.”

She hesitates, biting her lip uncertainly, but eventually relents under Carlos’s hard stare. “Alright. Follow me.”

Carlos is led down several corridors until they stop outside a door, guarded by two other officers. The woman who brought him has a whispered argument with them, but Carlos pushes past her to glare at them, his patience at an end now that he knows that TK is mere feet away from him.

“I told her to bring me here,” he says. “That man in there is my husband; I’m going in there one way or another.”

The two officers exchange a glance, then wearily sigh and nod, stepping to the side. Carlos doesn’t bother to thank them before rushing inside, coming up short at the sight of three paramedics crouched around a body on the ground. He can’t really see much of TK yet, but he feels frozen in place, his mind suddenly rebelling at the thought of having to witness what three months of captivity have done to him.

He shakes his head and wills his feet forward, feeling like he’s walking through treacle as he rounds to TK’s side. Bile rises in his throat and he can’t stop the gasp that escapes him when he finally catches sight of his husband - it’s worse than anything Carlos had imagined, and he’d imagined a lot.

TK’s completely naked; the paramedics have lain a sheet over his lower half, but it does little to hide his emaciated state, his entire body outlined with sharp corners where his skin seems almost shrink-wrapped to his bones. Carlos can count every one of TK’s ribs, and the hollow of his cheeks is deeply pronounced. His torso is discoloured from bruising and he’s horribly still and pale - Carlos would think he were dead if not for the barely there rise and fall of his chest.

That’s not the worst of it, though. Carlos’s eyes travel down TK’s body, cataloguing his injuries, before sticking on his left leg.

Or, rather, the space where his left leg used to be.

Carlos barely refrains from throwing up, his stomach turning at the bloody mess in front of him. This isn’t… In the back of his mind - in his nightmares - he’d known that this was a possibility, but he’d never prepared himself for actually seeing it. He doesn’t know if he could have prepared himself, even if he’d tried.

“Detective.”

He’s broken from his horrified staring by one of the paramedics, now standing in front of him. Strange - Carlos hadn’t noticed him moving.

He sighs, obviously disapproving of Carlos’s presence here, but his expression holds nothing but sympathy. “Your husband is lucky we got here when we did,” he says. “But I can’t make any promises, and he is nowhere near out of the woods yet. To be perfectly honest with you, Detective, it’s a miracle he’s still breathing right now. He’s severely dehydrated and suffering from starvation - it looks like his kidnappers were giving him just barely enough food and water for him to survive. I’m also worried about infection in his leg, plus there might be injuries we can’t see yet. We’ve done everything we can for him here, but we have to get him to the hospital as soon as possible. I’m assuming you’re going to ride with us?”

Carlos immediately nods. There’s no way he’s going to remain here, even if he knows he won’t be able to stay with TK when they get to the hospital. He trusts Mitchell to handle things, and he wouldn’t be of much use anyway, even more so than before. Not after everything he’s seen, everything he’s heard.

The paramedics get TK loaded on a gurney and Carlos follows them out, eyes locked on TK’s still form. He brushes a hand through TK’s limp hair, forcing back the tears burning in his eyes.

“Hold on, my love,” he whispers. “I’m here; you’re safe now.”

He hopes, somehow, that TK hears him.

*

“Oh my god.”

Carlos looks up from the bed at the sound of Owen’s voice. His father-in-law has a hand over his mouth, shock written all over his face at the sight of TK - what little that can be seen underneath all the bandages and machines he has hooked up to him. Carlos had done his best to prepare Owen for what he’d face when he arrived, but it had been an impossible task. He’d barely been able to get the words out, for one, but there was no explaining just how bad things are.

Nothing will ever be the same. Not that Carlos had ever expected that it would, but when (if, he reminds himself) TK wakes up, it will be to a completely different life than the one he had walked out of all those months ago. 

The physical injuries alone would be bad enough - and, god, he’ll have to do so much at home to make it safe for TK - but he’s more worried about how this will have affected him in other ways. Carlos can’t imagine the level of trauma his husband has suffered, and he just prays that they can find a way to get through it.

Owen’s face crumples as he makes his way across the room, collapsing heavily in the chair on the other side of the bed. He reaches out as though to touch TK, but snatches his hands back just as quickly, expression stricken. “Oh my god,” he repeats.

Carlos lets him be for a few moments, allowing Owen to process what he’s seeing at his own pace. He turns away so that he can have some semblance of privacy, though he can’t ignore the soft sobs he hears. It’s almost as though they’re mourning TK, even though they now have proof he’s alive, which is more than can be said for the last three months.

Eventually, Owen sniffs, and turns to address Carlos. “Have they… What did the doctors say?”

“Nothing concrete,” Carlos answers, focusing his gaze back on TK. “If he makes it through the next few days, then they think he’ll have a chance, but that’s a big if, Owen. There was so much damage. His organs weren’t functioning properly, he has a head wound from when he was first taken that never really healed right, and his leg… It had become infected where his kidnappers cut it; they had to take some more in surgery to stop it from spreading any further.”

He tears his eyes from TK to meet Owen’s gaze, almost wishing he hadn’t when he sees his own pain and grief reflected back at him. “It’s bad, Owen,” he chokes out. “I don’t know… I don’t know what I’ll do if…”

He shakes his head, the words sticking in his throat. Not that he really needs to say them; they’re both thinking the same thing.

“The doctors probably told you, but they’re restricting visitors to two until he’s more stable,” Carlos continues, eyes dropping back to the bed. “I know the team will want to see him, but do you think you can hold them off for a while? Just for a couple of days, until we know more. I don’t want to keep them from him, but I just…” He trails off, guilt welling up in him even though he knows this is what’s best. “I know it’s a selfish thing to ask, but I think it’s for the best, for everyone.”

“I understand,” Owen says gently. “I’ll let them know. And… I’ll do my best to prepare them, for when they do come and visit.”

Carlos nods his thanks and the two lapse into silence, broken only by the hiss of the ventilator and the beeping of the heart monitor. Proof that TK’s still with them, but each noise sends another bolt of pain through Carlos’s heart.

He squeezes his eyes shut, finally allowing the tears to fall down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Owen,” he sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

Owen gasps. “What for?”

“I was supposed to protect him! This was my case, I’m the reason he got taken, the reason he might not make it. He could still die, and it’s all my fault!”

Carlos drops his head into his hands, chest heaving from the force of his sobbing. Distantly, he hears the scrape of a chair on linoleum, then Owen’s hands are on his shoulders, turning him into an embrace. Carlos falls into him, not caring about the almost childlike way he clings to his father-in-law.

“You found him, Carlos,” Owen whispers, rubbing circles on Carlos’s back. “You found him. Any chance he has at making it through is because of you. That’s what matters now; it’s the only thing that matters.”

*

It’s several more weeks before Carlos’s prayers are finally answered.

TK was declared stable some time ago, the doctors saying that, barring any unexpected complications, they should expect him to wake up. They hadn’t said anything about what the damage might be once he did wake, but Carlos hadn’t wanted to ask; at this point, he can’t focus on more than one thing at a time, else he knows he’ll fall apart.

He’s practically lived at the hospital since they brought TK in. He’s pretty sure Owen, his parents, and the 126 came up with a rota for making sure he wasn’t starving himself, because it was always someone different who attempted to pull him away from TK’s room for food or sleep in an actual bed. Carlos resisted as much as he thought he could get away with, but he’s not stupid. He knows he needs to keep his strength up if he’s going to be of any use once TK wakes up.

It happens early one morning, when the sun is just beginning to filter through the blinds. Carlos is already awake, keeping a vigilant watch over his husband, though he doesn’t quite believe it when TK’s eyelid twitches.

He holds his breath, waiting, and, just when he’s given it up as a trick of exhaustion, it happens again, both of his eyes cracking open this time.

“TK?” he breathes, half-rising from his chair. He reaches out and grabs TK’s hand, which moves - actually moves - in his, and tears spring to his eyes.

It takes a few more minutes before something like awareness creeps into TK’s face, his eyes fully opening for the first time in weeks. Carlos just sobs at the sight, drawing TK’s attention to him, at which point his expression turns to shock and disbelief.

TK’s mouth moves, but he can’t force out any words, causing panic to flash over his face and his breathing picks up. Carlos leans forward, squeezing his hand and stroking his cheek.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says softly, reassuring him. “You’re okay, I promise, everything’s going to be okay. You’re in the hospital. I’m here, and you’re safe. God, TK, I swear I’m never going to let anything happen to you ever again, I swear it.”

TK shakes his head, still not understanding, so Carlos reaches to press the call button. He forces a smile for TK’s sake, though his mind is crowded with worries about what their next steps will be. It’s going to be a long time before they can even think about going home, he knows this, but everything is so uncertain now.

Carlos wants to believe that there can be some sort of normality in their future, but, right now, it seems like a distant dream.

*

Time passes.

He brings TK home.

It’s hard, so much harder than he thought, but they have a whole team of people willing to help out as much as they can. Paul and Grace often bring food, usually stopping to talk for a while afterwards. The others - most often Marjan and Judd - sometimes come by and take TK out in his wheelchair for a while, giving Carlos time and space to relax or tidy. Letting TK out of his sight was difficult at first, and he still gets anxious watching him disappear out the door, but he knows that the 126 would do anything to keep him safe.

He just has to trust them, which he does, implicitly so. 

Owen’s also a frequent visitor to their house, staying overnight a time or two in the beginning. Carlos is grateful for it; he doesn’t know how he would have coped if not for Owen’s steady presence while they were still figuring out their new reality.

TK struggles a lot, even with simple things these days. The head wound caused brain damage, leading to migraines and he has problems with speech and carrying out tasks. It breaks Carlos’s heart to see him, but he forces himself to keep up a front, only letting the emotion out when he’s alone - or, rarely, with one of the 126.

He suspects TK knows anyway, but they don’t talk about it.

It’s a long few months of recovery, of pain and exhaustion and frustration. But it’s all worth it, because it means that TK is alive. It means that Carlos has him back, and they can work on getting better together.

It means that, one golden morning, Carlos wakes up to see TK’s beautiful green eyes already open, watching him intently. He reaches out to caress TK’s cheek, then leans in and presses a gentle kiss to his lips, lingering for a long moment.

And, when he pulls back, TK smiles.

And it feels like everything is going to be okay.

[deewithani]

A clone’s first day at Coruscant prison

Clone Trooper Toast Series Volume 1

Pairing: Clone Trooper Toast x GN!Reader

Word count: 2,336

T/W: Hazing

Rating: G

A/N: I couldn’t help but go serious with this. It was started out as a drabble, but quickly gained its own life and I couldn’t stop. Toast clone is love. Toast clone is life. Toast clone deserves happiness too. I might write another couple of fics to give him some. This is my first fic ever, no beta. If we die, we die.

Tags: @royalhandmaidens as requested.

If you sat Toast down and asked him what his favorite food in the galaxy was, he would tell you it was toast. It was true, and his love for toast begat the name that he was given. He didn’t know exactly what it was about toast that made it his favorite food. It tasted good, sure, much better than the rations that were more commonly served to clones no longer in training (or so he had heard, he was fresh out of training himself), and definitely better than what they served to cadets to ensure their nutritional needs were met, but not exceeded, at the bare minimum of cost. You could put different toppings and spreads on it, giving you a new breakfast every day if you wanted. And it was cheap, so the Republic had no issue serving it to Clones as an “option”, sitting in the breakfast lineup on a tray, next to a small basket filled with small packets of butter and jogan fruit jam. He came to the mess at the same time every day, just so he could have some toast, because breakfast was his favorite part of every day. No, he wasn’t sure what it was about toast itself that made him like it best, but he knew it was his favorite food the first time he had breakfast at the Republic Judiciary Central Detention Center.

You thought back to the first time you ever met Toast, the very first day he came to the prison, and the first time you ever saw “First Breakfast”. He arrived early that morning directly from Kamino with many of his other brothers, fresh faced and ready to make a difference in the war. To do a good job. To be a good soldier. To be a good brother. He had high hopes for this posting, and high expectations for himself, and he was prepared to do his duty to serve the Republic and its people. You thought back to that day with happiness. It was the day you met the most wonderful person in the galaxy.

On that very first day on duty he was cornered by a small group of more experienced troopers who were tasked with showing him around and getting him acquainted with his job and the brothers he would be working with. One of the most well known first day rituals the the boys participated in was known as the “First Breakfast”. It was a time where the more experienced clones would welcome their new brothers, in their own special way. The First Breakfast was a tradition, and every clone that worked at the prison had participated in it. Toast’s participation in the First Breakfast was required before he set foot on the floor, whether he knew it or not.

“C’mon vod” the leader of the group, Ether, had said. “Let’s head to the mess to grab some grub before shift change.” Toast spent the short walk answering questions, “How are the cadets on Kamino doing?”, “What do you think of Coruscant?”, “Do you know any girls?”, “Did you chose a name yet?”. He didn’t really know how to answer those questions, he never really thought about his own feelings about his life, but he answered them as best he could. The cadets were doing as well as any other clone had done on Kamino. Coruscant was different than Kamino, but he had never been any other place to make a fair comparison. Of course he didn’t know any girls, there were none aside from the Kaminoans and the Jedi Shaak Ti at the training center. And no, he didn’t have a name, he just didn’t stand out from his brothers enough to warrant a name, either from his vod or from his own heart.

When they finally reached the mess, Ether put an arm around Toast and gave him a rough side hug. “Alright vod. This is the staff mess. There’s mostly clones here, but there is some natborn staff, so don’t be surprised if you see a face that doesn’t look like your own in the mess every now and then. Now, the menu changes, and you know as well as the rest of us that some food just isn’t edible, so let me guide you through what’s good, and what’s not.” As he walked down the line he pointed out exotic dishes, to Toast’s palette anyway.

You sat alone in the corner of the mess, reading the day’s news on your holopad, unaware of the shiny new trooper that Ether’s crew just brought through the door. Ether lifted his voice, pulling your attention to the group, where he had his arm around the shoulders of the timid looking clone. You had heard that Ether liked to put new troopers under his wing, at least long enough to play a mean spirited prank on them, but the clones had always been tight lipped, and you had never seen or heard any solid proof it. Until today. Today, it looked like you might get a glimpse inside the world of a new clone at the Coruscant prison.

