#last year i said i would draw him doing his taxes for this year

[spaciebabie]

oh my god let papyrus say fuck day is tomorrow

#last year i said i would draw him doing his taxes for this year #fuuuuuuuuuuuuck #spacie spoinks #okay. first thing tomorrow #its gonna take me all day prolly orz #okay brain....get in the art zone tomorrow...you can do it..

[valmare]

Happy 100! 🎉😊

Please and thank you for the following -

Bradley and “Is that all you want baby, is for me to kiss you?”

Alrighty! So. I did a different thing and am not sure how I feel about it. Let's hope I didn't do it any injustice, because randomly this turned out to have ALL THE FEELS.

Countermeasures

“Bradley? Rooster! Roo, oh my god!” 

The little squeal of joy you release upon sight of Rooster leaving the carrier that’s held him captive reaches levels maybe only dogs could really hear, but you don’t care.

It’s been eight weeks, and you're starving for him, any of him, all of him in ways you didn’t think possible. 

Cutting through the hive of people who have gathered at the dock, you barely register any of them reconnecting with their own loved ones before Rooster rushes you, dropping his gear to the dock to wrap thick arms around you. Holding you against his chest, your arms snug around the back of his neck, your face buried in that soft place between his neck and shoulder as you breathe in the scent of soap, what you think is jet-fuel, and ocean. 

Your heart hammers erratically against your ribs while your breath is thin in the back of your throat. Overwhelming, hot tears pull at the corner of your eyes, but you blink them back—you spent a lifetime on your makeup today, wanting to look drop-dead gorgeous for Rooster’s arrival home. 

In hindsight you probably should’ve worn no makeup at all, anticipating you’d cry on sight. But they said hindsight was 20/20 for a reason—you were actively drawing in breath after breath of him as he rocked you back and forth on his feet, his chin resting in curls. For now that was keeping you from sobbing in relief. 

He’d deployed to the Roosevelt for eight weeks, running patrols that, to you, had seemed wholly unnecessary. A waste of tax dollars, certainly, but that was beyond either of your paygrade, or reproach. When the Navy asked him to jump, Rooster’s response was always “How high?” like any good little Naval aviator’s was. 

Not everything the Navy did made sense to you, but you were an Army brat. You supposed that was the dichotomy between branches—you’d spent four years in Iraq working your ass off in a war that still didn’t make sense, and had chosen to leave, after the hellish repercussions that found you in the Middle East trailed you home. 

You’d been sick of it all, but Rooster—Rooster was a lifer. His heart of gold beat for the Navy and its fighters, his veins were nearly pumping with jet fuel. You’d never seen him so beautiful and fulfilled outside of talking about flying. He loved the Navy. It was who he was—his dad had been Navy, his grandfather had been Navy. It was part of the Bradshaw legacy. 

Somedays, you wondered if any amount of love from you could ever compare to that tail-on-fire sensation. Trying not to actively think about him ever having to choose between you or the Navy, you worked hard to make sure you supported his career and the decisions of that career. 

You’d followed him to Virginia for a year, when he’d been stationed East—thankfully your job allowed you to work from anywhere, and you didn’t have many roots anywhere other than Bradley. You’d been happy to follow him—really, happy to follow him anywhere as long as he was yours. 

And you’d trailed him back to San Diego, to the opportunity that would lock in his career, to teach at Top Gun. He’d been ecstatic, nearly vibrating with joy as Maverick had told him the papers were coming down the pike and the decision was his. He’d wanted to discuss it with you, but you’d made him pick up the damn phone before the call ended screen had even blipped out of existence. 

“I’ll follow you anywhere, B—just pick up the damn phone!” 

You were happy to do away with the last box you’d thrown out yesterday afternoon. Finally, the house was unpacked—and it couldn’t have come sooner. Bradley may have been living out of a duffle and a backpack miles out on the ocean, but if you had to flip open one more box for the damn can opener, you’d collapse into a hot pile of mad. 

Kicking the last of the kitchen boxes out the screen door of the military housing unit, you’d barely had time to reflect on one chapter of your life before thoughts of Rooster coming home consumed you. The house was a wreck, still, and you’d wanted to go grocery shopping for ribs and a few of his favorite things—all of which would, ironically, come to a screeching halt. 

Phone buzzing on the island counter, the call came in right when you were reaching for a Blue Moon from the fridge. Thinking about letting it ring, thinking instead you should snap a picture of the last boxes and send it to Rooster, you’d almost let it ring to voicemail. 

But, you’d picked up the call that could very well determine the rest of your life. 

Your old Staff Sergeant wanted you back. 

In Afghanistan. 

The squad was desperate for snipers, with real combat experience, and you’d been one of the best. Mullens had basically begged you, had done the checking—the paperwork would be fast tracked, you could be in country by the end of next week with limited reentry protocol. 

He’d promised a short tour-–six months, in and out. Gaping like a fish out of water, you’d stared at nothing. Thinking Bradley, of your life here, of saying over and over that you’d never go back. Promising Rooster that you’d never go back. 

Six months. That wasn’t a long time by any stretch of the imagination for a tour,  but it was a devastating amount of time to ponder, considering you’d just moved back to Cali, and Roo was just getting back from eight weeks on the water. 

There was a distinct difference between being stationed on a carrier for months and flying planes, and being on the ground in country, eating and sleeping and existing in  hostile environments 24/7. It was hell on your emotions–it had taken a year for the nightmares to stop when you’d come home the first time. 

But, you are a soldier. It’s as much in your blood as flying is in Rooster’s—there was nothing more fulfilling than knowing you were making a difference. That because of you and your decisions, families home are safe. Rooster could fly his planes safely, could live beneath the sun in California on a beach somewhere, happy and healthy and free. 

Part of you had always imagined going back, even if you were glad to be home. Knowing others chose to stay, that others didn’t come home, played on a broken loop. Survivor’s guilt came and went, mostly in your dreams, but you’d managed to keep it in check—loving Rooster, loving domesticity, had helped you cope. 

But if you were honest, as much as you hated your tours in Iraq, you’d always suspected that someday, you’d go back. That being a soldier was seared into you like a brand—it wasn’t something you could shake off. 

But going for the right reasons, even if you despised it—was that right? Did it make you a liability? 

All of this followed you to bed, kept you awake at 3AM as you just caved and made some coffee and cleaned the kitchen floors. Mulling around the quiet of the morning had become a habit you’d developed in Iraq, always working the ass o’clock watch, and while you were an early riser, Rooster was a late sleeper—always. 

You’d been white knuckling the steering wheel of the Bronco all the way here. Wondering what he’d say. Wondering if you’d fight, if he’d ask you not to go. Part of you wanted him to ask you to say, but a larger part longed for him to show you the same commitment to go. 

You’d never challenged any of Rooster’s deployments. IUt wasn’t your place. But you had understood even if you didn’t want him to go—would he do the same, with the tables tipped? 

You’d been trembling violently at the dock, trying not to think about it. You’d gotten lost watching the activity on the massive carrier bobbing on the water like some behemoth of an ocean toy as men and women prepared to disembark. Sun on your face, the smell of salt and humid air had given you life when all you’d been able to remember is the desert and its dry, unforgiving scorch.  

But now, Roo in your arms, finally home, you felt better. Grounded. Like you could take on the world and not miss a beat. For a moment, that damn phone call didn’t exist as you listened to Bradley breathe into your hair, felt his heart hit home against your breast. You could taste the sting of jet fuel on his flight suit. 

Tipping your head back to stare into his face, you beamed at him. “Hey, soldier,” the low rasp tickled down your spine, sending chill bumps down your arms as he squeezed his arms around your waist a little tighter, “you look gorgeous. Prettiest damn thing I’ve seen in weeks,” he leaned forward to gently nudge his nose against yours. 

“I doubt that,” you nodded to the carrier over his shoulder, his eyes tracking yours to the flight deck above, which was beyond sight, “those fighters are pretty damn pretty, Bradshaw. Watch your mouth.” Scrunching your nose teasingly, he snorted and shook his head before he smooth his hands over your hair. 

“I missed you, B,” you whispered, clinging to his arms as he held your face in your hand. “I missed you so frickin’ much.” Your toes curl in your shoes when he gently tugs you up to meet his mouth hovering over yours. 

Your heart is in your throat like it is every time he’s thinking about kissing you, and wild horses can’t drag you away from looking at that damn stache of his just aching to be kissed. 

Your tongue skips out along your bottom lip, and the corner of his mouth lifts as he chuckles. 

“Oh, pretty girl, it’s good to be back to you,”  somehow the words hit funny in your chest, but any sensation other than phenomenal replaces it when he groans a little, his mouth pressing yours in a deep, hungry kiss that nearly rocks you back on your heels. 

The kiss separates you from reality and every negative thing that could ruin him holding you, and for a second you feel like you’re falling through time and space–like God Himself has rolled back the sky to peer into heaven, because heaven is exactly what Bradley’s tongue tastes like in your mouth, lathing your bottom lip. His mustache tickles you deliciously as you draw him down, harder against your mouth, trying not to remember that there are people who can see the two of you. 