You watched as Ether pointed out various foods to the new trooper, shaking his head yes and no at various times, presumably to indicate which choices were better than others. It should seem obvious which were best; some dishes were barely touched, while others were attacked as if they were set out for a pack of loth-wolves. It didn’t take a scientist to know that clones had a liking for the spicy pepper hash that was a staple in the mess, and tended to stay away from the blue hued yogurt. You suspected that Ether was telling him the same.

First Breakfast always –always – included the spicy pepper hash. Every new trooper had to try it, even though all the others knew it was spicier than the lava of Mustafar. Ether knew First Breakfast was a mean prank. New clone trooper, fresh from Kamino? He’s never had anything spicier than some salt and pepper added to the “grey fluff” they called food on Kamino. The long necks probably didn’t even know what a pepper was, if he was being honest with himself. But he had seen more than one new shiny come through those prison doors and fall in love with the spicy pepper hash. They just needed to jump in feet first. Try it, burn up your taste buds, have a good laugh with your brothers, and tada, you’re part of the group! Every single clone here went through it, and it was obvious that almost all of them had a taste for the peppers. Besides, even if he didn’t like it, it was a bonding experience, and there were other things he could eat after today. He wouldn’t be the only clone that would pass on the hash after the First Breakfast, and no one held it against any of the others.

You watched as Ether filled the young clone’s plate with spicy pepper hash, telling him it was the most popular dish at the prison. He didn’t lie, exactly. It was. Loved by both clone troopers and prisoners, the hash was easily mass produced, cheap, and came frozen, allowing it to be safely stored for long periods. It was perfect for the prison, and the workers and inhabitants it contained.  He just left out the ‘it’s so spicy it will make you cry’ part. The new trooper didn’t even know what spicy was, let alone that it caused physical pain, but Ether and the other clones did, and you did too. Unfortunately for the young shiny, you didn’t know that he never eaten anything spicy before. The clone troopers seemed to love it, so why would you think the new guy would be any different.

Ether and his buddies led Toast to a table, in his hands his full plate and a small glass of water. The others had also chosen the spicy pepper hash, but had chosen to drink blue milk instead. “Kriff”, you thought to yourself, “that hash is really spicy. The other troopers are drinking blue milk, but he’s only got a glass of water. He doesn’t know what he’s in for”. You made the decision right then, if this is what Ether has in mind for his “prank”, you’ll have a glass of blue milk ready for what you felt was inevitable. If you were wrong, well, you would just have a glass of blue milk to drink for yourself. No harm, no foul, you could play it off as being thirsty and not bother the clones as they went about their business, but you wanted to be ready in any case. You didn’t like a bully, in any case, and if you had to take the new trooper the milk you could just play it off as just getting to know your new coworker, even if you didn’t work in the same area as he did.

You watched as the troopers started chowing down on their breakfasts, some eating slowly and savoring their meal, others shoveling it in as fast as they could. The new trooper dug in as well, but you noticed his face started turning red almost as soon as the hash hit is tongue. Most of the others with him had already started sipping on their milk, but the new clone was guzzling down his water before he ha d finished his first bite, coughing and trying to catch his breath as the strange food burned his mouth. You decided then that the prank had gone too far, and you got up to take the milk to the beleaguered clone.

“Here”, you told him. “Drink this. It will help take the spiciness away.” Toast, brow covered in sweat, eagerly took the milk from your hand and downed it in record time. “I’ll get you some more if you’d like.”, you said, and he vigorously nodded affirmingly. While you headed back to refill his milk, his brothers all gathered around him, patting him on the back jovially and welcoming him to the crew. On your way back to the table you noticed the small smile on his face, presumably for sufficiently passing the “test” and becoming one of the group. You still didn’t like Ether’s prank, but it did warm your heart to see the new trooper take it in stride, and his brothers gathering around to celebrate his official first day guarding the worst of the worst the galaxy had to offer.

While you were getting him a refill of milk you had an idea. Just because he had a bad experience with the spicy pepper hash didn’t mean that he couldn’t still have some breakfast. The problem was knowing what he liked. You had absolutely no idea. So you decided on the safe bet: toast. You grabbed a plate, a butter knife, and a fork, a couple of pieces of toast, and one pack each of butter and jogan fruit jam. Returning to the table you sat down at the seat opposite of Toast, placing the glass of milk and the plate in front of him, silently smacking yourself in the head when you noticed you added an unnecessary fork to the mix. Thoughts of how he would think you were an absolute idiot ran through your mind, but he looked up at you and smiled, graciously accepting the milk and toast.

He looked at the plate quizzically, before asking “What is this?” You were sure that he wouldn’t trust anything anyone else brought him after the fiery start to his first day, but he listened intently as you explained the different items you had placed on the plate. You told him the toast was an easy to eat food, not spicy and well tolerated by most people, and the butter and jam were used as spreads for the top. You thought he may like it more than the hash, so you brought it to him to try.

He seemed to accept your explanation, and after showing him how to add the butter and jam to toast you watched him take a bite. He chewed for a moment before his eyes went wide and a big smile split his face. Swallowing, he took a sip of milk, then looked back to you and exclaimed that it was the best thing that he had ever eaten in his life. At least, it was the best thing he had eaten up to that point.

“Well then, toast-boy, I’m glad there’s food here that you can enjoy. It’s my favorite food in the mess, I don’t really trust anything else, honestly.” You sat together at the table for a few minutes, asking each other questions and learning about your new friend. As the clock moved closer to the official start of your own day, you moved to wrap up your conversation, and you steered in the direction of your names. After you had officially introduced yourself, he looked at you sadly. He had never had a problem with not having a name before, but now he had to give you his designation, which felt inadequate, but he gave you what he had and explained that he hadn’t chosen a name for himself, and no one had given him a name either.

He didn’t have a name? How odd. Although you rarely worked with the clones directly every one you met had a name of some sort. Was it normal not to have a name? You didn’t know, but kind eyed clone gave you as much as he had. He was nice, and was good conversation, so you hoped that you would see him again.

“Listen, next time I see you, how about I call you Toast instead of those numbers? It would be easier for me to remember”.

“Yeah, I’d like that. ‘Toast’. Thanks for the name!”

You saw him in the mess every morning for breakfast from that day on.

[sylph-feather]

Summary: Danny had known the rules— that being beaten would lead to transfer of the crown, instructed to him by their ominous guardians— but he hadn’t exactly considered all the implications of that.

For: @ghost-strawberry

Prompt: (Danny is ghost king hc) Danny loses a fight with Sam and the title of ghost king is transferred to her, despite Sam not being a ghost.

Words: 3,344

“Haha!” Sam barked triumphantly, standing over her defeated enemy in a display of dominance while stomping a scary combat boot, “I won.” 

Danny let out nothing but a low keening sound, slumping on the Nasty Burger table and leaving his arm in its defeated position. 

“Darn,” Tucker chimed in, “I thought that with all the ghost fighting and workouts you’ve been doing, Sam finally would stop being the reigning arm wrestling champ.” He paused, melodramatically draping a hand over his forehead and intoning, “alas.” 

Danny only repeated the same mournful noise, all the sentiment of my arm is going to bruise and Sam will never let this go packed into a drawn out moan. 

Before Danny could construct his complaints into something that took the form of language, there was a great burst of green fire that ensconced their cheap, plastic table. In the time it took to flinch, the ghostly flames had already washed over the group— and… done… nothing? 

No, that wasn’t right— it hadn’t hurt them, to be more accurate. Their table, and the tile around it, looked like someone had carved a circle into the floor, taken everything within that circle (read: the trio, several overly greasy foodstuffs, and three shakes) and dropped it right into the Ghost Zone, if the swirling green abyss was anything to go by. 

(Back in the human realm, the patrons of the Nasty Burger were left with their own overly greasy foodstuffs visible in their mouths held ajar as they stared at the smoldering circle that once held three teens and cheap fast food chain restaurant seating— horribly cheap plastic booths on a table that maybe had the suggestion of meeting bare-minimum sanitary requirements. A lone green flame died out, and acrid smoke wafted away. Same shit every day, a tired cashier thought). 

Before them: the Coroners. Dark-colored ghosts with a litany of dark colors with glowing green antlers that twisted into the suggestion of the shape of a crown, and gnarled hands that all had the same mark of a skull on each knuckle. Between the name and the appearance, they were very ominous, to say the least. 

Danny recognized them from the last time he met them: his own coronation. 

Sam and Tucker, who were not there for that ritual because it occured after the fight with Pariah, were just as confused and scared as Danny was the first time. “It’s ok!” he yelped at his friends who were readying their on-hand Fenton weaponry. “I know them. They’re the Coroners.”

Sam shot him a look that said that is anything but encouraging, and Danny winced. 

“They… do… the coron-ing,” Danny said slowly, because he didn’t know how else to phrase it. “Like, the monarchy ruler stuff.” 

“Down with the monarchy,” Sam intoned almost instinctively, but still pocketed the lipstick laser once again, settling down and taking a more casual sip of her strawberry shake. 

Tucker, meanwhile, just kept his shaky hands locked around the box of fries, determinedly not looking at the wraith-like creatures that had deer skulls sticking out of dark garb. 

Sam paused in her slurping, considering the Coroner’s job in her mind more thoroughly. “I guess it makes sense, ‘cuz the Ghost Zone doesn’t have a pope to do it,” she admitted. 

Tucker relaxed, and snorted. “Ghost pope.” The idea (mixed with the special breed of hysterical comedy that comes with  stress) elicited great humor. 

Fear abandoned, now they just looked confused. Danny was too— because, “why are you here?” He frowned down at himself. “Are you, uh, rebelling? Or do you have an important message? Or…?”

That was one-third of the Coroner’s jobs: rebellion. Or, more accurately, inciting rebellion. To understand, one must understand two-thirds of their job: the second third was that someone had to pass down the Ring of Rage and Crown of Fire. After the defeat of Parkah, the ancient ghosts were very grateful that Danny had taken it from Pariah Dark after his reign of tyranny, given that he had destroyed them… because of the first third of their job. See, the Coroners were also supposed to act as some representative electoral body of ghost-kind in deciding who passed a somewhat okay-ish ruler, and if that didn’t work out, they usually incited rebellion against said tyrant, or inevitably did so when a once kind ruler became glutted with greed and violence. 

So Pariah trapped them, which (admittedly) was a rather sensible plan, and (also admittedly) a major design flaw in the ring and the crown. After all, given the requirement for the initial rights to ring and crown were to battle and defeat its previous user to gain access (it could be peacefully passed, but that option had never happened), and really, nothing of the Coroner’s judgement would make an impact outside of someone saying no— that is to say, the ring and crown wouldn’t just poof. Thus, it seemed reasonable to assume that the battler would continue, well, battling for that power. 

The last third of their job is significantly less exciting— as Danny put it: messaging. It simply was to act as ghostly servants; knights, mailmen, whatever the King and the ghosts that needed the King may require. Danny largely told them to use their own discretion in solving conflicts, because he was just one teen barely keeping his grades above Cs, and then left them to it. 

So yes, Danny was kind of worried that somehow, such a dramatic summons would be some kind of ominous warning on the way he was being a king— which, to be fair, he was barely being a king at all— due to the aforementioned second-third of their job.

The largest one with the most elaborately twisted antlers pointed a long, bony finger at Sam. Its voice, which sounded both grand and incredibly spooky, boomed thusly: “this human has bested you in battle. Thusly, according to the sacred laws of the Ring of Rage and the Crown of Fire, she shall be bequeathed the title of ghostly monarch. Ye, Danny Phantom, halfa, who have bested Pariah Dark, have lost to Sam Manson, human, and cede your title as ruler.” 

In a circle, the thirteen wraiths whispered, “and the cycle continues.” It was murmured slightly out of sync, but it gave less of an impression of untidiness or lack of professionalism, and more of an ominous feeling, like there were many more voices than just thirteen. 

Danny was slightly less freaked out than Sam and Tucker by it, given they had said a similar thing when he was coronated, but with far less spooky fanfare, and more normal, excited fanfare. Mostly, Danng was spooked more by the suddenness of the thing, and the prospect of it. 

In the hands of the largest one that was clearly the leader, the Ring of Rage and the Crown of Fire appeared in a dramatic swooshing of green flame. 

Danny’s eyes widened. “She.” He paused, because he couldn’t really argue with that. It was— technically, sort of— a battle. And in the Ghost Zone, might made right and all that. Still. 

Sam and Tucker stared, jaws agape. Between all the new info and now this revelation, their brains essentially bluescreened. 

Danny, even though he was previously initiated, wasn’t in a much better state— all he managed to get out aloud was an incredulous, “it was arm wrestling?”  

One of the smaller wraiths, its crown of horns barely nubs, drifted forwards to their Nasty Burger island that was adrift in the Ghost Zone, and asked in its voice of crackling dead leaves, “is this the manner in which you were beaten?” 

Sam, herself, recovered from the mental “404” page, and her first reaction was to release a huge guffaw of laughter. 

Danny slid forwards onto the table, thoroughly spent between embarrassment and confusion. All he articulated was a very, very long groan. 

“May we, uh,” Danny said slowly, turning towards the head wraith and looking at the glowing points set in the skull’s sockets, “have a moment to discuss?” 

Tucker made a vague noise between worry and agreement. 

“So long as the queen wishes,” it bowed to her, deeply reverent. 

“Wait,” Sam ordered, smile growing on her face. “If I were queen,” she said slowly, “would I be able to get rid of this monarchy?” 

“Tis not a monarchy, my lady,” one of the thirteen said, antler crown bobbing. 

The whole table of teens processed this for a moment. 

Tucker burst into incredulity first: “you literally called her a monarch just a few seconds ago!” 

“A title, nothing more,” a Coroner corrected. “Nay, you do not hold much sway over them, rather, it is they who hold sway over you, sending message to help resolve conflicts, be they fullscale fights or quarrels.” 

Danny groaned, suppressed memories bubbling up: the many times the Coroners had come to him with arguments regarding ghost territories, many attempting to use Danny as a weapon or a diplomat or bodyguard or— so on. 

Thus far, a handful of months into his kinghood, Danny had stopped one “fullscale fight” that bordered on a war. (...This was also related to territory, however). 

Either way, that was a long way to say: the statement that it was just a title held up. The ring and crown didn’t actually really get him any political leeway with the ghosts— it was more of an… intimidation tactic that some ghosts fled from, because the ring and the crown were no more than power boosters. 