He breaks the kiss with an overexaggerated smack, drawing you into the crook of his arm as he stoops to haul his gear over his shoulder. You take the backpack from him, which weighs only what you can assume is the weight of a small world against your shoulder, and shrug off his protests as you guide him back to the Bronco. 

He’s plucking the keys from you, kissing you again, when he guides you to the passenger seat and leans into the open door for a final kiss. You’re struggling to breathe, with the seatbelt, to think as he bats the door closed. Aching in all the right ways when he slides into the driver’s seat, your hands immediately find him, as if they have nowhere else to land. 

He’s groaning when you straddle his thigh, sucking on the pulsepoint of his neck in a way that could only equate to a starving person. Palming your ass with one hand, his other is gripping your thigh as he’s unraveling, quickly, in the driver’s seat. 

The flight suit is cumbersome and in the way when you try to slip your hand to his chest, aching to feel the heat of his skin and the curls of chest hair you know are just there for you. 

When you can’t manage it and your fingers skip down the suit to his cock, he releases a heavy moan and grabs your hand, stilling the action. 

“Not right now, sweetness,” it sounds aching, painful, and stabs a hot knife of denial into your ribs, “eight weeks is a long damn time….” you nod, understanding his meaning, and steal the words from him with an open-mouthed, hot kiss to his lips. 

“Then take me home and fuck me senseless, Bradshaw,” you breathe over his mouth, watching his pupils dilate as his eyes widen at the headiness the statement produces in the atmosphere, “and then maybe I’ll cook you some of those Texas ribs you love so much.” 

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” 

He’d never driven so damn quickly. Twenty five  minutes later you’re stumbling into the house as he’s ripping at the hem of your t-shirt, and the jolt you feel when your back hits the semi-open door makes you giggle against his mouth as you bounce it closed.

Pressed up against the rigid door, his massive hands are exploring your hips, dipping beneath your jean shorts, playing at the soft skin your thong is currently cradling. Far too busy curling your toes into the mud room’s rug, you feel his cock, fully hard and nearly twitching, brush up against the inside of your leg. The very idea of him, hard and so ready so quickly, as you dripping with want. 

Nudging it with your knee, his sharp hiss and breathy groan hits you straight in that little sensitive place between your legs, and your fingers slide possessively into his hair when he shrugs the top half of his flight suit off. Looking comical as the arms of it drag along the floor, he’s down to nothing but compression garments, which you’re ripping off over his head as he presses his full weight into your hips.

“Good god, Bradley,” barechested, brushing against your pert tits in a hardly-there lacy bra has you nearly vibrating when his fingers slide up the curve of your finger. He’s bigger than you remember, far more tan and muscular—downtime on the carrier, no doubt. “You’re so frickin’ beautiful, Roo,” 

He’s chuckling, smiling when he’s trying to kiss you, “All for you,” taking your hand, he guides it to his pec and holds it there firmly, his other moving to trace a slow finger over your nipple and beneath the curve of your breast, “Always for you, baby girl.”

“Mmmm,” you giggle when his mustache skips down your cheek to nuzzle against the soft spot behind your ear, “kiss me, Roo—kiss me good, please.” 

He manages a small chortle, “Is that all you want, baby girl? For me to kiss you?” before humming against your pulsepoint, tongue lathing thick, heady circles into your skin. He’s content to kiss you, hard and fast and rough, until you nearly growl when he’s taking his sweet damn time ripping off your jean shorts. 

Finally just shoving his hands away, you’d kicked them off, grabbed a handful of his hair, and pulled him down for a hard kiss, grumbling that you were going to die of starvation of him if left to his devices. That amuses him, because he’s laughing as he presses you fully against the door, hands moving to grip your thighs tightly. 

In little to no time at all, your screaming his name as he fucks you, literally, at the front door. Fairly certain the neighbors can hear through the poor excuse of a front and screen door, it hardly takes any time at all before he’s finishing prematurely, disappointingly. 

He’s fisting the door when you angle your head to allow him to rest his forehead on your shoulder, feeling the inevitability of him slackening inside you. It’s disappointing, yes, but it has been eight weeks—and you know, beyond any semblance of doubt that may shadow the back of your brain, that Rooster will get you off. He always does. 

And somehow, it’s always as orgasmic as the first time, something he prides himself on regularly. 

Breathing hard, sweat is nearly glistening off his chest when he slides out of you to step out of the flight suit, leaving more of a mess than you’d anticipated. Aching, spiraling downward from your almost-high, you offer him an understanding smile as he is trying to fight the flush of his fucked out face in front of you. 

Looking sorry, looking desperate, you shake your head softly and move to drape your arms around your neck. ���It’s ok, Bradley,” you say between kisses along the hollow of his throat, “there’s plenty of time to get me off, later,” eyes tracking to his, the corner of his mouth lifting amusedly as you’re nodding to the kitchen, “are you hungry? I can start dinner—” 

“Nah, not really,” he takes your hand, guiding you through the house, and somehow you’re nearly floating up the stairs into the on suite bathroom where Bradley is starting a scalding shower, touching you slow and deep as your toes sink into the bath mat in ways you didn’t think possible. 

Somehow, shower sex has become a part of your staple coming-home routine, and Rooster is able to last a little longer this round. He gets you off, which has you reeling as he carries you, legs wrapped around his waist, back into the bedroom—only to drop both of your dripping bodies to the King matress with a fucked-out groan. 

It takes immense strength not to climb him like a damn tree, but you curl onto your side to prop your head into your hand as he collapses fully into the mattress. You know he needs a minute. The lingering droplets of shower on your skin start to chill in the cool A/C, and you reach for the end of the duvet and pull it over yourself, smiling at Bradley taking slow, full breaths. 

You really should discuss the phone call. It’s been hanging over your head all day. A part you knows the timing is bad, that it’s the last thing either of you want to discuss the day Bradley comes home. But, Mullens needed answers, the cogs of the Army churn slow—if you’re going, you need to send word. 

Gut flopping at the unpredictability of Rooster’s answer, you swallow the thick breath that’s been bubbling up the back of your throat since Jeff had called you. Your toes curl and uncurl, trying to pluck up the courage. You shouldn’t be this uneasy—Bradley loves you, supports you. You’re not afraid of him. 

But you are afraid of what he might say. Of how this may impact things. Of actually going and falling in love with the Army again, even if it had ruined parts of your life you still don’t talk about. You aren’t afraid to die, you aren’t afraid of getting hurt—you’re afraid of Bradley getting hurt, by how this may affect him in ways only deployment can. 

That feeling that’s not quite hunger, but is instead a queasy emptiness in your midsection, opens fully in your gut and hollows you to your knees. All at once your head is pounding with each ragged heartbeat behind your ribs, and you’re numb and cold and hot all at the same damn time. 

You’re body is on fire when Bradley’s gead lolls to the side. He offers you a crooked grin before reaching to brush his fingertips over your lips. 

“I missed you so damn much, pretty girl,” 

Your nose scrunches up a little and you swear to God you feel your heart breaking in your chest.

 “I missed you too, B,” your eyes drop for half a second, your voice quiet in that way that let’s him know you want to talk. He doesn’t have to ask the question, his brow just furrows in that little way of his before you’re whispering, “Bradley. I—I don’t know how to tell you this.” 

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, his hand moving to play with your hair. Every part of him is thicker, stronger, broader than you remember and you want nothing more than to skip your fingers over the veins in his hands, the corded muscle along his arm. Instead, you curl tighter into the duvet, as if it’s a shield that may absorb whatever reaction of his isn’t favorable. 

He doesn’t say anything, gaze just tracking you as your eyes lift to find him. “I, um—yesterday. I, shit—damn. Fuck, well—Jeff called me yesterday.” 

‘Jeff’ doesn’t need more explanation. Bradley has met your Staff Sergeant. He knows by name alone who Mullens is-–but maybe, maybe today he has forgotten and you’ll be lucky. 

But it seems he hasn’t, because his face drops all color for a microsecond before hot flush raises on his cheeks. Bolting upright, he turns to lean on an elbow, his brow popped curiosity while his soft whiskey eyes darken with uncertainty. 

Your statement may as well have painted WORRY across his forehead in striking neon lights. 

You watch the moment the words hit home in his brain, and the muscle in his jaw ticks as he sets it, gesturing for you to sit up. You do, cross legged, the blanket falling partially from your shoulder. 

“Mullens,” he confirms, eyes tracking you as you fiddle with the end of the duvet. 

You nod, once. “Jeff wants—”

“—he wants you to reenlist,” his voice is quiet when his eyes drop to the bed, away from yours. 

“Yes.” 

There’s a heartbeat of silence that seems to drown the room before Bradley collapses back onto the mattress. His fingers slide through his hair as he stares at the ceiling, and your heart throbs so painfully in your chest you wonder if he can hear it from here. You can hear him swallow a breath before his cheeks puff out a heavy sigh, and his eyes slide over to consider you, weightedly. 

“They need snipers, Bradley,” your voice is quiet, and you hold his attention firmly. Your voice is small when you sigh and continue to fiddle with the end of the duvet, “snipers that aren’t dumb and won’t hesitate. That they don't have to ship home in bags.” You swallow the very idea that illuminates in your brain. 

“You want to go.” 

Your bottom lip rolls inward beneath your teeth. “I don’t not want to go,”

His gaze goes hard, suddenly. Tension, fear, concern cracks through the room like a whip when he groans hard, covering his face with his hands. 

“There’s a dozen others besides you ,” he challenges, rocking up to sit crossed legged on the bed, mirroring you. “You don’t have to deploy. Reenlistment is a bitch, babe.” He reaches across the lingering daylight between you, hand cupping your cheek lightly. “I thought you said you didn’t want to go back? Not after—”

Flatlipped, you nod tightly. “I don’t want to deploy, Bradley,” you angle your cheek harder into his palm, “I don’t want to be halfway around the world from you. From us.” Your hand folds over your chest and you shake your head once, admittedly, “But I also don’t want to sit on my ass and do nothing when people—our people—needs me. Men and women are dying, B—and I can help prevent that,” 

Your tone goes quiet as your jaw sets. Bradley’s expression says he knows what decision you’ve come to yourself, the little pull in the middle of his brow, the resigned smile. While he isn’t happy about it, the sigh and drop of his shoulders says he understands. That he’ll support you. That while it will kill him to have you gone, across the world, for an unimaginable amount of time, he knows the feeling burning in your gut like sulfur. 

“Sounds like you’ve decided to go,” he reaches for your hand, tugging you across the space between the two of you, “anything I can say that’ll make you reconsider?” 

Sighing, you move to hands and knees as he drapes your hair over your shoulder, knuckles skipping over your clavicle. “I don’t think so,” the smile on your lips is thin, “not really?” A beat of silence as you situate on his lap, legs wrapped around his middle as your core presses flush against his abs. 

“You think I’m a hypocrite?” 

His face contorts, “What? No! I just—I just want you to be sure, sweetheart,” he leans forward to touch his forehead to yours. “It’s a big decision to make in less than twenty four hours.” 

“I know,” 

“But I’m glad we got to talk about this,” he smiles and presses his lips together in a sloppy smooth against yours, “As long as you’re sure, baby. I just need you to be sure. Please.” 

Nodding, your arms firm up around his neck, guiding him forward to press your chest against his. “I’m gonna give it one more go, Lieutenant Commander,” your nose wrinkles up and your brows lift, wondrously, “you gonna miss me? Kiss me goodbye before I leave?” 

He laughs before rolling his eyes, Bradley guiding you to the mattress easily before crawling over you to stare into your features. His eyes are alight, sparkling in that whiskey way of his, exposing every one of the thoughts you choose not to address the remainder of the night. 

“Missin’ you comes easy, darlin’, ” the words rasp low as he dips to nuzzle that soft spot behind your ear, “now let me ask you,” 

“Hmm?” 

“Is that all you want, baby? Is for me to kiss you?” 

#100 followers celebration #100 followers #blurb requests #top gun fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #controlled chaos squad #call sign meerkat #answered asks #i love chickens #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagines #bradley bradshaw imagine

[crrative]

New Year - Sanders Sides

It's like 2am and it's appropriate. Prinxiety nation, human roommate au. You know the drill.

Having a community of young people who look to you and your work for comfort and feeling unable to provide when you didn't expect the pressure in the first place sounds heavy to shoulder alone. It makes sense that the last few years have been unstructured with the context. Because I know there's a chance Sanders himself is seeing this: you did something great.

Happy New Year, fuckbags

It's a tame environment. There are only six of them and everyone would rather be in bed, but the year has been so taxing that it feels right to sign it off with a huge middle finger and then go to bed. All there is to do is wait.

Barely a minute left until New York lights up on the TV and Logan has finished his second glass of wine in the last five. Patton is hunched with his obnoxiously long fingers against his temple, resisting the temptation of accepting yet another offer for a glass and opting to nurse the sleep-deprived headache in stead. Roman has put himself on the couch, fiddling with a pen and its lid from the coffee table. Virgil is on the arm of the couch, crouched like an obnoxious prick in an attempt to express his edge, which only really serves to make him look like a dork and unintentionally lightens the mood a smidge.

"Where are the chuckle twins?" Logan poses, observing the swirl in his drink as it settles from being poured.

"Janus said 'surprise' when he went into his room," Patton answers.

"Remus went with him," Virgil grumbles.

The silence reignites as a door opens from down the hall. Remus walks out with a tray of six shot glasses, brimming with syrupy liqueur. Janus walks a metre behind him, head held high.

"We'll all sleep better after this," he insists proudly as Remus parades the tray around, face blank and ashy as slate. He doesn't take sleep deprevation particularly well, but he handles it better than Roman copes with Janus sitting beside him. Where Virgil has turned and planted his feet on the couch seat, Roman parks himself, arms curling around his waist as the countdown starts. The crowd on the street chants and the six watch, breath held.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!" It screeches, fireworks filling the screen with a blinding light, flooding the living room with a rectangular explosion of warm white. The group heaves a collective sigh.

Before the festivities can draw themselves out too long, Virgil leans down and over Roman, placing his fingers flat and sideways beneath his chin. In compliance with a rhythm long established, Roman closes his eyes and allows Virgil control. Their lips part, connect, and close around the other's in a chaste display of commitment and affection. Roman seasons the display by running his hand up Virgil's outer thigh.

"Oh! Well, if we're getting crazy," Patton posits with a muted smile, skirting the breakfast bar he'd been slumped on and bending over the couch. Janus looks up and to the side to recieve and return what he had rightly expected to be a sweet, tired peck. It brings a modest and satisfied smile out of the shadow that was his bored expression.

"This does not constitute crazy," Logan commented, unbeknownst to the presence lurking behind him. It makes first contact with his waist, cold fingers slid beneath his sleep shirt. He sucks in a shocked breath as the ice burns his skin. "You do."

"Love you, too."

Janus sits up and addresses the three behind them with a raise of his glass. "Are we ready?"

"Affirmative."

"Yeah."

"Okay..."

"Indeed!"

"I don't have to, do I?"

"No, dear, but it's not ordinary spirit. I think you'll like it." Patton grimaces at his glass and observes the others. A beat passes, Janus gestures to the room with his drink and everyone follows his lead in taking the shot.

"It's almost unbearably sweet."

"I did not expect that coming from you, Logan," Roman comments as he inspects his cup. "Do you not like toffee?"

"I didn't say that."

"No need for the defenses, Doc, I only asked."

"He just wants us to know to save him some whenever it's goin' 'round," Virgil swoops in, smile on his face, voice raspy. Roman takes his glass and hands it to Patton.

"I wonder why you chose something so sweet," Roman implicates. Janus turns around and looks up at Patton, who is smiling with such soulful conviction that it hurts.

"I loved it."

'Score,' Janus thinks as he settles into the couch and joins the others in watching the screen.

#remus sanders #roman sanders #sanders sides #prinxiety #thomas sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #intrulogical #moceit #janus sanders #logan sanders

[good-beanswrites]

I DM'd you a passage from the tarot cards fic. Director's commentary, please? ^_^

Ahh this was so fun, thank you so much!! Overexplaining details in a scene my beloved >:3

I wrote all my headcanons and assumptions as if they're facts to save myself from adding "I like to think" to the beginning of every sentence, but just know that I'm aware they don't have canon backing lol. Also my commentary mentions Fuuta and Mikoto's relationship, but the whole fic is pretty vague with it. I love keeping things at the stage of comfortable kindness, where it's easy for the reader to take things both platonically and romantically depending on what headcanons they're bringing to it. It's not necessarily catering to readers since I enjoy both interpretations -- I wrote it with both in mind, and I'll reread it differently depending on the day.

(From What's that Yugioh quote about cards)

“I'm doing this to show you how these readings are just crap. Now. First card.” [Fuuta] flipped it without any of the theatrics Mikoto had enjoyed. “Hm.” He squinted at the strange picture and read the title. “We’ve got a Four of Cups.” 

Fuuta kind of did want to cheer Mikoto up, but doesn’t like how sentimental it sounds to think of it like that. Even if he did admit to himself that’s what he was doing, he wouldn’t know how to comfort him in a nice way, so he’s just picking a distracting activity and hoping it works. Also this spread was actually drawn by me irl! I had to modify one card in Fuuta’s (not telling which one though, hehe). I did consider having Mikoto draw the Hanged Man as his last card, but that felt too forced and cheesy lol

“Reversed Four of Cups,” Mikoto said before turning his gaze to the ceiling. 

“Reversed? It’s right side up to you.”

“You’re doing a reading for me?”

“Duh?” 

It might seem obvious that Fuuta was doing a reading for him given the setup/dialogue, but from Mikoto’s pov, no one’s ever done that before. In all the years he’s been doing tarot, people really just focus on their own future and how to learn tarot for their own activities. No one’s thought to do a reading for him. He’s more surprised than touched right now, though, because of how tired he is. It’ll really hit him later that night, when he realizes that this was the first time someone did that for him. 