Asides from that, all he got were updates on all the troubles in the Zone that supposedly needed him (most of which actually didn’t). The Ghost Zone was a lawless place, so a title of king was not worth much outside of sheer power display. 

For the most part, the things had just served to place a target on his back, specifically, because any lost battle would mean they were his no more, and that the power would be passed to the victor. 

Sam, seemingly on the same line of thought as he, hummed, “would ghosts know I was the… Ghost Queen?” At declaring herself monarch (even if it was apparently in name only), her face did a bit of an involuntary, complicated twisting motion. 

Danny picked himself up from his pathetic slump, and aimed an intrigued-but-confused look at Sam. 

Tucker caught on a bit faster— “so if the ghosts think Danny’s still the king, they fight him— but there’s no risk involved in him losing.” 

Sam nodded, smiling a little sappily. 

Danny just made a mushy “aw,” sound, seeming to consider it. 

It was hard to read the expressions of the ghosts that surrounded the trio’s private, floating chunk of the Nasty Burger establishment, because said ghosts wore skulls… but they seemed baffled, though reluctantly accepting. It was all in the tilt of their heads and the pause of their voice as they said, “great Queen, whatever thou shall ask of us.” 

Sam nodded again, then paused. Her face cracked into an eager grin— a dangerous grin. “Do I get cool powers from this?” 

After receiving the crown, Danny had gotten a boost in his own powers; nothing new, just everything that was there was doubled. Double the size, the intensity, the spookiness, the everything. Needless to say, being goth and being active in fights as she was, Sam was excited for ghost powers. She was momentarily lost in visions of a sweeping gothic outfit, one of pure black with smokey edges, decked out in spikes, etcetera— in other words, “edgy.” 

Tuck, meanwhile, had a far more practical askance: “hold on. She’s a human, right?” 

Of course, it wouldn’t be the first instance of humans vaguely receiving or being influenced by ghost powers in some way; Undergrowth had done it, there had been that time with ghost mosquitos, and the one with that Egyptian staff, and the whole incident with the dragon-rage amulet… not to mention the halfas themselves, obviously. Still, it was not all that hope-inspiring to consider that all of them save for the halfas were essentially some degree of possession (or, at the least, something infectious and negative). 

Aloud, Tucker continued to contemplate. “It’s not exactly reassuring to call them ghost powers, with uh, death. Involved.” It was a choppy sentence, but it got the point across; Danny was a special case, but even a half death wasn’t exactly desirable. 

The glowing eyes of the coroners seemed to wink in amusement, insomuch as points of light could display emotion. “Ghost powers , says the queen.” 

“Ghost powers,” the others echo— not ominous this time, because they are chortling, seeming to be one step away from elbowing one another. 

Sam flushes a bit. “What’s so funny about that?” she grunts, offended. 

The coroners all bow deeply. “We meant no offense,” speaks one from the crowd, and it is followed by a wave of nodding before any of the trio can tell which one was even talking. “We simply find hilarity on your naivete.” 

“Elaborate,” she ordered with extremely thin patience.

“We were hasty in calling you the monarch yet,” the largest explained in its ancient, crackling voice, slow and thoughtful— annoyingly so. 

Sam pinches her nose, understanding with perfect clarity why Danny had complained dealing with these pretentious, cryptic weirdos. “Elaborate,” she commanded once again. 

“You are not the monarch yet, because you have not died,” it informed with great solemnity. 

The Nasty Burger chunk floated in stunned silence as the trio absorbed that. 

“Die?!” Tucker yelled, banging the table, upsetting both the fries and the silence. 

“You have a fascinating and naive way of phrasing it, but perhaps ghost powers is not so far from the truth,” one of the antlered creatures mused, not really addressing the obvious tension or concern. “For indeed, the ring and the crown do power the spiritual energy—“ 

“They’re just ghost batteries!” Danny interrupted, baffled and surprised. 

Sam herself then interrupted the interruption with a scoff, creating a horrible stack of domino-ing interruptions. “All this pizazz over just a power source that I can’t even use?” 

“You are incapable of using it as you are now,” a coroner pointed out. Something in all their eyes glinted ominously, and their antlers seemed to shine with ethereal light. “You are disconnected while living,” one said. As a group, they began encircling the private bit of Nasty Burger, wraith-like cloaks brushing against disgusting tile that was glossy with grease of burgers long past. “But we will fix that,” the coroners intoned as one. 

Danny finally took some initiative, fluidly erupting from his seat and transforming into Phantom in a singular motion. It felt just a tad ridiculous to he hovering over a Nasty Burger table that was ridiculously out of place in the abyssal green of the Ghost Zone, but that only graced his mind for a moment. Instead, the primary thought was one he voiced aloud: “are you going to kill her?” Danny may have been a C student, but regarding threats he was not slow on the uptake— he’d been in enough fights to get a good instinct. For their part, Tuck and Sam took it too— partially cowering behind Danny while brandishing their own Fenton brand lasers. 

The dark spirits jolted to a stop, and tilting their many skull-heads quizzically— a nonverbal askance of why fight? All their minds were whirring, and the first theory from the group of coroners was this: “are you hungry for this power once again?” The group around chortled, a veritable cacophony like many dead leaves being kicked around by whistling wind. It was a taunt, clearly. “This is the natural order of things, halfa. You cannot deny it. You have lost. She has won, won spiritual power, power we take from you.” An enormous pressure of dread emanated from the threatening beings, seeming to push at Danny’s chest— it threw him off kilter in the emotional sense, but also the literal given that he was midair. “If you desire it returned to you, then beat her as she did you, as is the rites of the Ring and the Crown.” 

“I’m more upset she’s gonna die!” Danny barked, a little sarcastic and a lot tense, gesticulating wildly as though that could free his limbs from the lead of supernatural fear. As he did so, his hands became enveloped in his own charging ectoplasm— like a snowball dragged through snow to gather more icy slush to its mass, so too did Danny draw the pure ectoplasm from his surroundings. 

“I would like not to die,” Sam agreed quickly. 

“If it counts, I’m thirding that motion,” Tucker put in as well. 

The coroners pulled back, seemingly startled. “You… do not want this power. But you do not get to choose. ” Their antlers still held an ominous and powerful glow, which spoke to the fact that they had already made their choice in regards to the whole death thing. 

Sam drew in a breath, preparing her “hell no” tirade— when Danny exploded into motion, wrapping a gloved hand around Sam’s hand that didn’t have a lipstick laser in it, and propped them sloppily on the Nasty Burger table. He held his elbow on the table and their chained hands up. Before she could process what on earth he was doing, he painfully but desperately slammed their linked hands down against the table. 

Everyone was staring at Danny, ghosts and humans alike. Silence reigned— utterly baffled, confused silence. It was though a massive, unspoken huh? has slammed down onto the area. 

“There,” he said, reedy desperation coloring his voice. “I won the arm wrestle match.” 

Sam cottoned on pretty quickly— “oh no,” she groaned, “Danny, you beat me. You won .” 

Tucker shot her a look— the emphasis was a bit hammy— but said nothing, only watched hopefully as the coroners seemed to enter something of a loading state as they processed the turn of events. 

Then, startlingly, they quickly and fluidly bowed simultaneously. “Long live our shortest reigning queen,” they said with great solemnity, “and welcome back, our halfa King. Long may he reign.” 

Needless to say, the trio’s sigh of relief was about unparalleled. 

“If I am to reign,” Danny said slowly, recovering but still trying to sound poncy and official (rather than yell at them as he desired), “may we, in the future… discredit joking competitions?” It was delicately phrased, awkward pauses as he deliberately chose fancy phrasing, but it at least got the point across (even if Danny could swear that despite having skull faces and only pinpricks of light for eyes, the coroners were making faces at him). 

The coroners stares at each other, cloaks rustling but no sound passing between them. 

“Yes,” the largest said suddenly, “such a request is reasonable, for a half-human teenager.” With exasperation, it added: “you already were an exceptional case in your ruling.” 

“And in general,” a smaller one piped up snarkily from the back, to be shushed by what was likely a superior. 

“Right,” Danny clapped his hands together and huffed, relieved but still tense. 

“Now, how do we get out of here…?” Tucker questioned, trailing off and looking at the abyss. He traced his fingers on the table, then his face lit up— “uh, can I keep this? It’s authentic Nasty Burger merch, technically, and it’s nor like they’re really gonna need it when it’s been diverged from this reality, let alone their store—“

Before he could continue, there was a snap from one of the coroner’s gnarled hands, and a great bout of green flames engulfed said hunk of Nasty Burger— for the second time that day. 

When a very stunned Danny Fenton, Sam Manson, Tucker Foley, and smoldering, partially aflame  with emerald Nasty Burger chunk snapped back into place within the mortal realm, a certain cashier stared balefully at the fused tiles and remnant ghost flame, thought same shit every day once again, and promptly asked: “do you want more to order?” 

And thus, the status quo was restored, for better or for worse. 

[yslkook]

#onboarding (1)

#corporate

summary: seokjin delivers some news to you that you were not ready to receive. or, jeon jungkook joins the company and you’re suddenly facing a part of your past that you hadn’t really wanted to.

word count: 1701

warnings: cursing, parental death

***

7:47 AM. Like clockwork, you always arrive in the parking lot at exactly 7:47 AM. It gives you enough time to brew yourself coffee in the lounge, set up your desk exactly the way you want it, and check your emails quickly.

It’s a ritual that you refuse to let go of, even after four years. You’ve been at the same company for the last four years, in the same position. You work in your company’s research and development organization, a group with thousands of individuals globally.

You are only a speck in the machine that was capitalism. As long as they were paying you, you didn’t mind. You had loans, bills, and your grandma to take care of.

Too bad they weren’t paying you enough. You had given nearly half a decade of your blood, sweat, tears, and time to this company and they had hardly raised your pay, hadn’t given you a promotion and had only just given you a portion of the bonus you deserved.

Without you, your boss and his boss would be six feet under and it’s a fact you never failed to complain to Seokjin about.

Which is what you were currently doing in the lounge.

Seokjin is your closest friend, outside of work and in work. Quite possibly, he’s your only friend. You had graduated in the same year from university, with the same major, the only difference was that he had finished graduate school and you hadn’t. 

Seokjin is an associate director in the regulatory area within the company. You work closely with his team and his peers on projects. Regulatory and clinical science goes hand in hand- they’re often the people who tell you and your teams to take it down a notch when you get too excited about something that may not be feasible.

You call him a stickler, and he tells you that your head is in the clouds. It’s all in good fun.

You were three rankings below Seokjin. It was something that you tried your best not to get upset about- you both had started at the same time and he has risen far faster than you had within the company. While you were stagnant. That might be in part due to your management. But still, you tried your best to remain happy for your closest friend. You can be happy for him and still wish death upon the antiquated patriarchal expectations that still thrived in capitalist culture, after all.

11:58 AM. You ping Seokjin, asking if he wants to have lunch with you so that you’re spared the annoyance of eating at your desk. Or even worse, of eating with your direct boss. 

Jin agrees quickly and you meet him at the top of the stairs to head down to the cafeteria together.

He stays in the cafeteria for a little longer than you- he ran into a few acquaintances and is chatting with them. You don’t wait up for him, instead paying for your food and finding a table to sit at.

You scroll on your phone for a few minutes, adjusting your glasses on the bridge of your nose as you wait for him to join you. He’s always been more keen than you to converse with people at work when he didn’t need to. It’s something he chastised you about frequently, about how you refused to network with the people around you.

You would always reply- “They can get to know me through my work. I’m not gonna blow air up their asses just so these fuckin’ airheads can feel good about themselves.”

He’d only look at you with that look, the look that stated that you’ve aged him a thousand years with one interaction. 

“Hey,” Seokjin says, sliding into his seat across from you, “I’m so hungry.”

“Surprised you didn’t bring lunch today,” You observe after you chew some rice and chicken.

“I forgot it at home,” He says sheepishly, “I meal prepped yesterday. God, now I want my actual lunch and not this.”

“Careful, someone might hear you and get upset.”

“Oh, I didn’t know how concerned you were over lunch today,” Seokjin scoffs.

“They might get upset that they don’t have Jin’s seal of approval.”

“They have Jin’s seal of approval, but my actual lunch does, too-”

“Don’t refer to yourself in the third person, weirdo,” You roll your eyes.

You both eat in silence for a few minutes, the call of hunger too intense to ignore. The food is good- the cafeteria at your company has been known for its tasty hot food and plentiful options. 

“Do you remember that kid from college? Jeon Jungkook?” Seokjin asks after a few minutes.

“Who?” You reply instantly, without baring the name a second thought.

The name sounds very familiar, and suddenly you recall where you know the name from. He was a sweet, smart kid. Maybe a little naive, but smart nonetheless. 

“Really? Your memory is that shitty?” Seokjin rolls his eyes, “He was your mentee in grad school, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember him. I was only his mentee for like seven months, that hardly counts. Before I left, I mean,” You murmur, picking at your food.

Jin notices your immediate change in demeanor, the way your face falls slightly at the mention of graduate school. You always get like this when talking about college in general, but Jin can’t blame you. He’s been trying to get you to open up about it, even though it had been nearly six years since you had to leave school abruptly.

He knows that there are layers of scar tissue below the surface. But he doesn’t know if you’re ready to face all of it.

“Jeon is starting here tomorrow. In regulatory,” Jin says breezily.

“You gonna be the kid’s boss?” You ask after a bite of chicken.

“Not directly. Namjoon will be, so you’ll be seeing him around often,” Jin says, “Think of it like a blast from the past.”

“Yeah,” You mutter, “That’s a blast from the past, alright.”

***

You feel unsettled the rest of the day, knowing that a sudden, unwelcome intrusion is about to become routine. Sudden change does not bode well with you and that’s a fact you’re willing to admit.

Jeon Jungkook.

You resist memories of him, of sitting with him in your favorite coffee shop for your biweekly mentoring sessions, of school, of classes, presentations, studying in the library, studying at home, home, home, home. You resist all of them, resisting the urge to succumb to any of it.

You can’t blame Jin for springing this on you. You know he wants you to try to move on. But you’ve been stuck. You’ve always been stuck. For five years, all you’ve done is be stuck.

All you’ve done is be running in place, going nowhere, with the memory of your father’s death haunting you behind your eyelids. 

It’s been five years, and somehow you’ve been living as a ghost for all of those years.