Mikoto bit back a comment that he should have gotten to touch the cards, if that were the case. He didn’t feel like getting into it with Fuuta right now, no matter how playful a matter it may be.

Mikoto (and Yuno) are the type who don’t take Fuuta's attitude personally. They can enjoy the back-and-forth of bickering for hours without it exhausting them. Even though Mikoto didn’t experience much during the interrogation, he’d be emotionally tired out in general. Plus, I picture the process of extracting videos to be physically taxing. Something that invades and activates your neurons would definitely leave you pretty wiped afterwards. (<- girl who has too many thoughts about how the mv machine works but will spare you the explanation)

“So… it looks like in the past… you had a lot of cups… and got a weird one from the sky. Are you religious?”

“Huh? Not really.”

“Not God then. I don’t fucking know where it came from. Maybe it’s a ‘life gives you lemons’ thing. You got too much on your plate?”

Mikoto stayed silent.

I messed myself up in this upcoming section because I was too excited about figuring out the card meanings in relation to Mikoto. I should have just looked at them as they were and guessed the meanings the way that Fuuta might. It was difficult having just read this card’s specific meaning and then trying to put myself in the shoes as someone who didn’t know it😂 I left and came back to this section a lot, I wrote the fic over a few months in between other things. It helped dull my memory on the actual meaning and get into Fuuta's character more.

Also I’m adding “life gives you lemons” to the list of phrases I use in my fics knowing it’s an English phrase/idiom they definitely wouldn't use, but I liked its exact connotation so I kept it in. It's cliche and informal and someone like Fuuta would be sick of hearing it from adults. He'd know Mikoto feels the same. I debated on giving Fuuta more lines about religion here – I do think he’s starting to consider it more at this point in time – but decided it brought the fic too off-course from where I wanted it.

“Whatever. Next card… the present. This one’s upside down to you. A knight – hey, I got a knight, too, remember?”

Fuuta actually does know that the specific term is “reversed,” Mikoto just said it, but doesn’t want to seem like he cares so he doesn't use the term. Still, he doesn’t really know how being reversed changes the meaning, so he interprets the picture normally. 

Mikoto blinked. He did remember – he was shocked that Fuuta did. That reading had ended on such a sour note all those months ago. He didn’t think the other had given it another moment of thought. There came the tiniest surge of pride that Fuuta had committed it to memory.

I wanted to play around more with memory here but could never get it to work!!! Fuuta doesn’t really have any themes around memory so it wasn’t that notable that he remembered. Mikoto’s memory has holes specifically around stressful events, so it’s not impressive he remembered, either. So… despite having the perfect opportunity to talk about cool insights/emotions, it simply wasn’t a big deal -_- It still works to reveal that they both care a lot about each other, which is why I left it as is. It was a brief moment months ago, but both held onto the memory all this time.

“Damn, another cup. Well, if it does mean life keeps throwing stupid shit at you, then yeah, this prison has been the stupidest shit of them all.”

Fuuta picked up the final card. He let out a laugh. It was something mocking, but it tickled Mikoto. “Heh, you sure are a fool. That’s some outfit. Still better than yours right now.” He flicked the card at Mikoto’s chest, where it bounced off his mangled uniform. 

As someone who is completely endeared by Fuuta’s awful laugh, I think Mikoto wouldn’t mind either if it sounded teasing/cruel. Especially after all the pain Fuuta’s been through T2, Mikoto probably didn’t hear him laugh in a very long time, and the sound can be contagious. I always wonder about Mikoto's uniform... was like that from his fight with Kotoko, or just from John wrecking his room? Is it like that all of T2, or does Es gives him a replacement? I felt like he would be cleaned up by the time his interrogation rolled around, but his album art is just as much of a mess, so I guess ratty uniform it is...

Mikoto retrieved the card. He sat up as he returned it to the spread. He studied them. 

Mikoto was enjoying Fuuta’s version of the cards, but didn’t have the energy to read them along with him. This is the first time he taps into his own knowledge of the tarot meanings and realizes what a good spread it actually is. I wanted to linger here in this moment more, but everything I wrote became too “telling.” As the fic was from Mikoto’s pov, I felt like I’d need to take the reader through what he was thinking about in the silence. That ended up defeating the purpose of the peaceful moment lol

He allowed himself a small smile. “So,” he asked, “what’s it all mean?”

Fuuta scowled. “I just told you what it meant.”

“No, now you look at the big picture.” Mikoto shook his head. “You left before I could finish your reading, but you’re supposed to look at everything together and make a plan for the future. I… I still remember yours. I was going to tell you to mind your emotions, and prepare for a big change coming quickly. But uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess it’s a little late for that, huh?”

“A little.”

Once again wishing I could do more with memory given that Mikoto still remembers Fuuta’s exact reading after so many months, and once again leaving it as a testament to his relationship with Fuuta. I can only hope it speaks for itself when looking at the fic normally ;--; I still haven’t decided if that last line from Fuuta should be read as an angry snap or a disappointed whisper. He’s still very bitter about his situation, and the fact that Mikoto is telling him to ‘mind his emotions’ and reminding him of his pain are enough to make him lash out. At the same time, maybe bringing it all up makes him recognize that his hot temper did caused him harm, several times. He can hear how genuinely Mikoto speaks, and feels guilty for treating him so harshly then. I go back and forth depending on my own mood…

“So, to finish off my reading, what advice do you give me based on these?” 

Fuuta made a show of rolling his eyes and huffing, as if this hadn’t been his idea to begin with.

My favorite way to write Fuuta is having him do something nice, and then immediately get mad at the other person because suddenly he’s embarrassed about it.

 “This is so lame. My advice…?” He jabbed a finger at The Fool. “Don’t do anything fucking stupid in the future.”

I originally wrote out a bit of a longer speech of advice, with Fuuta mentioning how he knows school/work can be overwhelming, and this prison is overwhelming, and not to do anything in the future because there are people relying on him. Fuuta was relying on him. It was a bit vulnerable and finally explicitly mentioned his feelings towards Mikoto. I read it back, heaved a sigh, said “he wouldn’t fucking say that,” and cut it down to just this line 👍I'm not too disappointed, though, since Mikoto can see right through Fuuta (both with his people skills and the fact that Fuuta is very obvious about his emotions). Anything he would have confessed, Mikoto already knows.  

Mikoto looked from him to the cards, then back again.

“...That’s it?”

“What more do you want?” Fuuta raised his voice, and Mikoto found it in him to laugh. 

Mikoto also hasn’t laughed (genuinely) all of T2 :( This one starts off kind of forced – he had to “find it in him” to play along with the way a conversation is supposed to go. But it feels natural once he does, and the next time I mention his attitude he feels “back to his old self.” In this moment he’s considering antagonizing Fuuta by teasing his advice, asking for more, or just poking at his temper. He chooses not to. Instead of avoiding their bickering because he’s tired, he cuts Fuuta a break because he’s really grateful for the kind gesture.

“Alright, alright, I’ll take it.”

#milgram #mikoto kayano #fuuta kajiyama #from that dvd commentary ask game :) #chronic overexplainer gets enabled to overexplain 🎉🎉🎉 peace and love on planet earth #thank you pal!!! #im not big on many milgram ships but i gotta say 0309 and 0909(09) creators have started to infiltrate my brain a lil.... #taking any and every chance to share my fuuta laugh compilation 👍 #fanfic

[all-the-things-2020]

No Better Place - Chapter 17

Summary: Javi comes home for the weekend. Domestic fluff ensues.

Word count: 2100

Javi was exhausted, but in a good way. His first week at work was almost over and it had gone well. There had been far too many meetings for his taste, but that was to be expected when setting up a brand new department. His assistant, Monica, was amazing. A licensed psychologist, she had been working freelance with the police department for over a year, and was enthusiastic about creating programs to help the tweens and teens who would be the focus of their work.

“Rob wants to know if you want to come over for dinner this weekend,” Monica said, as she dropped another bulging file folder on his desk. Rob was her husband, a tax attorney who worked from home in order to keep an eye on their two kids.

“Can’t,” Javi said, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m driving home to Laredo right after work.”

Monica grinned. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, got to go see your girlfriend,” she said, drawing out the vowels in the last word like a middle schooler teasing a classmate. She sat on the corner of his desk. “I remember those days. When Rob and I were first dating, I couldn’t get enough of him. Now, who cares?”

Javi rolled his eyes. He’d met Rob and the kids at lunch on Wednesday and it was clear that even after seven years of marriage and two children, Monica and her husband were very much in love. “You care and you know it,” he said.

“Yeah, I do,” she admitted. She pushed off from the desk and stood up. “In case I don’t see you before you head out, have a great weekend.”

“You, too,” Javi said, already flipping open the folder to see what was inside.

At five, he shut off his computer and stacked the folders and papers neatly on his desk. His overnight bag was already in the car, so he didn’t need to stop at the apartment. After a quick detour to the men’s room, he hopped in the car and headed out.

Traffic heading out of town was heavy but once he’d cleared the city limits, the drive wasn’t bad. Still, it was well after seven by the time he turned off the road into Cassidy’s driveway. At this time of the year it was still light, but getting dusky. His headlights swept across the side of the barn as he pulled up next to the house. There was a light on in the barn and one in the kitchen. He decided to try the house first.