It doesn’t matter. Even if Jeon Jungkook was the representation of everything you had unsuccessfully run away from, it doesn’t matter.

***

Cold fury washes over you when you finally learn two days later that Jeon Jungkook is a fresh graduate who somehow landed a job that was two positions higher than you.

Sure, he had actually completed graduate school. He has the fuckin’ degree to prove his worth. And what do you have? Loans from a program you hadn’t even completed, a boss who seems to hate every fiber of your being, and shoulder pains. Lots and lots of shoulder pains.

You could scream. In fact you want to. Jin had avoided telling you what he was coming into the company as, knowing it would only incense you to this degree.

At the moment, you want to throttle Jin, too. You want to throttle every and any man who works at this company who had dared stepped on you in an attempt to gain the spotlight for themselves.

Someday, you’ll get back at them. Someday, you’ll be their superior and you’ll make them regret it. But today is not that day.

You dread running into Jeon Jungkook. You are so unbelievably envious of him, for being four or five years younger than you and securing his spot here at the company when you were still struggling. Namjoon had lots of connections, it was part of the reason that Jin had fought so hard to bring him into the company. Namjoon and Jin have the same boss and often work together. Truthfully, you work with Namjoon more than you work with Jin.

Namjoon had lots of connections, meaning that Jungkook would, too. 

When you finally do run into Jeon Jungkook, it’s by complete chance. You had been passing the regulatory area of your floor, since that’s where the printer was closest to. And you needed the walk, your muscles were screaming for it.

He’s standing tall, outside of Namjoon’s office as they both chat quietly amongst themselves. Namjoon suddenly excuses himself and disappears around the corner for a minute, and you wince, debating whether you should turn around or continue walking. Before you can turn your heel and avoid Jeon Jungkook, he turns his head and meets your eyes with a surprised look on his face.

You bite back your bark- “What? Are you surprised someone like me works here?”

But you reel it in.

He calls your name with a wave and you know you’re trapped. You give him a crisp smile and approach him warily, tightening your hold on the folders in your arms.

Jeon Jungkook looks exactly the same, and yet he looks worlds different.

“I didn’t know you worked here!” He chirps, “It’s been so long, how are you?”

“Yeah. Been here for four years. Five year anniversary is soon,” You reply, voice even and struggling to keep venom out of it, “Good. I’m good.”

Before he can ask you anymore questions, before you can see his bright, bunny smile dim with your cold response, you mutter an excuse and turn your heel to walk away from him.

You’ll just find a printer somewhere else, you suppose.

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 25: A Challenge

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Lacey faces her greatest struggle yet. 

Read on AO3

She wakes up screaming. Her body is rigid, helpless, wracked with pain. Her tongue burns with the sour juice of an apple. Cruel hands are on her, pinching, clawing, grabbing--!

Her husband is already holding her, even before she understands that the nightmare is over. He rocks her back and forth like a child. He strokes her hair and murmurs soft words. He wipes away her tears. 

She cries until her chest hurts. Until she is wrung out from it. Until she has no more tears and her noises are more moans than sobs. He holds her through it all. He never lets her go. 

Gasping for breath, she tries to speak. It isn’t needed, he knows what memories plague her thoughts. She doesn’t need to explain herself to him. 

But she wants to say the words out loud. Fears are most powerful when they are hidden, like monsters lurking in deep water. If she brings them up to the surface, if she exposes them to the light, they will be weakened.

“It was--them.” Her chest heaves. She rests on him. He is there. No matter what, he is always there. 

“They’re not here,” he whispers, as he does every time this happens. “You’re home, you’re safe here, sweetheart.” He takes her hand, presses her wedding ring to his lips. “You are mine now. They will never hurt you again.”

Shuddering, she curls into a ball in his arms. “I know,” she whispers. “I know, Rumple. In my mind I have no doubts. In my heart, I trust you--I do! But these nightmares, these memories… They keep happening.”

“Less and less often.” He kisses the top of her head, clutches her tightly. “That is the way of pain--pain in the body and pain in the mind. It never disappears, but it can lessen. In time.”

She laces her fingers through his. Slowly, her breathing returns to normal. He’s right. For a while, this happened every night. She’d be so afraid of her nightmares that she wouldn’t sleep at all. Now the memories are a disturbance, not a certainty. Someday her terrors will be less than memories. 

“And you’ll be here for me, when I am in pain?”

“Always.” He kisses her head. When she tilts her face up, he kisses her lips. Softly, gently. “I will always protect you, sweetheart. I will always comfort you.”

Exhaustion overtakes her. Still in her husband’s arms, she sinks into the pillows of their marriage bed. 

“I love you, Rumple,” she murmurs. 

He places a kiss on her temple. “And I love you, Belle. I will never let Regina hurt you again.”    

****

It was dark when Lacey opened her eyes. Her chest was tight. Her jaw had clenched as she slept. She didn’t move as she lay on her back in bed and let the dream wash over her. 

It hurt. It always hurt to dream of being loved, of having a husband who loved her. She kept telling herself that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t want Mr. Gold to love her. But the husband in her dreams wasn’t Mr. Gold. He was someone she called Rumple.

And Rumple called her Belle. Lacey was so desperate to be loved that her mind let her imaginary husband call her by the nickname her real husband had given to his boyfriend.   

Fuck, she was a nutcase. 

She had to get over him. These stupid dreams and delusions would never stop as long as she kept yearning for her husband. She needed to give herself to Mayor Mills. She would make everything better. When Mayor Mills finally owned her, then Lacey could stop deluding herself that she deserved love. She was a worthless, trashy, Old Town slut. No one worthwhile could ever love her, and Mayor Mills would never pretend to. Mayor Mills would punish her for existing, just like she deserved. 

It would all happen. Life would go back to normal. All her dreams would come true. Just as soon as she could prove to Mayor Mills that her marriage was dead.  

Gradually, the room lightened around her. She heard the noises of Mr. Gold getting out of bed. Water in the pipes as he washed his hands and brushed his teeth.  

She didn’t move until she heard the shower turn on. That was when she slunk across the hallway to what used to be their room. As she crept over the creaky floorboards, she rehearsed excuses for why she was there. She had forgotten something, some piece of jewelry or clothing she had left in the armoire. 

That was technically true. She was looking for jewelry.

For as long as she could remember, Mr. Gold had never taken off his wedding ring. Sometimes he would remove the large moonstone ring, but never the plain gold band that hid behind it. Not when he did messy house work, not when he showered, not when he slept.

Lacey was probably an idiot for thinking that might have changed, but how would she know if she didn’t try? She’d been watching him lately, trying to see if she could get his ring away from him. Every night for a week, she’d dried dishes that he washed, standing next to him at the sink making stilted small talk. Being that close to him made her want to tear her skin off with a cheese slicer, which was not quite the type of pain she was looking for. 

It hurt to be near him, it hurt to be away.

Quickly scanning the bedroom, Lacey looked at the dresser and the bedside table where he might have emptied his pockets the night before. His keys and his change were in the amber-brown cut glass dish where he always left them. No ring. 

There was a teacup on the nightstand, by what used to be her side of the bed. Lacey pressed her lips together. That fucking chipped cup had ruined her life. It was a symbol of how much he loved “Belle.” Balling her hands into fists, she crept closer to the bed and looked inside the teacup. 

Empty. 

That left only one more option, the riskiest one yet. Silently, Lacey went to the closed door of the bathroom and crouched in front of it so she could see through the keyhole. 

At first, she couldn’t see much through the steam. She knew she would be able to see the sink or the counter or any other place where Mr. Gold might have set his ring down. But as she squinted through the haze, she could see his body through the glass of the shower door. He was standing up, under the spray. His right hand was braced against the wall, keeping his weight off his bad ankle. 

His left hand, the hand where she could see a faint glint of gold, was pumping his cock. 

Lacey bit back a scream. Bastard! He was jerking off? He was thinking about his handsome Belle while still wearing his Goddamned wedding ring?

She backed away from the door while the world fell apart around her. She stared at the chipped cup, as though she could shoot lasers out of her eyes to blow it up. God, she wanted to smash that fucking thing into shards. She wanted to smash her skull in. The voice inside her was screaming and for once she didn’t want it to stop. She wanted to join it. She wanted to scream and wail until there was nothing left of her but pain. And then she wanted her husband--her Rumple--to comfort her, and hold her, and help her put the pieces of herself back together. 

She made it back to her room before she began to cry. She buried her head in a pillow to muffle the sound. Part of her wanted to let Mr. Gold hear, to know how much she hated him, how much she hated herself for loving him. He needed to know how much pain she was in. She had to tell him. She had to make him care about her!

But he didn’t. That made Lacey cry all the harder. He didn’t care about her. She could tell him everything and it wouldn’t change that fact. 

Her dream was even more bitter now. Rumple had promised that he would protect her from an outside threat, from some horrible person named Regina. He didn’t even think that he needed to protect her from himself--or from herself. Rumple would care if she was in pain. He would comfort her, and love her.

But Rumple wasn’t real. 

Rumple wasn’t real, and Mr. Gold didn’t care. Her only hope was Mayor Mills. 

****

One of the best parts of trying to prove herself to Mayor Mills was that Lacey had a reason to care about her appearance again. The ritual of clothes and makeup and jewelry helped her keep her mind off herself. It wasn’t like she mattered. That was why she needed to be decorated. She was just a fucktoy, a thing to be looked at and consumed. 

And she really, really, wanted to make Mayor Mills want to consume her today. Lacey’s hands shook as she attached her thigh-high stockings to her garter belt. These were real silk stockings, with a black line going up the back. Classy as fuck, like Mayor Mills herself. A tight black dress matched the stockings and the black heels. 

Heavy on the eye makeup today. Black mascara and eyeliner, shimmery dark gray on the lids. Sultry, seductive. Maybe just trashy enough that Mayor Mills would notice it, and insult her for it.

“Stupid whore,” Lacey whispered to her reflection as she lined her lips apple-red. She stared at her mouth and tried to imagine it was Mayor Mills speaking to her. “You desperate, needy little slut.”

She breathed. That felt better. 

Her own wedding ring was right where she had left it last night, in the bottom of her sock drawer. The night after Mayor Mills had made her offer, Mrs. Gold had taken off her wedding ring for the first time in as long as she could remember.  It had taken her hours to get to sleep that night. She’d kept rubbing the naked patch on her finger. It had felt so weird, so wrong.

Now it was easier. Today, she was ready to go a step farther. Lacey took the ring out of her sock drawer, but instead of sliding it onto her finger again, she dropped it into her royal blue clutch. Today would be the first time since she had gotten her wedding ring that she would go out in public without it on. At least she’d have that to show Mayor Mills. 

By the time she came down the stairs, Mr. Gold had already finished breakfast. He was folding the newspaper and getting ready to go. 

“Good morning,” he nodded to her politely. Then he stopped and looked again at her outfit. Yep, there was nothing wrong with his eyes or his cock. He just didn’t want her. “Are you going into town today?”

Lacey nodded and kept both hands behind her back. “I’ll grab breakfast at Granny’s.”

She would do no such thing, but this version of Mr. Gold liked to know she ate.

 As he drove them to the shop, Lacey wondered--again--if Mayor Mills knew what Mr. Gold’s ring looked like. One plain gold band was pretty much the same as any other, right? The other day, when he had left her alone in the shop, she had gone through the inventory of men’s rings and picked out a few likely candidates. If she had ever seen Mr. Gold taking off his ring, she would have tried to swap it out with a fake. As it was now, she might still try to pass off shop inventory as her husband’s private property. 

But he would be able to tell the difference if she tried to switch the rings. And even if Mayor Mills didn’t have Mr. Gold’s eye for antiques, she would know when she was being lied to. She was a smart, savvy woman in power. A useless idiot like Lacey couldn’t hope to fool her. 

Lacey, please stop insulting yourself. This is how you let yourself get hurt!  

The voice was getting pushy. Lacey waved it away from her mind like a wasp at a picnic. Besides, what the voice didn’t understand--what no one had ever understood, except for Mr. Gold and now Mayor Mills--was how much she wanted to get hurt.

****

Lacey managed to keep away from City Hall until around noon. She spent the morning walking in a spiral around town, circles getting smaller and smaller as she zeroed in on her target. 

She stayed away from the familiar stores today. If she went to Sugar’n’Spice or Hair Today! she might be tempted to tell Mara or Janine what she was planning. They would try to talk her out of it. They’d tell her that she deserved better--as if they knew anything about her. She also gave a wide berth to Marine Automotive and Game of Thorns. Lacey had only just gotten on better terms with Dad, she didn’t want to have to deal with his judgement again. And Uncle Manny only liked her so much because he remembered a little girl who could repeat jokes and read meaningless trivia out of books.

Her family, everyone who loved her, didn’t really know her at all. They loved the person she was in front of them--fun and smart and hard-working. They would never understand who she really was. Her darkest, ugliest, most depraved self. The part of Lacey that had slipped so easily into being Mrs. Gold. No one could ever love that version of her. 

Good thing she wasn’t looking for love.

Heart in her throat, Lacey climbed up the stairs to City Hall. What time did Mayor Mills usually take a lunch break? She didn’t know, but she would find out, wouldn’t she? If this worked out, she would know the mayor’s schedule intimately. 

As she thought about that scenario, Lacey’s breathing began to even out. Surely even someone as professional and orderly as Mayor Mills wouldn’t be above an occasional nooner. Of course Lacey would be available at any time of the day or night. If the mayor had a bad day and needed to unwind, if she was furious with the incompetence of the stupid bureaucrats and drones she worked with and needed to vent out her rage, then Lacey would be there. Ready and willing. For as long as Mayor Mills would have her. 

Lacey, she’ll kill you. Regina killed Sheriff Graham--she killed Maleficent! And her own father! If you take one step out of line, she will rip out your heart and crush it!

“Mr. Gold already did that,” Lacey muttered to herself as she opened the big double doors. The worst Mayor Mills could do would be to finish what her husband had started. 

The stuttering male receptionist told her that the mayor was in a private meeting, but of course Mrs. Gold was more than welcome to wait.

She sat in a hard red plastic chair directly in front of the mayor’s office. There was a magazine in her hands, but she couldn’t even pretend to read. Instead, she looked at the door. Then at the shiny black and white tiles. Then at her left hand, and the indentation in her fourth finger.  

Hours could have passed. Days, or years. What was time? It felt like she had been waiting all her life, or like she had never been alive before this moment. Or like she still hadn’t been born. Not yet, Not until--

The door opened. Mayor Mills was dressed impeccably in a black pantsuit. The blazer had a thin border of white around the lapels, to match the blouse underneath a black vest that was cut to accentuate her bust. She was stunning. And she was smiling. Not a smirk or a grin, but a real smile that radiated joy and triumph. 

Lacey’s breath caught. How could she have forgotten how magnificent she was?

However, her spirits sank when she saw just who Mayor Mills was holding the door open for. 

It was him. It was Mr. Gold’s “Belle.” The tall, handsome, well-dressed man who had destroyed every hope she’d had of a happy marriage. 

Jefferson!

Unlike Mayor Mills, the man left the office frowning. He held a battered old top hat under his arm, close to his chest. When he saw Lacey, his slate blue eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but it was Mayor Mills who spoke.

“Why, Mrs. Gold!” she smiled. “This is turning out to be a banner day! Please come in.”

The man stared at her, but she didn’t look at him as she hurried into the mayor’s office. She stood in the center of the circle on the floor while Mayor Mills shut the door behind her. There was an extra click as the door locked.

“You know, I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to have you back so soon, dear.” Mayor Mills came up behind her and wrapped her arm around her waist. The closeness made her gasp. The mayor’s hand took Lacey’s and rubbed approvingly along her naked fingers. “You’ll find I reward prompt obedience in my underlings.”

With a final squeeze, Mayor Mills broke her contact with Lacey and went behind her desk. An apple sat on the white stone surface. One of the mayor’s Honeycrisp apples, as red as blood. It already had a bite taken out of it. Mayor Mills sat in her black leather chair like it was a throne. 

“Now,” she said, “do you have something to show me?”

“Yes!” Fumbling with her clutch, Lacey pulled out her ring and set it on the desk next to the apple. 

Mayor Mills looked down at it, pleased but clearly expecting more. “And?” she said brightly. “Where’s the other one?”

Lacey opened her mouth. “I--” she began. “I don’t think we really need it. T-there’s nothing special about Mr. Gold’s wedding ring. I can prove my devotion to you in any number of way, Madame--”

“No!” The single word was a wrecking ball, crashing through all of Lacey’s pitiful excuses and desperate begging. “No, that is not good enough, you stupid whore!”

  Despite her fantasies, Lacey winced at the reality of the mayor’s wrath. It took all her strength to stay standing. She didn’t deserve to kneel. 

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. 

“I gave you a job, you brainless blow-up doll! And when I tell people to do something, I expect it to get done!”

“You’re right, Madame Mayor. I’m so so--”

“Get out of here,” she snapped. Mayor Mills grabbed the half-bitten apple off her desk and dropped it into her purse. She started turning off the lights around the office. “Don’t come back until you can get Gold’s wedding ring away from him.” She unlocked the door and opened it. When she looked at Lacey again, some of her good mood seemed to have come back. “I promise you, dear, you’ll have plenty of time to make this up to me. Right now, I’ve got some baking to do.”

And she left.

****

 Standing alone in the middle of the mayor’s office, Lacey heard the click-clack of high heels on tile, fading away. 

“What the fuck?” Lacey whispered. For a moment, she wondered if the voice in her head would say something. But there was nothing. 

She was nothing. 

Nothing to Mr. Gold, and nothing to Mayor Mills. She wasn’t even important enough for them to hate or degrade. They didn’t care about her.

She was nothing. 

It was like she was in shock. She couldn’t move. If there was anything to hear or see, she didn’t notice it. Again she had the feeling of time evaporating into mist all around her. All her hopes of a future had just turned into ash and crumbled away. 

 Slowly, the door creaked open. A man’s head popped into the office. No, not just a man. The man. The man her husband had sex with and called “Belle.” The man he loved. 

“Are you okay?”

Lacey wanted to laugh. What a question! And from what a source! Sure, why not? Why not talk to “Belle”? It wasn’t like it could make this day any worse!

The man stepped into the office. He didn’t speak to her at first. He walked to the desk and picked up her wedding ring. He held it in his palm and smiled. 

“You know, I’ve never seen you without this on, in one form or another.” He held the ring out to her and she jolted back to life.

“How many times have you seen me?” She snatched the ring out of his hand. “I never saw you before a month ago. But I guess it makes sense that you knew about me before I knew about you. The wife’s always the last to know, right?”

The man didn’t match her anger. He just smiled at her, the same kind of condescending compassion usually reserved for children or morons. 

“Why did you think Regina would help you?” He tried to move his hands, but he was limited with the hat under his arm. “Now me, I knew exactly what I wanted, and I demanded payment in advance. That’s the only way to deal with her. She’s not like your husband.”

“Please don’t talk about him,” Lacey hissed. “Or about her. Or about anything! Why are you even here? Just to torture me?”

His smile vanished, his eyes filled with tenderness. “I’m not your enemy,” he said. 

“No, you’re my rival. Are you fucking both of them? Do you seek out people I might have an interest in and seduce them before I can get a chance? Did you dig up my old high school boyfriend and rock his world too?” God, it felt good to be angry, to have somewhere to direct her anger that wasn’t at herself. Jefferson could take it. 

“I’m not fucking Regina.” He was almost sardonic as he said it. “One thing I learned in my travels is don’t put your dick in crazy. That’s something you should have thought of before you came here, missy.”

Lacey rolled her eyes and stomped out of the office. The man stayed behind her until they were out of City Hall. On the front steps, he grabbed her arm. Not hard, just enough to get her attention. Just enough to turn her around to face him.

“So what’s your plan now?” he challenged her. “Regina was kind of loud in there, I couldn’t help overhearing your predicament.”

“And you want to help?” Of course he did, he wanted Mr. Gold all to himself. 

“I want to know what you’re thinking,” he said. His mouth twitched and he looked away for a minute. “I wanna know how badly all this has fucked you up.”

She scoffed and began to walk again. She didn’t know where she was going, but it didn’t matter. Away from this weirdo. Away from everything.

 She stopped at the crosswalk and watched Sheriff Swan’s yellow bug turn the corner onto Mifflin Street. Was she going to Mayor Mills’ house? Why? God, was everyone having sex with each other except her?

The man was still following her. “Listen,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk? Maybe you have questions for me? We’ve got a lot in common.”

The thought made Lacey want to gag. The swell of anger was the push she needed to turn on her heel and face this homewrecker. 

“Why does he call you Belle?” she spat. “Mr. Gold doesn’t like nicknames and it doesn’t make any sense to call a man that. So what’s the story there?”

He blinked. The face he made seemed to be genuine shock. He looked her in the eyes when he asked, “You think I’m Belle?”

Lacey was going to scream. “Oh, good God! How many people is he cheating on me with?”

The man held up his hands. “Just me, as far as I know. I can’t imagine him with anyone but me and you.”

“And Belle,” Lacey taunted them both with the name. “I know that Belle exists and I know that he loves her. If that isn’t you, then who the fuck is it?”

Exhaling, Jefferson scratched the back of his head. “Um,” he said. “Wow. Okay. Um. Have you… ever talked to your husband about Belle?”

She bristled, crossed her arms over her chest. “Where do you think I got the piddling information I have? Yes, Mr. Gold says that Belle is real. He talks about her like she’s a woman--actually, he talks about her like she’s an angel, but that’s neither here nor there. He says that he loves her and that she trusts him.”

“Do you trust him?”

Lacey scowled. “Why should I?” 

“Because he loves you.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “No. He doesn’t. Never did, never will.”

The man made a noise, a wordless expression of pity. He looked at her like she didn’t understand something blindingly obvious.

“You can’t expect me to believe that Mr. Gold loves me.”

“Mr. Gold? Nah. But your husband? Honey, your husband loves you more than anything in any world.”

She couldn’t speak. Tears welled up in her eyes. She turned away so he wouldn’t see, bracing herself against a fence. It was plastic made to look like wood, the sort of thing you got in the bad part of New Town. Up ahead, the yellow bug was on Main Street again. Must have been a short visit.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. The man was still behind her. “Isn’t Mr. Gold loving me a bad thing for you?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got a wife of my own. I’m gonna see her soon. I’ve got a piece of what I need for that.” He held up the top hat, as if that explained how he was going to get back to Leona. “Point is, there are some people that belong together. They’re a matched set. In one world or another, they’ll find each other.”

Lacey shook her head. “That’s only true in fairy tales.”

Jefferson patted her on the back. “Exactly.”

She shook her head and started walking again, faster than before. Somewhere in the distance, ambulance sirens blared. Behind her, the man picked up his pace to catch up with her.

“You keep following me and I’m going to call Sheriff Swan.”

He shook his head. “Emma’s got her own problems right now. Hopefully, she’ll have her own solutions too. You need to figure out yourself, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Someone called her that. Not this man, not any of her friends or family, no boy she’d ever dated, but a man. A man who loved her. 

Rumple.

Lacey wiped at her eyes again. God, her makeup was probably ruined. “Alright, Jefferson, fine. If you have all the answers, why don’t you tell me what they are?”

The man got ahead of her and stopped walking. He looked at her like he couldn’t believe his eyes. His mouth was open, but it took him a moment to speak. 

“Two questions,” he said at last. “One at a time. First, what do you want from your husband?”

She sighed. There was no way she could tell this man what she really wanted from Mr. Gold. And she couldn’t very well tell Mr. Gold about it either. So she settled for the next best thing. 

“I want him to give me his wedding ring so I can give it to Mayor Mills.”

The man pressed his lips together and nodded. “Okay, well, you’re going to have to tell him that.”

“What?”

“Just be honest with him. Tell him that Regina wants your wedding rings. Tell him that she wants to hurt you and you want to let her. You’ve tried everything else, haven’t you? Maybe that’s the only thing that will work.”

Lacey shook her head. “That would never work! Mr. Gold isn’t going to give me something just because I ask for it!” 

Jefferson shrugged. “He’s fair, isn’t he? Make it a deal, truth for truth. Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

She kept shaking her head. This man might have fucked her husband, but he didn’t know him at all. 

“Second question.” He held up two fingers. “And then I have to go. School’s letting out and I need to see my daughter. But the question is,” he leaned forward, and looked her straight in the eyes. “How did you know my name is Jefferson?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. With a showy flourish, he spun around and put the top hat on his head. Then he sauntered off, with Lacey alone on the sidewalk.   

 ****

She trudged along by herself, from the New Town mansions to the Main Street shops. Unlike her frantic spiral to City Hall, Lacey walked slowly now, in a straight line. There was no avoiding where she was going, where she had to go. But there wasn’t any hurry either. 

He was right--the man, Jefferson, whatever--she had to talk to Mr. Gold. Lying and sneaking around hadn’t worked. But maybe they could make a deal. She couldn’t imagine what he would demand as payment, if she asked to be freed from their marriage.

 If nothing else, Dad would have to start paying rent again. She couldn’t live in Mr. Gold’s house anymore. She’d be homeless, jobless. She could probably crash with Janine or Mara. Live with them and work at Game of Thorns for whatever twenties Dad could spare after he had paid the bills. On the bright side, he probably hadn’t cleaned out her old bedroom. She could still wear her clothes from high school.

It was a bleak future, but at least it was something. It was better than hating herself all the time, the way she did around Mr. Gold. The way she would if she gave herself over to Regina Mills.

Rumple will protect you, Lacey. He loves you!  

And maybe she could beg Dr. Hopper for some therapy. Clearly she had a lot of issues, even before she started hearing voices.     

When she got to the shop, the Closed sign was facing out, even though it was the middle of the day. But the Cadillac was parked by the side door, and she had her key. The bell rang as she let herself in. 

“We’re closed,” her husband’s voice came from the back. 

“It’s just me,” Lacey called. Whoever that was. 

She made her way to the back slowly. Between all the walking and all the emotions, she was wrung-out. Bone-tired and ragged. She slumped on the doorframe and looked at him. These could be the last moments for her to pretend that he was her husband. 

Mr. Gold was sitting at the work table, appraising some kind of antique. It was shaped like an egg but the size of a football. It was gold, and covered with clear gems so huge they had to be fake. Diamonds that big didn’t exist outside of museums. The two halves of it opened on a hinge, and lay flat on the table like a book. Gray velvet lined the inside, covering the indentation meant for some kind of small bottle. 

What was that thing? A holder for a bottle of perfume? A carrying case for an expensive liqueur? Something to do with Easter?    

Standing up, Mr. Gold closed the egg on its hinges and locked it with a key. His hand slipped into his pants pocket. He was hiding something. That didn’t surprise her at this point. As far as she knew, he was hiding everything.

She cleared her throat and stood up straight. “I went to City Hall today,” she announced. 

Mr. Gold pulled a jewelry box off a shelf, then frowned at the dust on top. “Oh really?”

Lacey knew that tone. That dismissive, disinterested voice he used every time he wasn’t growling or snarling. Being ignored was worse than being hurt, and that was all he had done to her in months.

“Yes,” she spat out the word. “I had a meeting with Mayor Mills.”

That stopped him from looking at his inventory. When he turned his head to her, she saw that his teeth were on edge. 

“Why?” he whispered. 

A deep breath. Do the brave thing. Tell him the truth. He loves you.

“Because I wanted her to hurt me.” Lacey had tears in her eyes. When had that started up again? “Because I want her to fuck me, and insult me, and treat me like shit. The way you used to.”

Grimacing, he looked away from her. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because she couldn’t do it.” Lacey kept breathing, deep and even. She felt… strong, somehow. Like there was more inside of her than there had ever been before. Maybe bravery had followed her after all. “She tried to play it off like she wouldn’t do it, like it was a principle or something. But I’m pretty sure that something stopped her.” She swallowed, and took a step toward him.

Rumple.

“I think...” she began, and then stopped. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding crazy.”

“Say it,” he whispered. His eyes--so dark, so lovely--brimmed with tears. “Please say it, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Another breath. Another step. 

“I had a dream,” she said, “where you said you would protect me from Regina.”

“Yes.” He stared at her. He looked at her like she was the only star in the sky. He moved toward her, arms open. “Yes, I’ll protect you.”    

He held her. He embraced her. For the first time in months, she felt his arms around her. He cherished her. He loved her.

Lacey wanted to melt into him. She wanted to cry so hard she dissolved. But she couldn’t do it yet. There was more that she had to say. 