Linus was sitting on the kitchen counter as he walked in, which told Javi that Cassidy wasn’t in the house. “Hey, buddy,” he said to the cat. “You’d better get down before Cass sees you.” Linus just blinked at him.

Javi dropped his bag in the bedroom, used the bathroom, and headed out to the barn.

***********************************************

Cassidy knew Javi had arrived because Buster’s ear pricked up and the gelding started to snort. “Is your daddy home?,” she asked. She tried to rub Buster’s forehead but he tossed his head, trying to look over her at the open barn doors. Even though she wanted to run outside and throw herself into Javi’s arms, Cassidy made herself continue with her barn chores. She was almost done tucking everyone in for the night and if she finished up before she went to Javi, she could go with a clear conscience.

As she was double checking the latches on the stall doors (Baby Girl had proven extremely adept with her lips and had let herself and Mama out more than once), Buster let out a piercing whinny. “I missed you, too, buddy,” she heard Javi say.

She turned around and there he was, walking toward Buster’s stall, looking both utterly out of place in his suit and tie and utterly at home. He rubbed the gelding’s forehead and Buster pressed his head against Javi’s shirt, trying to return the favor.

“Someone missed his daddy,” Cassidy managed to say as she walked toward him.

Javi chuckled. He disentangled himself from the horse and stepped toward her, arms open wide. “I’ll bet you missed me, too,” he said, his voice low. “I know I missed you, hermosa.”

She fell into his arms, his embrace firm but tender. He smelled like cigarette smoke and laundry soap and some kind of woodsy cologne. She took a deep breath, letting his scent mingle with the warm perfume of horses and hay that permeated the barn. It smelled like home.

“I did miss you,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. Reluctantly, she pulled back to look at his face. “Are you hungry? I wasn’t sure what time you’d get here, so I didn’t start dinner. Your dad brought over some nice steaks, but if you’re starving, I can make you a sandwich or something.”

Javi smiled and stroked her hair. “I had some snacks in the car,” he said. “I’m good for now. And a steak sounds amazing.” He kissed her forehead and then turned to Buster. “I’ll see you in the morning, buddy. I promise.” The gelding snorted, his neck stretched out as far as it could over the stall door. He whinnied again as they left the barn, a pitiful sound that lingered on the air as Cassidy bolted the barn doors.

Javi took her hand as they walked toward the house, entwining his fingers with hers. It felt innocent, like they were kids on a first date, not lovers heading inside for dinner and a night of passion. Well, maybe not passion, she thought as she stole a glance at Javi’s face. He looked tired and more in need of a good night’s sleep than a tumble in the sheets.

“Long week?,” she asked.

He squeezed her hand. “Yeah,” he admitted. “A shit load of work and way too many meetings.” He sighed. “But we can talk about that later. Right now, let’s get those steaks going. The sooner we eat, the sooner we can get to bed.” He winked and she shook her head at him.

“You’re going to conk out before your head hits the pillow and you know it,” she said gently. She opened the back door and saw a grey streak as Linus leaped down from the counter and dashed out of the kitchen. “I saw that,” she threatened. “Damn cat thinks he owns the place.”

***********************************************

The steaks were delicious and after they’d eaten, Javi felt comfortably full and relaxed. He loosened his tie and stretched out on the couch while Cassidy took a shower. He’d told her she smelled just fine to him, but she insisted she was dusty and covered in horse slobber. By the time she came out, wearing a tank top and baggy sleep shorts, he was half asleep.

“Come to bed,” she said, tugging at his hand. He scrubbed at his face, embarrassed that he’d dozed off. “To sleep,” she clarified. “You’re worn out.”

He let her lead him into the bedroom, where he stripped off his clothes and fell into bed. She slipped in next to him and snuggled close. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I know you were probably hoping for something more exciting.”

“This is nice, too,” she said. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Me, too,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Me, too.”

When the alarm went off in the morning, he was momentarily confused. “Go back to sleep,” Cassidy said. “I’ve got to go feed but you don’t need to get up. I’ll be back.”

He meant to get up, he really did, but the bed was warm and comfortable. The next thing he knew, the smell of coffee and bacon was wafting through the air and Linus was standing on his chest, staring at him while purring loudly. He heard a noise and turned his head to see Cassidy leaning against the doorway, a cup of coffee in her hands. “Morning, sleepyhead,” she said.

Javi sat up, unceremoniously dumping the cat onto the bedspread. Linus gave an indignant meow and stalked away, the tip of his tail twitching. “What time is it?”

“Eight thirty,” Cassidy said. She handed him the coffee. “You looked so peaceful, I couldn’t bear to wake you. But I got hungry so I fixed breakfast. Bacon and eggs, if you’re interested.”

He was. He gulped down half the coffee, took a quick shower and got dressed, then joined her in the kitchen. “I thought we could take a ride this morning, if you want,” she said as he shoveled food into his mouth. “Buster could use the exercise.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “I think Dad wants us to go over for dinner and a movie tonight, if that’s okay.”

She nodded. Javi sipped at his second cup of coffee. It felt so … domestic, discussing their plans for the day over breakfast. Linus wound between their ankles, hoping for a bite of bacon. Through the window, he could see Buster dozing in the morning sun out in his pen, while Mama and Baby Girl groomed each other in the arena. Cricket was rolling at the other end of the arena, a plume of dust rising above her as she scratched her back against the dirt. I could get used to this, Javi mused. If only San Antonio wasn’t so far away …

*****************************************

Cassidy had been a little worried that things would be awkward between her and Javi, but the day was amazing. After breakfast, she’d packed a few sandwiches and they’d headed out for a long trail ride. Buster was thrilled to be reunited with Javi, and even more thrilled to get out of the arena. They rode for hours, stopping at a little spot where the creek spread out into a limpid pool ringed with trees. The horses stood in the water, cooling their hooves and drinking deeply, while she and Javi made out while reclining against the trunk of a particularly large willow.

The bark dug into her back through the thin fabric of her tank top, but she didn’t mind. Javi kissed her slowly and gently until his stomach growled and ended the romantic vibe. He laughed. “Guess it’s time for lunch.”

They ate their sandwiches and then swung back into the saddle. Cassidy was curious to try a new trail that she thought would loop back to her property, but she had prudently waited until she had company before trying it. It did lead to her property line, but via a rather steep gully and a stretch of uneven, rocky ground that was no problem for nimble little Cricket, but proved a little too much for Buster. By the time they got back to the barn, the gelding was breathing hard and dripping with sweat. Javi wasn’t much better.

“I think my ass is one big bruise,” he complained as he slid out of his saddle.

“Aww, poor baby,” Cassidy teased. “I can slap some liniment on it for you.” Javi just rolled his eyes.

They untacked the horses and gave them a bath. Buster shook like a dog after Javi had rinsed the soap off him, soaking Javi from head to toe. He just shrugged. “Well, at least I won’t need a shower tonight.”

They puttered around the barn until it was time to head over to Chucho’s for dinner. He’d made his speciality — chili con carne — and had rented a romantic comedy and an action film. “Wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for,” he explained, as they settled around the table.

“Anything’s fine with me,” Cassidy said. She was happy just to be sitting in Chucho’s kitchen, with a cold beer and a hot bowl of chili in front of her, and Javi beside her.

After dinner, they curled up on the couch to watch a Rambo-wannabe lead an assault on some Nazis or Communists or something; Cassidy wasn’t really sure what was going on, but Chucho and Javi seemed to be enjoying it. She relaxed against Javi’s chest and played with his fingers, content just to be there.

When the movie was over, they drove back to her house, checked on the horses, and retired to the bedroom. Unlike the frenzied, almost desperate sex of the weekend before, now they took their time, making love slowly and carefully before drifting off to sleep wrapped in each other’s arms. Her last conscious thought was, This is gonna work. We’re really going to make this work.

#javier peña x ofc #javier pena fic #javier pena narcos #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña #horses #pedro pascal character fanfiction

[sullustangin]

2022 SWTOR Secret Santa Fic

Happy Holidays to @thelealinhypehouse​ ! 

I was happily assigned to be your Santa.  One of the prompts you sent over was:  “My imperial agent Ain'res or my jedi master Sallaros. Ain in some snowball fight  with Theron or solo.”

I read into your blog a bit, noted your descriptions of Ain’res and his lovely braids, and picked up on his ‘hard-ass with a heart of gold’ attitude.  One thing did stand out to me in my research: the fact that Ain’res’s romantic pairing with Theron is an AU, given his issues and the dangers he voluntarily faces.  One of the major themes of Star Wars is hope.  So this gift fic straddles a space between your canon and your AU -- you can place in either universe.  I hope this makes you happy.

~~

…it was time to move on. He’d reached that decision less than a week before Life Day rolled around at Odessen.  

Well over a year ago, Ain'res'sabosen had helped the Alliance save the galaxy.  His bags had been packed the second the victory broadcast had finished.

No, it wasn’t because he had hated the Commander or had disapproved of the Alliance’s presence as a peacekeeping aid fleet.  Ain’res had needed to go home.  To the Empire.  