“In my dreams... I call you Rumple.” 

A shudder went through him and he held her tighter. “Yes,” he whispered into her hair. 

So, Lacey thought, as crazy as she sounded to herself, somehow she was making sense to him. 

“And in my dreams,” she went on, “you call me Belle. Am I Belle? Have I been Belle all this time?”

He broke apart from her gently, and kissed her on the forehead. “No,” he murmured. “But you will be, sweetheart. I promise.”

Moving away from her, he went to one of the shelves. He pulled down a box--a fireproof safe--and unlocked it with two different keys. His back was to her, so she couldn’t see what was inside.

“I think it’s time,” her husband said, “for me to tell you everything.”

Then he turned around, and put something on the work table. It was a knife--no, a dagger. A ruby-pommelled, wavy-bladed dagger. On the flat of the blade, facing up from the table, a name was engraved in black enamel.

Rumpelstiltskin.

Lacey blinked. She had seen that dagger before. Was it in a dream? Or a memory? She looked at her husband, who stood back from the blade as though he had no claim to it.

She looked at it again. She knew that dagger. It was hers. He had given it to her. Long ago, in another world. Or in a dream. Or in a memory. 

Picking it up, she looked at him. Understanding was so close she could taste it, but she wasn’t there yet. All she could do was ask her husband.

“Rumple?” 

[thewhitefluffyhat]

Thoughts on Gou Episode 24

And for the grand finale, we have... an episode where everything went basically as expected again!  Which made for a bit of an anticlimax, but there were still some nice moments in this.

And a lot of theory-accounting to do, of course!

Which loop is this? And what happened to Rika?

I speculated after last episode that Satoko was doing a set-up loop to ensure she was chasing a Rika who would remember St Lucia.

Well, that sure didn't happen.  Given how Satoko is seen watching different Fragments at various points throughout the episode, it seems like she really is just peeking into random timelines as preparation rather than there being one specific timeline she's living in and following for this.  

So... we're still left with the question: which timeline is Gou Rika from? Why does she have memories of St Lucia?

And we're back down to only two possibilities:

1. Rika is from the first St Lucia timeline

In my Episode 20 Thoughts, I explored how the first timeline's Rika might have run back to the Ritual Tools Shrine (as in Gou’s OP) and also met with Eua. And everything in that post is still on the table!  In fact, this may actually be the more likely option, as without Rika making her own deal, there doesn't seem to be any reason why Gou's Rika should remember St Lucia at all.

2. Rika is from the second St Lucia timeline

The relevant detail here is that this Rika is the only one who actually died during Satoko's loops.  Plus, the ED heavily features the chandelier that killed both girls, suggesting that event was extremely important. There's also some satisfying neatness to the Rika who Satoko wronged most being the one who ultimately gets a chance to defeat her.

But in this case, something still isn't adding up. Why did Eua suddenly allow Rika to keep her St Lucia memories starting in Onidamashi, when she hadn't allowed that for any of the Rikas who Satoko suicided in front of?  All Eua said to Satoko is that once Satoko died after Rika, she'd get to keep chasing the same Rika. Nothing about bringing back a Rika who Satoko had killed many Fragments ago. 

So either Satoko needs to get another powerup to make this happen, or Eua is doing this in secret to make things interesting for her new toy. (Which, intriguingly, also suggests Rika made a deal with Eua - or more likely, that Eua was tricking her by appearing as that Hanyuu "trace.")

.

Finally, Takano changing her mind this episode means that the Rika who Satoko chases cannot be from any future timeline Satoko creates, as that Rika has never experienced those events with Takano.

Speaking of which, Takano!

Changing Her Mind, Elaborated

I overall thought the Takano section of the episode was quite well-executed - the letter and explicit confirmation of memory accumulation was all we needed to fill in the blanks from Nekodamashi. I found the recap of her backstory a little slow/redundant, but Younger Brother (who never read the VN and hasn’t watched the original anime in years) especially appreciated the clarity.

The main quibble I have of this section is - why now, in the middle of Satoko stuff, rather than in Nekodamashi?  I'm not sure it was enough of a mystery to be worth keeping hidden until the season finale.

I've also seen some criticism of Hifumi’s letter as too convenient or too obviously made up for Gou, but I actually disagree there!

First, I genuinely buy that Takano would have a photo album she refused to look at.  Remember, most of the time she pretends not to even be related to Hifumi. Around the clinic, she really can't have something like that in the open.  

Plus, there’s that montage-like bit in Matsuribayashi where Takano drives herself to succeed in school and so on, where she comes across as single-mindedly pursuing her goal even to the point of not being with her grandfather as much. Also, her belated realization at Koizumi's death that he could have been a grandfather to her too?  Yeah, Takano is aaaaaall about shutting off her emotions and human connections in service of her obsessive goal.

Then there's the implications of the Takano in "The First and Last Gift."  

See, despite having a complete set of kids' meal flags (implying her parents didn't die in the train crash), the Miyoko there is still called "Takano” and had a very wealthy grandfather. I’d long ago taken this as implying she was eventually adopted by Hifumi at some point too, and he encouraged her to live her own life instead of devoting herself to his research.  So in other words, Umineko fans could already infer the existence of a Hifumi who would write a letter like this to Miyo - the episode just confirmed that all Hifumis share that sentiment.

Still, even without that Umineko/Hotarubi-assisted guesswork, I found the letter to be emotionally satisfying.  It’s a direct contrast to Hifumi’s Minagoroshi suicide note, in which he insists Takano must become a god. So while in other timelines, that awful suicide note would have been the last “communication” she ever had with him, now in this timeline, the letter from when he was in a better frame of mind can supplant the sad image of him she had.  

In other words, Takano can finally remember her grandfather the way he wanted to be remembered.  D’awww.

...Lest that get too saccharine for you all, though, the last reason I like this is just how bleak it makes every timeline where Takano succeeds.  Presumably, after putting the finishing touches on the Great Hinamizawa Disaster, she finally goes to open the letter... only to find out the horrific atrocity she just committed was something Hifumi wouldn't have wanted at all.  Whoopsie daisy~!  

(Well, not like she has long to live after that anyway.)

Did Satokowashi explain what it needed to?

Finally, the howdunnit!  Took Gou long enough, haha!

And, in the end, it really was just H173. At this point Satoko getting her hands on the drug was a fun moment (Lambdadelta, expert safecracker! Maybe she should team up with Secret Agent Shion from Mei? XD), but not a very emotional one.

She already knew what to do and where to get it from the loops, and that was that.

Anyway, now that we have the full picture of Satoko's backstory, it's time to go back to my episode 17 analysis of Satoko looper theory!

Back then, I said my biggest problem with the theory was:

As is, the theory still fails to convincingly connect the “howdunnit” and the “whydunnit.” “Satoko is yandere about Rika leaving” does not follow through to “Satoko knows about and has access to H173."

And Satokowashi supplied the requisite connection - Satoko gaining her own looping abilities!

Indeed, if anything, I'd actually call the combination of access to loops + full knowledge of Rika's loops to be the true howdunnit of Gou.  H173 is just the physical manifestation of that, and we see in this episode how Satoko being able to obtain it was dependent on her access to new and dangerous Fragment-hopping strategies.

...Which means, just like other WTC mysteries, Satoko's "howdunnit" and her "whydunnit" are directly and intimately connected.  Watching Rika's loops is what pushed Satoko over the line into wanting to commit the murders, and watching Rika's loops is also what gave her the means to do so.  Very nice!

But what about the missing pieces for her changed behavior that I speculated about?  Let's take this bullet by bullet:

-Something happened because Rika left Hinamizawa. Yes indeed, and it wasn't just Satoko getting left behind! It's hard to quickly summarize everything that went down with Satoko and Rika, but if I had to, I'd say the core is that Satoko feels betrayed and used by Rika. She sacrificed years of her life toward making Rika's dream happen, only to realize Rika wasn't who she thought and the future Rika pressured her into was a miserable hell. Now Satoko absolutely refuses to compromise on her own dream, just as Rika does.  Because why yield an inch to a liar? That's just giving Rika a chance to let her down again!

-Something happened to desensitize Satoko. After Episode 17, I was wondering if this bullet was a bit of a reach, but it really turned out to be a major aspect of Satokowashi!  Satoko now considers her individual lives within Fragments to be completely expendable - absurd suicides are both a way to entertain Eua and a way to skip to what she wants faster.  And if her own repeated deaths weren't enough, watching all of Rika's Fragments would have destroyed any last discomfort she would have with violence.

-Something happened that gave Satoko knowledge of not only Hinamizawa Syndrome but H173. Watching Rika's loops happened, that's what! Add to it Satoko's practice with loop-hopping, and that's why a small child was able to break into a safe in a top secret research facility. Fair enough!

-Something happened that made Satoko care less about Satoshi.  Hm. Maybe it was living with no sign of Satoshi for 10+ mental years, maybe it was another side effect of watching Rika's loops, but Satoko's switch from obsessing over Satoshi to obsessing over Rika was never significantly touched on. Ahh well. Couldn't win them all.

So, in answer to the question titling this section... yes.  We do have all the missing pieces now, some more satisfyingly presented than others.

A Very Lambda Ambition

Okay, I'm pretty sure the REAL game Satoko is playing is actually “how many times can I use the word ‘certainty’ in one conversation and STILL have people claim I’m not Lambda.”  XD

(Anyone want to bet on whether we'll also get "super paper" by the end of Sotsu?  I'd put decent odds of it, especially given Rika already referred to tearing fate apart like it was paper in Tataridamashi, lol.)

Anyway, I was totally grinning to see that little moment of Satoko also wanting to become a god. Takano's boldness in picking a fight with god is one of my favorite aspects of her character, so I'm glad to see Satoko carry on the Lambda piece tradition of shooting for the moon!

Though, I was pretty sad we didn’t get an explicit explanation of the transfer of Lambda's power. So we've still got the paradox / retcon of Memoirs hanging over those two.

...Here's a fun thought, however: Memoirs never names the child who Lambda granted a wish to.  So it's now theoretically possible to read that story as somehow referring to Satoko instead of young Takano.

But that doesn't quite fit either - Gou Satoko has a wish, and it's not the one she makes to Lambda in Memoirs. And if Satoko becomes Lambda (which I’m almost certain she will), then the "After all, she created a new witch and sent her to my side." line becomes even stranger.  

Moving on...

Murder in a Dream

Ah, looks like someone decided to go for a nice swim in denial river! You keep telling yourself that Satoko, I'm sure it will work out juuust fine.

...is probably exactly the thought going through Eua's head in this scene, actually.  The way she's smiling and agreeing and even asking Satoko if she won't feel guilty?  Yeah she's totally looking forward to Satoko's pride becoming a harsh fall.

Because Satoko is obviously wrong here - we see in just the first cour alone that Fragments continue on past Rika and Satoko's deaths.  But it's much more entertaining for Eua (and us viewers!) if she encourages Satoko to persist in her denial and only realize the truth when it's far, far too late.

Satoko's mindset here is also very interestingly resonant with other moments in WTC games.

Within just Higurashi, the Saikoroshi arc explores an inverse of Satoko's situation, ending on the question - did Rika just murder her own mother in a real Fragment?  Rika is initially horrified by the thought she truly committed the act. But through conversations with Hanyuu and Rena, Rika convinces herself that she should live only in one world and consider the others to be dreams. Essentially, the arc is about Hanyuu teaching Rika to think exactly like Satoko does here!

(Major Umineko spoilers)

Meanwhile, in Umineko, we learn that in one Fragment - the one regarded by many fans as the "true" timeline, with the rest as mere in-universe stories - Beatrice never killed anyone.  As a result, I've seen many people defend the character based on exactly the logic Satoko uses in Gou: the other worlds weren't real, and so the atrocities she wrought in them didn't matter.

And yet, in the text of Umineko, Beatrice commits suicide because the sins of the countless other worlds were weighing on her.

I've seen theories on Reddit that Satoko may follow in Beatrice's footsteps here, and attempt to kill herself once she realizes what she's done.  And I think those theories are very likely indeed.

(end Umineko spoilers)

In Conclusion

As the finale to Gou/Sotsu’s first season, I personally found this episode underwhelming.  Most of the content was reveals I'd guessed long ago - Takano changed her mind because of the accumulated memories, Satoko broke in and stole H173.

However, that may actually be a good sign - most viewers aren't going to be consuming enormous amounts of fan analysis as they watch.  And future viewers who discover Gou later won't be able to participate in fandom theorizing at all!  Well-done foreshadowing and later clarity are much better for the sake of Gou holding up to the test of time.

Still, I am genuinely puzzled at the pacing of the last three episodes. Isn't Episode 24′s conclusion all just a repeat of Episode 22, but with less impact? We already knew Satoko planned to trap Rika in a game, we'd even already heard her use Lambda's "certainty" catchphrase.  Meanwhile, having those reveals in Episode 22 meant we got the dramatic cliffhanger (and subsequent fandom arguments) there, and then spent the last two episodes doing miscellaneous preparation for the board. Preparation that only invited confusion given that Satoko had just gotten the ability to chase Rika and yet apparently decided not to make use of it.

I think the pacing would have worked better if Episode 22 kept Satoko's intentions ambiguous.  Have her continue to learn new tricks and explore the Hinamizawa game board as Eua looks on unsure but very intrigued by what Satoko could be planning.  Then, finally at the end of Episode 24, have Satoko declare her intentions and ask Eua for the power to make it possible. 

Roll credits as the fandom is left sitting with the realization Satoko has become a villain.  

And yes, that last aspect is inevitable to the structure of Gou, and I'm more than fine with it. You don't solve the conflict when you're only halfway through the story!

[bigfan-fanfic]

Kost Aban as a Companion

(Face Claim: Brant Daugherty) Kost Aban, Road Dad of the Inner Circle and Magesmith for the Inquisition. He’s charming and sweet, and he’ll handle requisitions so you never have to worry about that Requisition Officer ever again. Also he makes travel snacks as well as serves as a portable weapon and armor crafting station. Did I mention he’s romanceable?