And so he had.  

Someone had to defend it against all foes, visible and invisible.  That included far too many Sith who’d let power go to their heads. Cipher Seven was to return to Ghost status, and after each mission, simply disappear.  Every mission.

Months, a year passed. Every success was met with a tingle of adrenaline and a flash of dopamine for a job well done… and yet his fingers always found the rings woven into his hair.  

But then Lana Beniko asked him to return, because Theron Shan – the Alliance’s black ops coordinator and operations manager of Odessen – had seemingly defected.

He was dangerous to the Empire, as well as the rest of the galaxy.  That was Ain’res’ rationale at the time.  

“Seemingly” was why Ain’res really needed to move on now: it had been a charade, everything had been set to right, and his former firing range partner was no longer another target on his list.

…but why was it so daunting to move his bag to the shuttle he’d reserved for transport off-world?

Maybe it was the snow. It reminded Ain’res of Csilla; even though he’d been born on urban Cioral, Csilla was much prettier to look at, much like Ain’res.

It was also far more dangerous -- much like Ain’res.  

Ain’res finally pushed himself to stand and took one last look at his quarters on Odessen, making sure he hadn’t left a charger or something behind.  

There was no need to check the drawers; he’d never really unpacked.  Laundry would be washed and replaced right back into his bag… he never intended on staying with the Alliance.

Why was this so hard?

As Ain’res marched down the hallway, one of his braids bounced right into his line of sight. Pesky thing.  Impulsively, he chomped down on the end to keep it from smacking him.  Fortunately, he managed to avoid the rings, this time.

~~

“Are you sure we can’t persuade you to stay with the Alliance?  Your talent would be used for the betterment of the galaxy,” Lana again asked him.  

Ain’res shook his head.

Both of the Alliance advisors had been loitering, deliberately, in the hallway en route to the shuttle launch area to try to catch him.  If Ain’res had wanted to avoid them, he could have…

But it was sort of nice to feel like he was someone they wanted to keep around.

“I still serve the people of the Empire.  Not every Sith Lord… is as pragmatic as you are,” Ain’res chose his words carefully. “They don’t seem to understand that without the people, there is no Empire…or tax base with which to run it.”  Lana smirked at that smart comment. “Their worst impulses…need to be checked.”

“And you’re the man to do it,” Theron said, looking straight at the blaster pistols at Ain’res’s hips.

Ain’res nodded again. “I have to be.”

Sudden, both advisors’ datapads screeched.  Theron’s hand was quick to reach for his implants, beating Lana’s attempt to draw out her datapad from her voluminous robes.  “Well, looks like you’ll be here with us a little longer, Cipher Seven – inclement weather.  Lana, the Commander is – ”

“Absolutely not going to try to land in this!”  Lana had already whirled around in a great billowing cloud of Sith tailoring as she marched toward the nearest holocomm to delay and deter the Commander arriving.

It wasn’t the first time a landing hadn’t quite gone to plan.

That left Ain’res and Theron Shan standing in the hallway.  After an awkward pause, Ain’res asked, “Any idea how long this will be?”

Theron shrugged. “Depends on how much snow it drops and whether it starts icing over – we should know within the next hour or two.” Theron jerked his head toward the docks. “Want to take a look?”

“Yes.”  The answer came out unbidden, and by the time Ain’res had a moment to feel self-conscious about his eagerness, he was already following Theron down the hallway.

Eventually the two men emerged on the military docks.   Aygo was directing traffic and ushering people to either get inside or get cold weather gear.  The two spies took the hint: they grabbed two standard-issue all-weather thermal jackets before darting out of the hangar bay.  

As the pair followed the trail out toward the shooting range, Ain’res couldn’t stop himself from feeling that little jolt of awe as he passed through Odessen’s now sleeping forest.

This planet in winter was beautiful.   Maybe even prettier than Csilla.  There was a promise of spring here.  The snow was temporary; the joy or inconvenience it brought was fleeting.  Change was possible.  That wasn’t the case with Csilla…(and maybe not Ain’res either).

“Should have brought blasters out here.  Ah well. Probably wouldn’t have fired well in this weather,” Theron mused distractedly as he scanned the terrain around them.  

Ain’res was a resourceful man.  He did not miss opportunities.  

A strangled yelp came out of Theron as Ain’res’s well-aimed snowball hit him right where his collar met his skin.  Despite himself, Ain’res giggled –

And promptly got a face full of snow in retribution.

It was on.

There was some divine comedy in two of the deadliest men in the galaxy engaging in something as juvenile as a snowball fight.

Then again, neither of them really had the chance to be juveniles in the first place, so perhaps the Divine had mercy on them, just this once.

The fresh cold snow hit Ain’res’s skin and lingered; Chiss ran cool by nature.  The flakes eventually evaporated away, but the edges of the tiny crystals were briefly felt.  The prickle again summoned a memory, a good one, as he heaved snow in Theron’s direction.

Eventually, the two juggernauts slowed as the snow continued to fall down, making their steps heavier. They staggered about, grabbing for snow, their accuracy gone, their lungs gasping for breath.

It was fun.

They never did come to an agreement as to who hit the ground first and didn’t get up again; it was too close to call.  

Exhausted, as they were both trying to catch their breath despite their laughter, Ain’res betrayed himself; he looked at Theron’s face.  …they’d become fast ...friends again after Theron had returned.  

That word came so hard for him.  

When Theron was cleared from medbay, after he returned from Nathema, they’d had a drink.  Theron had settled for ginger ale, given his condition. They had laughed then also, but over such a horrible thing:  the deadly cat-and-mouse game they’d almost gotten to play.  Thank the Stars for the Commander’s less bloody thinking (at least compared to Lana).

Most people would have been horrified to be a Cipher target, but Theron had understood.  He’d been SIS; he knew how these things were, regardless of personal feelings.

…And there was the problem…

Looking right back at Ain’res.

Ain’res had been caught.

He felt the flood of heat on his face as he tried to look away, redirect his own attention --

Yet, even in his panic at being found out, Ain’res observed a certain sadness, just before half of Theron’s mouth hitched up.  

“I thought Chiss were good with cold weather,” he said.

Ain’res blinked at him, confused.  

Theron pointed with a gloved finger, keeping his hands close to himself.  “You’re turning purple.”

Ain’res blushed even harder.

…And Theron finally figured it out.  “Oh. Sorry.”  A nervous hand went up to the back of his neck.  His soaked collar had to be pulled away from his skin. “Didn’t mean to … call you out or anything.”

The Chiss vigorously shook his head, his braids making quiet ‘thumps’ against his shoulders.  “I’m – fine.  So –

And suddenly, a very warm puff of air crossed his mouth as Theron impulsively kissed him.

Ain’res’s brain shut down entirely.  It wasn’t unpleasant, like the brainwashing.  It felt pretty amazing…

The kiss had to end sometime – and it did.  Sometime.

And then Ain’res’s heart dropped.  “I can’t.” He might have shut his mouth then, but Ain’res couldn’t stop the feelings from rampaging through his head.  After everything, the mind control, his team --  There was a reason he was alone, and it was because he deserved it. He’d failed.  

Theron watched him, trying to read him, trying to understand what was going on in his head…the master of spies knew his file.  He knew --

“I owe it to them to serve the Empire.”  

It was the slightest motion on Theron’s face, but it was enough.  “You really want to go back to the Sith Empire?”

Ain’res glared.  “I serve the people of the Empire.  Not the Sith.  You know that.”

“You can do that here with the Alliance, just as I serve the Republic… at least her ideals, anyway.” Theron cleared his throat.  “I’m probably not the guy who should be encouraging others to defect, given recent history.”

Ain’res had to laugh at that.  Then, the shame.  The urge to shake himself… “But I would harm the Republic to save the people of the Empire,” Ain’res cut right to the heart of this matter.  “We… friends.  All we are. All we can be.”

Because you wouldn’t forgive me.

Although his hair was darker from being wet due to the snow, Theron’s silver streaks at his temples still reflected the hazy light of the  sun as he shifted to sit up.  “Not … necessarily true.”

“Are you mad?” The words flew out of Ain’res.

Theron stifled a weak laugh. “No… it’s just… how do I put it?” Theron sighed.  “...it’s one thing to be alone in the galaxy, like I am.  It’s another thing to be lonely.”  He tilted his head toward the other agent.  “Not sure which one you are.  But now that a planet-eating emperor is gone and an unstoppable space fleet is no longer a threat to anyone… the galaxy might start to calm down.  It’s changing, almost as fast as Odessen, according to Dr. Oggurobb…”

Ain’res understood what he was getting at….

And he didn’t want to deal with those feelings right now.  

“…I need to prep my shuttle for departure.”   But before he could run off and abandon Theron entirely, Ain’res felt the urge and gave into it: “thank you for your time,” he said in a rush.

He was so bad at this.

~~

Been awhile since Dromund Kaas.

Been awhile since this bed. He was glad he had done the laundry before he left.  Fresh sheets always made sleep easier… though not always possible.

Ain’res hand tangled in his hair.  He felt the aurebesh letters on the rings slide by.  He explored them, as if he’d never touched them before.

Ain’ress knew the names; they were carved into his heart.  

Are you alone?  Or lonely?

On a not-so-good night – or a night where a mission was keeping him awake, Ain’res constantly toyed with the rings until they slid down the strands.  One of his nervous habits was to bite down on the braid, and sometimes, he’d knock a tooth against the rings.  As his jaw sprang back open, his first thought was to the rings…not to his own teeth.  

His friends…his partner…his team…  he’d lost them.  They weren’t here to proclaim him blameless for their deaths.  No, their names were engraved on the rings to remind him --

…He needed to be reminded that he was alone, and he thought he deserved it…

And with that came the loneliness.

Are you like Csilla? Pretty, dangerous, and always cold?

Ain’res watched the shadows of traffic on Dromund Kaas play across his bedroom ceiling.  Rain, as usual.  

No snow.  No magic.  No Theron. All these things melted away when just enough time had passed.  

But the memories were already lingering far longer than his normal mental discipline permitted.  

…or can you be like Odessen?  Pretty, dangerous… and ever-changing?

Ain’res let himself remember the cold and the hot contrast that had lingered on his mouth for glorious moments…

Can you change…?

Live a little longer than you want…?

Ain’res surprised himself that night.

For the first time since he could remember…maybe before the brainwashing? … he dreamed.

There was a message on his datapad from Theron the next morning.

Ain’res answered it.

~~

A/N:  To dream for a former Cipher is quite a hopeful sign.  How he answers -- that’s up to you.  Happy Holidays

#swtor #2022swtorss #Theron Shan #Theron Shan x Imperial Agent #Imperial Agent OC #gift fic #chiss imperial agent #ain'ress #thelealinhypehouse

[marblesarelost]

Scenes From the Nightshade Clinic: Part 2

"Hi, Grandma," the chorus sounded from the nurses' station around one in the morning a few days later. Marcia Guzman smiled, waving to them all as she shuffled down the hallway, pushing a gurney she'd piled high with insulated bags and coolers. Her white hair drifted here and there along with her, a few curls coiling down her neck and around her ears, her blue eyes bright behind her cat's eye glasses, freshwater pearls gleaming along the cord that held them around her neck.

She paused as she came closer to the nurses' station, looking over the staff; everyone was in tonight, as they were every other Wednesday night. Staff meeting with Gramma, then lunch, and she always remembered their favorites. A slight frown wrapped itself around her gentle features. "Sharon's not here?" She asked, and Derry shook her head, gills winking in and out of sight beneath her shoulder length blue hair.

"Vacation, she went to Vegas," Derry declared, and Ms. Guzman smacked herself on the forehead.

"Yes, yes, that's right, I forgot. Well." The merry, dimpled smile reappeared as the elderly woman began to move toward the staff room. "Gray, Kelly, come help me set up, please?" The two doctors were on their feet and moving before she even finished her sentence.

"So." Ms. Guzman stood at the head of the conference table, looking down at the week's report before her. "Mr. Davidson was able to draw back the rattusthropy without doing any more damage to the patient?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dr. Drew answered her. "Unfortunately, the entire ordeal was very taxing; I'm afraid it may have affected the patient's prognosis."

"Of course it did," Ms. Guzman sighed. "A shame."

"This is why humans should know about us," Vern said lowly, and both Matt and Zach, one to either side of him, shrank back as Ms. Guzman snapped her attention to him, her usually lively and sweet gaze turning icy as she cocked her head, white curls falling and framing her face.

"Vernon." One hand drifted up to the pearl cord of her glasses. Her voice was still light, but there was a chill to it that had several staff members stepping backwards now. "Do you have an issue that you would like to take up with me privately?"

Vern stared at her for a long few seconds, lips tight, and the old lady didn't blink, only reached up with her free hand to scoop a curl from her forehead, letting it wind around her finger. "No, ma'am," he finally replied. The tension in the room lessened...somewhat. Vern's shoulders were still up around his ears, and Ms. Guzman's lips were tight now against her teeth, but the meeting went on.

"We're still well within budget for the quarter," she said as Vern looked down at his hands. "The board and I are very impressed with the way you've all economized since the incident last year. Not that that was in any way any of your faults; no one could have expected the arrival of a Nest in Caul County, I can tell you that the board certainly didn't. With any luck at all, the clinic will be completely back in the black by the end of this fiscal year without having to let anyone go. We certainly don't want to; we know just how hard it is these days for people of a certain age or predilection." Almost everyone smiled at that. "So just keep the belt tight a few more months, and we'll have the budget meeting for next fiscal year, and it should be a bit better. Now. Lunch?"

The pre-dawn light was more than enough for Vern to see the figure standing beside his piece of shit car in the middle of the parking lot, and he knew who it would be; still. He hadn't closed his eyes to Death when it came for him a hundred years ago and more, and he wouldn't run from it now. "Ms. Guzman," he said, in a voice that didn't shake, but also didn't sound pleasant.

"Mr. Lawson," she replied, looking up at him. "I had thought we were very clear during your interview that if you had an issue, you were to email me and ask for a private appointment."

"My apologies, ma'am. Just..." he glanced to the east; he had a few minutes. Not long. "It broke my heart. It did. Mr. Franks meant well, he didn't know --"

"He didn't know that turning his grandchild would not arrest the cancer. I understand," she nodded brusquely. "I understand that you think perhaps letting it be known that preexisting conditions cannot be stopped or healed by supernatural means would keep others from harm and heartbreak. And I commend you for your empathy. However," her head rose, her gaze trapping his as a white curl fell in the middle of her forehead, "you are an employee, and a recent one at that. You are not a member of the board, and Mr. Lawson, you do not see the long picture. We do what we can. We give the help we can, without endangering ourselves or our kinfolk. Humanity does a fascinating job of killing what they consider "the other", without giving them targets that are not even human."

The light was growing brighter around them, and he began to fidget. "I'm sorry, Ms. Guzman."

"You will get no other warning," she hissed. "Do not contradict our code of conduct in public again. If you have a question, if you wish to discuss a point, I am perfectly happy to grant you an audience. Am I understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent." She stepped back from his car door, and it opened at the wave of her hand. "Go home, Vernon. You have fourteen minutes until true dawn, and you only live eight minutes from here."

#writing #original writing #original characters #The Nightshade Clinic #nurses #doctors #nurses' aides #fantasy creatures #they're all fantasy creatures here #living and hiding amongst humans #holding back the darkness as best they can

[vanosslirious]

BBS Dialogue Prompts: #197

BBS Dialogue Prompts & Sentence Starter: [ 10 ]

SMII7Y

Everybody get a rock, and on three, we’re going to fight.

Both of you missed!

What is he doing, he’s a madman!

I don’t know why I listen to you.

I just bitch slapped a man, can we get this session started, please.

Why did you say that?

I never miss, what am I saying?

Who's that fucker on the ramp down there taking their sweet time?

What kind of throwback is that?

That's the opposite of chill, what are y'all doing?

You will pay for your treachery.

Welcome to life, bitch.

I gotta get out of here.

I'm down if everyone's going to follow the fucking rule.

I'm gonna win this game real quick.

Why do you have another one?

I have nothing to stop that.

No, bitch, he's going to win.

I like the immediate sellout every time.

No, I just have bad memories.

KRYOZ

Do you want another one?

Wow, you lied to me.

I hear my boots too, don’t worry.

I think I finished the inside.

Now this is a good spot…oh wait, I'm stuck.

You diverted!

Let's get some actual work done.

We can finish and they won't even know.

Oh, there you are, jump down here.

I have done so much more work than you, it's crazy.

VANOSSGAMING

You don't know if that's a door, that's a secret door!

We didn't cheat, we beat the fucking system.

How do you get in this?

He's clearly right there.

I blew up half the map and I still can't see you.

What a fucking shit show.

It doesn't have too.

I didn't have enough time to think of something.

Okay, I'm just going to assume this is what it is.

Alright, so I gotta draw this motherfucker, I'm definitely not Googling.

H2ODELIRIOUS

Get your weapon too when you’re done.

Why did you shoot me, you son of a bitch.

Anything can happen on the road, anything.

Oh my God, you guys...look cool as hell.

Listen, I got a family, alright, what do you guys want?

The gun’s making me nervous, man.

Am I in the middle of something, you guys?

Where the hell are we going?

Oh God, they’re fighting.

Why am I clearly a criminal?

WILDCAT

These people are fucking lost.

I told you, you stupid bitch.

Lights out bitches.

That was his last dying breath.

Rock, paper, scissors? I’ll just win.

He’s dead, I’m the best.

I don’t know what else I gotta say.

My aim was awful.

I don’t think he’s working on it.

I almost fell and died again, this is really bad.

NOGLA

I let you die!

You only have one HP.

Yeah, I’ll take the risk.

We might have it after this one.

We don’t need it, we don’t need it!

I will say, I’m surprised how well we’re getting along.

We died a lot, but we haven’t killed each other.

We’re good enough not to become irrelevant.

Those other two people vocaling said they hate me, so I’m happy I’m with you.