Companion Name: Kost Aban (lit. “Peaceful Ocean” in Qunlat) Race, Class, and Specialization: Qunari Mage (Rift Mage) Varric’s Nickname for Him: Shiny (for his horn ornaments) Default Tarot Card: Page of Wands

How He Is Recruited: His adopted human son, Roland, a young man of about 22, will rush out into the plaza in Val Royeaux on the first visit and request the Inquisitor come meet his father. Kost will immediately offer his services as a magesmith to the Inquisition, as well as his son’s skills as an apprentice. If the Inquisitor is a Qunari, he will also mention that sometimes it helps to have a friendly face around that one doesn’t have to look down to see. Where He Is In Skyhold: With his son, Dagna (and conditionally) Harritt in the Undercroft. He can generally be found talking smithing techniques or occasionally insisting Roland and Dagna go get refreshments and sunlight because they’ve been working too long. If he is recruited, he will also set up a cozy-looking sitting area/lounge in the Undercroft. Things He Generally Approves of: Upgrading Skyhold, completing Dagna’s sidequests, not siding with the Qunari, showing mercy Things He Generally Disapproves of: Siding with the Qunari, executing prisoners, siding with the Templars Mages, Templars, Other? As a mage himself and a former Saarebas, Kost definitely approves of siding with the mages and giving them freedom.

Romanceable? Yes, by any gender or race.  Friends in the Inquisition: Blackwall, Sera, and Cole. He befriends Sera through Dagna, Blackwall because of their shared enjoyment of crafting, and Cole because Kost can’t help but adopt the kid. He becomes friends with Iron Bull if the Chargers are saved. Small Side mission: Collect 10 dawnstone and 10 bloodstone. Kost will Greatly Approve and unlock schematics for Magewrought Weapons

Companion Quest: Kost is happy to have his son working with him but wonders whether Roland might prefer a different career or perhaps to attend the University of Orlais. He once caught Roland studying magic books and worries that he’s pressuring him into apprenticeship. He asks the Inquisitor to speak to Roland instead. When confronted, Roland admits that he’s been studying magic books so that he can tinker and improve his prosthetic arm, but he didn’t want to offend his dad, who spent years working on the magical formulae. He asks the Inquisitor not to tell.

Option 1: Tell Kost - This will net Great Approval from Kost and Cole, and Kost will talk to Roland and say that he couldn’t be offended that Roland is so interested and asks for them to proceed together with the tinkering. Father and son embrace and thank the Inquisitor

Option 2: Cover for Roland - The Inquisitor has the choice of telling Kost that Roland was merely curious about the process of magic or lie and say the magic books were hiding naughty material. Either way Kost will agree to let the matter drop.

Cole’s Reflection on His Thoughts: “The mask is gone and the bonds broken, burnt away and banished. My voice shall never more lie lost and leashed, locked away behind bars of word and deed.” Comments on Mages: “I know what it is like to be born different, and I once knew nothing more than imprisonment and shame for what I was. I have nothing but sadness to know that even here, others share my fate.” Comments on Templars: “If your protector is also your jailer, I think you have somewhat of a conflict of interest.” When looking for something: “Listen... there is something...” When finding a campsite: “Allow me to whip up a little something from these field rations.” When he is low on health: “I will not make my son an orphan again!” When he sees a dragon: “Not that I’m saying we should fight it, but... I could make some seriously good stuff out of dragon bone and hide.” Default saying: “Do you think Roland’s doing alright?”

Travel Banter:

Vivienne: So, Ser Aban. I have heard much of your magesmithing techniques. The Formari believe you are usurping their dominance over the market. Kost: I’m afraid, Madam, the Formari are mistaken. I happen to make useful items, not decoration. Vivienne (amused): Indeed? Then you must prize function over form in your pieces. Kost: Of course. I want to keep people alive, even at the cost of fashion. Vivienne: Some costs are worth dying for, darling.

Kost: I didn’t get the chance to thank you, Blackwall. Blackwall: What for? Kost: The extra firewood. My forge requires more than a normal smithy to stay working, and you provided. Blackwall: Wasn’t for you specially. I... I like chopping wood. Kost: And teaching my son how to swing an axe played no role? Blackwall: Oh. Kost: Too many people treat him as though he’s useless. I saw how happy he was with you. So as I said. Thank you... for the firewood. Blackwall: ...you’re welcome. Kost: There’s a magewrought sword with your name on it when we return to Skyhold.

(If Cole was made more human) Kost: You don’t have to handle everything, you know. You changed, right down to the core. Cole: I am fine. Kost: Sure, sure. Just as long as you know you don’t have to be. We’ve got you, Cole. Starting with rest. I got you a spare blanket - I’ve seen you shivering in your sleep. Cole: But I don’t- Kost: I’ve seen what you do for people. You’re not invisible anymore, you know. So it’s time you let someone else help you. Do you mind it if it’s me? Cole: I... th-thank you.

Iron Bull: You don’t like me much, do you? Kost (sarcastically): I didn’t know you were going for universal popularity. Iron Bull: Ha. You talk like one of these Orlesian bigwigs. Too important to waste time on mercs? (If the Inquisitor is a Qunari) And what about being “a friendly face,” huh? Kost: You won’t get a reaction out of me, Ben-Hassrath. Iron Bull: Even a lack of reaction is a reaction. Kost: Fuck you. How’s that for a reaction?

Friendship: “Ah! Come here for a shield or a cup of tea and some chat? Either way, I’m at your service.”

The Fade

How he reacts: “Oh, I’m not enjoying this at all.” Their Tombstone: Bereavement What the Fears look like: Himself in the mask and chains of a Saarebas What the Nightmare says: “The so-called peaceful ocean. I’ve been watching you for years now. The eyes of the Qun are everywhere and now, there’s nothing you can do to deflect their gaze.” Their reflection about the Fade: “Never again. Never.” Hawke or Warden: Depends on Hawke’s actions. If Hawke sided with the Chantry in DA2, Kost will suggest that they are responsible for the Qunari improving their foothold and force and believe they should atone in the Fade. If not, Kost suggests the Qun’s respect for Hawke is one of the only things keeping the Qunari from invading and believes they should escape the Fade.

The Wardens

Their feelings: Believes the Wardens make hard choices to save the world from the Blight. Exile or Allies?: Allies

The Ball

How they feel: “It isn’t my first ball, but I’m surprised at how many people I know, here. Babette de Launcet just tried to poach me from the Inquisition!” Where they linger: The garden balcony, near the bard singing in Orlesian Are they good at the Game?: He’s not great at being fake, but he is good at schmoozing, especially since his smithing skills are an avid topic of discussion. What people say about them: “Did you see the Magesmith walking by? So tall and dashing...””You do realize he is a Qunari, don’t you?” “My dear, that’s all part of the appeal. Imagine those burly muscles sweating at a forge...” Gaspard, Briala, or Celene?: Briala, or Celene with Briala - he fears Gaspard in power most of all, and he’d hate if war broke out between Orlais and Ferelden with the Qunari lurking at the borders.

Temple of Mythal

Rituals or Hole?: Rituals Agree with the Elves’ bargain?: Agree. Morrigan or Inquisitor for the Well?: The Inquisitor

Comments on Canon Romance

Cassandra: “The Seeker? A worthy choice. Though... I can’t help but wonder whether she’d choose love over duty should the time come.” Dorian: “Dorian? That must be fun - I hope he doesn’t criticize the patterns of your britches!” Sera: “Roland likes Sera - I think you two will get up to all sorts of mischief together.” Iron Bull: “Bull? Well... you do remember he was a Qunari spy, right? Never mind, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” Josephine: “Don’t you hurt her, Inquisitor. She’s a wonderful person and a light in this world.” Cullen: “You know, I can craft certain soft lamps for the night. I’ve seen the look of a man who doesn’t sleep much on his face. Perhaps it will help.” Blackwall: “Tell me, I’m curious. Is the beard scratchy?” Solas: “D’you know, he hates tea? Suspicious, if you ask me.”

Sexual/Racial preference:  Any race or gender. Nickname for PC: Little One Romance only mission: (Can only be completed after Kost’s love confession) A cutscene featuring Kost and the Inquisitor in bed plays, involving a pillow talk discussion where Kost says “I love you.” The Inquisitor can choose to say it back or not, and ask about his past. The conversation finishes with Kost suggesting marriage would be more than acceptable to him, although he wouldn’t pressure the Inquisitor into it. The quest involves speaking to Kost’s son Roland to get his blessing to propose to Kost. The Inquisitor must perform a War Table mission to get Roland some parts to aid in the proposal, which will affect the next cutscene. If Cullen is chosen, Roland will be given some explosives and dyes and he will shoot fireworks during the proposal. If Leliana is selected, smoke pellets will be given and Roland will make a clockwork smoke machine to give a mystical air to the proposal. If Josephine is chosen, Roland will meet with some bards and make a music box to play while the Inquisitor proposes. The Inquisitor will then meet with Kost in the Skyhold garden at night and propose, choosing dialogue options that are sweet, nervous, or humorous, all resulting in Kost accepting the proposal and promising to marry the Inquisitor and love them forever - once Corypheus has been dealt with.

Dialog to being asked for a kiss: “Did you come down here just for this? How romantic... I must make it worth your while, little one.”

Halamshiral dialog: “Of all the magnificence in this palace... I can say without exaggeration that nothing compares to you.”

Being asked to dance during mission: “Josephine would kill me if I kept you from some diplomat or duke. But I shall gladly sacrifice myself once you have made your rounds.”

Asking to dance post-mission: “I- I warn you, little one, I’m not very good. But I’d do anything for you.”

What Cole says about companion to PC: “There was always darkness behind the mask, both of the masks he’s worn. But now it is safe and soft. Now there is you.”

Who is concerned about the relationship?: Vivienne. Josephine (for political reasons)

Who supports the relationship?: Blackwall, Dorian, Cullen

Who had a bet running on it?: Cassandra, Sera

Banter(between NPCs):

Vivienne: (after the romance only mission) I understand I am to offer you and the Inquisitor congratulations? Kost: We are engaged, yes. Vivienne: I do hope you understand what you are doing. Kost: I understand that I am in love. I understand that I am loved in return. And I understand that political considerations do not matter to me when I am with the Inquisitor. Does that satisfy you, Madam? Vivienne: Satisfy? No. Please me? Quite. I wish you every happiness.

Blackwall: You’ve... been around a while, haven’t you? Kost: Er... yeah? Blackwall: And the Inquisitor doesn’t mind? Not that it’s a problem, not that I think it’s a problem or anything, just- Kost: Ser Blackwall, do you have your eye on someone younger than you? Blackwall: What? I- where would you think tha- no. Kost (teasing): Fascinating. You blush right through your beard! Blackwall (groaning playfully): Oh, piss off!

Sera: You and the big man, eh? Hehe, because- Kost: Sera. You’re not subtle. Vivienne (if present): My dear, your lack of tact is simply appalling. Sera: Rolly likes you too, yeah? You better not hurt his dad or you know what? Kost: It’s arrows, isn’t it? Sera: Arrows!

Flirt options: Upon reaching Skyhold and unlocking the Undercroft, Kost will be ecstatic at the sight of the new smithing area and the Inquisitor can say he looks adorable when excited. This opens up a dialogue option later to begin romancing him.

If PC breaks it off: “Ah. I- uh. Of course. I hope I haven’t done anything to offend you. I shall continue to help the Inquisition as best I can.”

Love confession: Kost will ask to take a walk with the Inquisitor and they will end up on the battlements. Kost will talk about his life as a smith and as a father and say that he never seemed to end up with anyone to love and romance... until the Inquisitor. He says he hopes he didn’t read the situation wrong, but that he has fallen hopelessly for them.

Romanced tarot card: King of Pentacles

End game dialog: “Isn’t that something? No matter how hard I tried, I could never forge something as beautiful as a sunrise. I could never capture that kind of beauty. And yet... it is nothing compared to your face. The sun rises and sets each day without fail, but I promise to be even more constant for you - I am with you.”

[ursus-mari]

Morgana wakes from a dream of Gwen being crowned and is deeply confused.

When Gwen comes to wake her in the morning, Morgana asks her point-blank if she likes Arthur, to which Gwen, panicked at her years long crush asking about her starcrossed boyfriend, panics and says, “No!” then backtracks and says something like, “Not that-- I’m sure he’s perfectly lovely really, if you know him, which I don’t, I didn’t mean--”

Morgana snorts and goes, “Perfectly lovely? Arthur? Hardly.”

With that option (erroneously, mind) firmly off the table in Morgana’s book, she ponders the other possibilities. Uther? Never. Morgana would kill him before he forced Gwen into anything, and Gwen would never marry him of her own free will. So it can’t be any of the current royal family, and Morgana plans to take the throne soon…

That possibility that had been niggling in the back of her mind that she’d been refusing to entertain now seems the only viable option on the table, and Morgana blushes despite herself, butterflies lighting in her stomach.

She holds off on going to Morgause until she’s sure, and in that time, every time Gwen looks at her or touches her (quite often, given the duties of a maidservant) makes her giddy, and she starts to believe it despite herself.

Hating Gwen, kind, lovely Gwen, who holds her after she wakes up screaming and brings her flowers to brighten her day, had been so hard. This is effortless, by comparison. Natural. Like breathing. And if her dream is right, Gwen will feel the same, whether she falls now or later. Morgana is positively giddy.

Gwen deserves wooing, and Morgana starts to daydream of all the ways she could make Gwen happy… flowers for sure, maybe a dress? A romantic picnic, perhaps. The possibilities are endless, and Morgana cannot wait to start putting a smile on Gwen’s face.

Morgana starts by gifting Gwen whatever she seems enamoured by at the market. This includes but is not limited to pastries, pretty bobbles, truly expensive silk, a bouquet of flowers, and way too much jewelry. Gwen is really, really flustered by this and has absolutely no idea how to handle it. She tries to tell Morgana to stop, but Morgana is like “I’m basically a princess and if I want to buy gifts for my maidservant, I’ll damn well do so.”

Morgana’s not really got any concept of subtlety or taking it slow, see.

Poor Gwen is so flustered she feels like she could explode and has absolutely no clue where this came from, which only encourages Morgana to buy more stuff because she thinks Gwen being flustered is adorable. It’s as much the way Morgana is looking at her as it is the gifts, though, warm and fond and like Gwen hangs the moon and stars, and Gwen had missed that look, and she turns into a stammering wreck.

Afterwards, once Gwen’s collected herself, she explains to Morgana that she just can’t buy her things for money reasons, for Uther reasons, the whole shebang. And Gwen doesn’t really want or need those things, she says, and she certainly doesn’t want them all at once.

So Morgana has to go back to the drawing board.

Morgana goes to Morgause like, “Hey, I know we haven’t talked in a bit but I was wondering what you knew about wooing people.”

And Morgause is like, “??? Wooing people???”

“Yea.”

“Uhhhh, find their greatest desire and use it to manipulate them? Chop off their enemy’s head and propose a strategic alliance?”

So Morgana’s like, “...Right, so you’re absolutely useless, bye,” and fucks off to go look for other, more trustworthy sources.

The problem is she trusts absolutely no one other than Morgause so this is a difficult endeavor. She asks Arthur in a bid of desperation because he’s had flings, right???

Arthur goes, “Uh. Slay monsters very impressively? Show personal growth? Offer chicken? Have Merlin do it for you?”

Which is also useless, but she should have expected that, really.

She goes to the library as a last resort and tells Geoffrey, “BRING ME A BOOK ON WOOING!” in her most intimidating voice and Geoffrey scampers off to get that but he’s like. Really slow. Morgana waits as Geoffrey rushes and yet moves as fast as molasses, getting increasingly impatient and snappish.

What she gets is mostly a book on courtly rituals, so a lot of it is useless with Gwen but damn if Morgana isn’t going to try, but it also mentions something about asking family for permission, which, no, but it reminds her to go, oh! I’ll ask her brother!

And Elyan’s mostly like how many goddamn royals are in love with my sister (within the privacy of his own head, of course), but he also tells her that Gwen likes thoughtful, heartfelt gifts and honest work (and privately resolves to tease Gwen so much when she comes home).

So Morgana’s like???? Heartfelt???? What do I do with that??? Crap, what does Gwen like? But she’d given Gwen all the things she liked at the market, so that can’t be all there is to it?? Morgana is confusion?????

Okay, honest work. So should she make a gift?

Morgana doesn’t have any crafting skills though. Fuck. Uh.

She could embroider something? She’s crap at embroidery but she knows how to do it, at least. Something small, there’s only so much embroidering she can stand. Handkerchief, maybe? And that’s like offering a favor, almost, so that’s cool.

Morgana thinks back to the market and all the fabrics Gwen had lingered on and goes for a (relatively) moderately priced one that Gwen had run her fingertips over longingly.

So Morgana utilizes her well-honed sneaking skills to go buy the fabric, then bewilders Gwen by kicking her out to work. This is not her brightest idea, as it makes Gwen feel quite hurt and renews her suspicion.

After many, many hours of pricked fingers, extensive and creative cursing, and a half dozen traumatized servants (except not because if you work under the Pendragons on a regular basis you’ve probably got balls of steel, but Morgana certainly tries her best), Morgana comes out with a crude, messy rendition of a rose embroidered onto the (...maybe a little bloodstained? Whatever. It's fine.) handkerchief.

Morgana presents it to Gwen, shy and yet utterly pleased with her work, and Gwen wavers between fond laughter and bursting into tears. In the end, she just smiles so hard her cheeks hurt and thanks Morgana, then tucks it away like something precious.

Gwen still regards it with wariness, of course, because Morgana has up to this point been extremely suspicious and possibly (definitely) evil, but it's very hard to think it might be magically dangerous when it looks like a child's work and Morgana had seemed so sincerely proud. The fear and animosity melts away in the wake of it despite Gwen's best judgement, and, she reasons, it would alert Morgana to her suspicions if she didn't use it, right? It's only logical to use it and treat it like something precious and gaze upon it fondly, right? Right.

And now Gwen has two utterly romantically incompetent people she adores with all her heart doing their best to make her happy. And that's… yeah.

This might work out after all.

(Meanwhile, Arthur finds out who Morgana wanted to woo, and the two of them turn the courting of Gwen into a competition, because of course they do, ignoring entirely that Gwen is perfectly happy to date both of them, and plans of kingdom conquering fall to the wayside, much to Morgause’s chagrin.

Merlin regards Morgana with deep, deep suspicion that she returns with interest, but Gwen won't stand for the animosity so they grudgingly make nice while glaring at each other over Gwen's head and being blatantly insincerely sweet. They forget their hostility only when they both turn on Arthur, at which point they join forces in insulting him, Arthur complains, and Gwen laughs at them all. It turns out to be remarkably hard to sustain ill will in such a comfortable atmosphere; who knew? It's like there hasn't been attempted murder on both sides!

Uther is bewildered by his children’s good moods and Morgana's renewed disdain of him, and they merrily ignore him except when he's being genocidal. When his genocidal tendencies manifest once more, as they inevitably do, Merlin and Morgana are baffled to find themselves on the same side but remain vehement in their assertions that they do something about it, and Arthur is convinced by his very passionate friends and quietly conflicted but firmly insistent girlfriend.

(Merlin and Morgana feed off of each other’s strong feelings and forget to check with Gaius and Kilgharrah and Morgause respectively. As such, they have no one to talk them down into caution and suspicion, which is on the whole for the best as they find themselves a united front.)

This whole situation cumulates into a coup. Also, magic reveals. And long, emotionally involved, serious conversations about magic and its morality and Merlin and Morgana's roles in magic shenanigans thus far. There's a decent amount of shouting, maybe a few threats, hurt all around, but they make it through, and they do it without completely destroying their relationships with each other, so that's cool.

Uther is overthrown (Morgause is very upset to have missed it), the kingdom is absolute chaos, it takes a lot for Arthur to be seen as a legitimate, trustworthy ruler, but he has his people behind him, they call the knights of the round table and knight them, and they make it work.

Work is started on the legalization of magic.

Gwen does become Arthur's queen, and Morgana relives her dream, and finds herself overwhelmingly, brilliantly happy despite having been wrong. After all, afterwards Gwen throws herself into Morgana's arms to give her an enthusiastic kiss and wipes away her happy tears with the handkerchief Morgana had gifted her all that time ago.

And so they live happily ever after (or something mushy like that).)

[bubbyleh]

cats and weredogs

read this chapter on ao3! check out the rest of this series on tumblr!

cats and weredogs Witches have familiars, right?

†††

Tommy likes hanging out in Darnold’s lab while he works. In fact, he loves it. Slow mornings with a warm cup of coffee in his hands, leaning against Darnold while he thumbs through his new books… it’s gotta be heaven. Silent and gentle, Tommy takes hold of his partner’s hand, giving it a light squeeze. The action draws Darnold away from his reading, and he offers Tommy a smile.

“Hey,” Darnold says. “I think I figured it out.”

“Figured- figured what out?”

“Well, lately my spells have been…” Darnold flicks the paper edges of his book. “Failing. But that’s normal, right? We all have slumps. There were a few accidental transmutations, too, but that still isn’t out of the ordinary. I thought I was just stressed.” He frowns. “Except…”

Tommy squeezes his hand again.

Darnold sighs. “Yesterday, when you were gone, I misfired. Bubby was a frog for an hour.”

“Oh,” Tommy realizes. “Is that why he was mad last night?”

He nods, covering his eyes with his hands as he speaks. “It was a curse, Tommy. I accidentally cursed one of our cryptmates!” He drags his hands down his face. “Luckily it was a true love’s kiss kinda cure, and Coomer was more than willing to help. But that could have gone so much worse.”

“But you fixed it,” Tommy insists. “It- it wasn’t so bad, then?”

“Tommy, I can’t just be out here throwing off curses on accident, especially ones I don’t know the parameters of!” Darnold’s grip on Tommy’s hand tightens. “It’s essentially a randomizer. That’s dangerous.”

Before Tommy can ask any more questions, though, Darnold turns the book, showing off the page he’s been reading. Though it’s accompanied by words, the first thing Tommy notices is a sketch of a cat.

“Luckily, the solution is easy,” Darnold explains. “It’s time I got a familiar.”

Tommy gasps. “We can get another pet!” He glances back at the drawing. “It doesn’t- does it have to be a cat?”

“Well,” Darnold taps his chin as he thinks. “I don’t think there’s an option? I’ve never heard of a familiar not being a cat.” He closes the book, putting it to the side, and frowns. “Is that alright?”

Oh shit. Ohhhhh fuck.

On one hand, Tommy knows it would probably be for the better. If Darnold can no longer control his magic without a familiar, then he really shouldn’t stand in the way of him getting one. Besides, he seems so excited about it! This would be his first time welcoming a pet into the family, since Tommy had Sunkist before he even met Darnold. Gosh, of course he wanted one of his own.

On the other hand. Cat.

“Yeah, it’s just, uh,” Tommy struggles. “I’ve never had a- a cat before.”

Luckily, that seems to convince Darnold. “Oh, don’t worry about it!” he assures them. “They’re honestly not that different from dogs, it’s a common misconception.” He squeezes his arm. “Besides, if it’s my familiar, then I’m sure it’ll love you.”

Tommy’s inclined to believe him.

†††

Unfortunately, Darnold was wrong. The cat fucking hates Tommy.

Her name is Crush, after both the soda and the fact that if she sits on you, she will be your cause of death. Seriously, Tommy might not know many Maine Coons, but he feels like they shouldn’t be anywhere near this big!

Darnold had practically forced Tommy to be present for the summoning ritual, which they were okay with. He had decided that he was going to at least try to get the cat on his side. Hell, he’d gone with Darnold to get all the cat supplies! He did so much research into taking care of cats, like good collars and what they can and can’t eat. Xe wanted to be her friend!

The first thing Crush did with her life was plop herself in Darnold’s lap and start purring as she rubbed her face into his chest. And just like that, he was enamored with her, rubbing her ears and cooing at her.

Then Tommy scooched over, and the second she laid eyes on him, she hissed. The only thing stopping Tommy from growling right back at her was the utter look of adoration in Darnold’s eyes.

At first, Tommy was actually okay with the fact Crush didn’t like him. He had Sunkist to keep him company. Besides, given her reaction to the rest of the cryptmates, it didn’t seem entirely personal.

Seriously, Joshua had been so excited to see a cat that he ran right up to her and ended up getting batted. No harm, considering he’s incorporeal, but it scared him.

Coomer got in her face without warning and he got slapped.

She stole Gordon’s finger.

Slowly, though, they all adjusted. Coomer and Josh started giving Crush space, and after a while of that, she finally came up to them on her own. She really enjoys when Joshua pets her, strangely, since he can’t touch her. Hell, Tommy even walks in on her snuggled up with Bubby, of all people, on the couch.

“You didn’t see this,” Bubby insists, Crush complaining as he shifts to sit up.

“I think I did,” Tommy says.

Crush made her way into all of their hearts. Though Darnold is still clearly her favorite, she lets everyone play with her, give her a few pets in passing… normal cat stuff. She seems to be perfectly content with her new family.

Well. Excluding one member.

Crush does not appreciate Tommy’s proximity to Darnold. If she sees Tommy even standing near his BOYFRIEND, she’s all hisses and screams. She throws a fit every time they try to sleep in the same bed as the partner they’ve had a MILLION times longer than this FELINE BASTARD has been ALIVE and he’s THIS CLOSE TO TEARING A PILLOW APART AND-

Okay. Maybe it’s a little too close to the full moon for him to be handling emotional issues.

†††

It’s a quiet day at the crypt, but the kind of quiet that thrums and buzzes. Everyone’s busy with their own tasks. Darnold’s holed up in his lab, and Gordon and a few others have taken Joshua out for a day on the town now that they can blend in. Gman is… wherever he disappears to, sometimes. Geez, Tommy might be a little too used to xir dad’s vanishing act.

But a little alone time isn’t a bad thing! A little bit of silence as one makes a sandwich is good for thinking, and boy, Tommy feels like xe’s got a lot of thinking to do.

He’s a few bites into what might be the best BLT of his life. Seriously, substituting regular bacon with turkey bacon? Greatest decision ever made. Delicious, fine cuisine, exquisite meal.

And it’s all interrupted by Crush, jumping onto the table. For once, she’s not immediately aggressive towards Tommy. Her tail swishes back and forth as she eyes their sandwich.

It’s an opportunity.

Tommy breaks off a little bit of the bread and places it in front of Crush. She’s confused at first, leaning down and sniffing the food in front of her. Then, her green eyes lock back onto the sandwich, and before Tommy can stop her, she snatches it in her mouth and runs off.

Tommy suddenly remembers the T in BLT. And the fact that small animals shouldn’t eat tomatoes.

He’s also hungry.

“Crush, no!” They chase after her. “Your dad is going to kill me!”

Xe’s gotta do something about this cat.

†††

Tommy gets to bed late. Darnold’s already in bed, Sunkist curled up against his legs. Crush has wedged herself into Darnold’s arms, and she’s awake and hissing the second Tommy tries to slip into bed. He rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” he whispers. “Just a bit of a- a break?”

Crush only stands, shrugging Darnold’s arms off her. This is enough to wake him, as he blearily opens his eyes.

Tommy sighs. “Seriously?”

“Crush.” Darnold places a hand on her head, and she turns to look at him. “Give it a rest.” He loops his hands under her forelegs and holds her up. “He likes you, you know.” Gently, he moves her to the bottom of the bed. He’s quick to pull Tommy into bed, pressing a kiss onto xir cheek.

“Can you get a new one?” Tommy jokes, feeling bad.

“She can’t hate you forever,” Darnold mumbles, drifting back to sleep. “At least, I hope.”

Tommy glances towards the foot of the bed. Even in the dark, he can tell Crush is staring right at him.

†††

In the daylight (or rather, the daytime, since they don’t get much natural light underground), Crush seems to be keeping her distance from Tommy. She sticks close to Darnold throughout the day, following him as he walks from one place to another. Whenever she catches sight of Tommy, she looks right at him. He’s not sure what to think about this sudden change.

Around noon, Tommy’s reading a book, sitting with his legs crossed on his bed. He barely notices the door creak open, since, well, he’s used to it. Maybe Sunkist forced her way through, or vibrations around the crypt nudged it open. He only realizes something’s wrong when a large, feline figure jumps onto the other end of the bed.

Tommy closes his book. “Crush,” they greet her.

Crush watches him, almost like she’s seeing him for the first time. There’s a moment where nothing happens, as Tommy begins to consider whether he accidentally entered a staring contest with the cat. Then, slowly, she approaches him and nuzzles into his leg.

“Oh,” Tommy realizes. “You finally, uh… finally like me.” He rubs her ear. “Didn’t like the- the wolf smell, huh?”

Crush only offers a “mrrp!” in response.