This wasn’t the attire?

TERRORISER

I’m tripping shit, I’m in a different world.

Please, I need heroin.

He’s also sniffing marijuana.

He’s in a car crash every time he talks.

You are the only one who survived.

Can they hear you when you’re dead?

There's blood all over the side of the car.

They script their videos, what the fuck are we doing?

This is never going to end!

You're in space and my harddrive's running out of it.

MOO

You’re actually at the golf course?

It’s ten years too late.

Yep, that’s exactly where I’m going.

Okay, we’re actually doing something.

I know what’s coming.

I'll be the manager so I don't have to work.

You guys making money?

I was seeing if distance would work…

Only I steal from my clients.

I don't know, he got in first.

BASICALLYIDOWRK

We’re the fuck are they?

It’s a tax write-off and you know it.

It’s not like they have an army or anything.

I don’t like this, I don’t like this, how do you fly this?

I still can’t grab it, motherfucker!

Beam him out of the fucking sky.

How in the fucking world?

Is the last guy?

I don’t have guns!

I can’t fly that shit, I’ll kill us both.

RACINGCATZ

I'm swimming as fast as I can, man.

That’s how far I got.

Well, I didn’t survive.

He either wrote the coordinates wrong, or he wrote the wrong direction.

Now we’re going north.

Don’t worry, I notice those things pretty quickly.

Oh my God, I’m drunk as fuck.

Is it over here?

You’ll know it when you see it, trust me.

I love you too.

#banana bus squad #bbs #banana bus squad dialogue prompts #bbs prompts #smii7y #kryoz #vanossgaming #h2odelirious #i am wildcat #daithi de nogla #the terroriser #moo snuckel #basicallyidowrk #racingcatz #prompts #rpf prompts #tw swearing #sentence starter #text #words

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Saturday 20 December 1834

8 20

11 ¾

good kiss last night very fine morning F44° at 9 20 am at which hour breakfast - No Washington – unpacking and looking over and siding A-‘s kitchen things from Lidgate (left in the laundry here) till 11 – then off with A- to Cliff hill at 11 ¼ - went 1st to Crownest wondering why Washington had not called – found he had left home in a hurry at 9 – then went to Cliff hill – the workmen going to dinner – I sat 25 minutes there and left A- there – took back the little pamphlet of Reasons for contentment by archdeacon Paley and left a copy of Sir Robert Peel’s letter to his constituents at Tamworth – asked Miss Cliff hill how she wished to be styled having 1st said (in answer to her asking after Mrs Anne Lister) that my aunt called herself Mrs Lister and I should do the same when she had done with the brevet – Miss Cliff hill to be styled Mrs Ann or Mrs Walker - In returning went to Hopkins’ – the sister better - promised to send her a bottle of port wine – then into Lower brea wood, looking for sycamores to take up – then after 2 men, one of them carrying a gun – then examined the wood fence (bad) in Jonathan Mallinson’s land – then to Hannah Green’s – and staid talking about 1 ½ hour – Aquilla would like to take the Mytholm farm and to have a mill – Hannah thinks Robinson’s wire mill must be at liberty soon – had heard he was under notice to quit – asked me if this was true – I said I was surprised at the report and gave no decided answer either way – heard the history and vindication of young Dewhirst etc – Aquilla to come and speak to me and promised not to let the farm without letting Hannah know – from her house to Cliff hill in 18 minutes at 4 33/60 - A- had been waiting anxiously – Sykes still with her planting – home at 5 ½ - Joseph Robinsons salesman for John Hemingway (who has Stock’s Delphs) waiting to tell me, he heard I wanted Trough for John Bottomley’s – would furnish them of any size at 7 ½d per gallon – my tenant Abraham Hemingway carts for him – Mr Beattie was waiting in the drawing room for A- she told him the rent £38 per annum for Grieves’s farm, the tenant to pay all taxes – would not take less – Mr B- would agree rather than miss the place – dinner at 6 ½ - A- and I some time with my father and Marian – then coffee – then came upstairs – sat talking – read from p. 146 to 183 vol. 2 Sismondi on the literature of the South of Europe – then ½ hour with my aunt till 10 10 while A- wrote note to go on Monday morning to Mr Beattie – had considered of his proposal and as he was anxious for an early answer, begged to inform him, she would have pleasure in taking him as tenant - from year to year (he not wishing for a term of years) rent £38 per annum tenant paying all taxes - to be a written agreement - buildings to be put in good tenantable repair - wrote the above of today till 10 ¾ at which hour F43 ¼° - very fine day - kind letter this evening 3 pp. franked by Lord Wharncliffe from Lady Stuart Whitehall

[cans-of-rain]

A Fan Is Leaving His Estate To Neymar—Here’s Why It’s Not A Bad Idea

MIAMI, FLORIDA - SEPTEMBER 06: Neymar Jr. #10 of Brazil reacts after assisting Casemiro #5 on a ... [+] goal against Colombia during the first half of the friendly at Hard Rock Stadium on September 06, 2019 in Miami, Florida. (Photo by Michael Reaves/Getty Images)

Getty Images

A fan of Neymar Jr. made headlines last week when he declared that he was leaving his estate to the football phenom.

The anonymous fan told the online newspaper Metrópoles that, in addition to his love for the Brazilian national team, he identified with the Paris Saint-Germain striker. He said, in an interview, "I like Neymar, I identify with him a lot. I also suffer with defamation, I am also very family-oriented and the relationship with his father reminds me a lot of mine with my father, who has passed away."

The fan isn't old—just 31 years of age—but noted, "I am not in very good health and, because of that, I really saw that I don't have anyone to leave my things to... I wouldn't want the government or relatives I don't get along with to take my things." He explained that he had tried to turn over his assets during his lifetime but was advised instead to draw up a will. He did—and had it notarized (a photo of the will is on the Metropoles website here).

The relevant language in the document is simple: “É manifesta a derradeira vontade do testador, que respeitada a legitima, determina que a parte disponivel dos seus bens, fique para Neymar da Silva Santos, Junior…” That’s the equivalent of what we would call a residuary clause in the US when, after any specific bequests, you name who receives the balance—or residue—of your estate.

As the story spread, so did criticisms of the fan's plan. Some pointed out that it was odd to identify with a person you've never met, while others pointed out that Neymar didn't need the money. Neymar has earned an estimated $85 million over the past year, landing him at No. 12 on Forbes' list of the world's highest-paid athletes.

I get that it's easier to poke fun. You may disagree with the fan's decision, but I think that the criticism is misguided. Here are a few things that I believe he got right.

He Had A Plan

MORE FOR YOU

Most Americans don't have a will. According to a 2020 Gallup poll, slightly less than half of US adults—or 46%—have a will describing how they would like their money and estate handled after their death. A survey conducted by Caring.com during the pandemic placed that number even lower, suggesting that only 33% of Americans have an estate plan. Those numbers confirm what most tax and estates lawyers like me already know: getting folks to talk about and carry out an estate plan can be difficult.

Why so few? Surveys—and real life—suggest that the top reason for not creating a will is that people just don't get around to considering how they want their assets to be distributed after death. Often, this has to do with age (they think they're too young) or assets (they think they don't have enough to worry about passing on). Others don't know how to get started or fear that it might cost too much. So, they don't take any action at all.

But this fan? Even though he's young, he realized that planning for the disposition of his assets was important. And, since he indicated that his health wasn't good, he knew that putting off his estate planning wasn't a good idea. So he took action.

He Kept Trying

According to Metropoles, the fan initially tried to gift his assets to Neymar. When that didn't work, he came up with another plan: leave the assets to the footballer in his will.

It's not unusual for clients to have an idea that isn't possible to carry out either as a matter of law or practice. But that doesn't mean that the ultimate goal isn't possible. It just means that they have to find another way to carry out their wishes—that’s where a good estate planner can come in handy.

I admire this fan's tenacity. When his initial plan didn't work, he didn't give up. He tried a different method—the outcome should essentially be the same for him.

He Knew What He Did—And Didn't—Want

Folks may avoid estate planning because they believe that they don't need to plan because their assets will pass to their "next of kin"—whatever that means.

When you die without a will, your assets pass by intestacy, which means that they are distributed according to state law. In Pennsylvania, for example, if you die without a will and you're married with no children and no living parents, your estate will pass to your surviving spouse—that's what most people expect. But if you're married, and your children or parents survive you, your assets will pass via a formula to your children and spouse (or to your parents and spouse if you have no children or direct heirs).

If you don't have a surviving spouse, there's also a distribution scheme—first, to your children or direct heirs. If you don't have children, your estate passes to your parents if they're still alive. If they're not still alive, your assets will pass to your brothers, sisters, or their direct heirs—and if none of them are alive, then to your grandparents or their heirs (typically, your uncles and aunts). It gets… complicated. And if you survive all of your family, your assets will pass to the state.

That's not always a desirable outcome, especially for those with nontraditional families or relationships that might feel like family but aren't—like the close family friend you've always thought of as your aunt.

The anonymous fan—who had already lost his father—made clear didn't want his assets passing to relatives he didn't know or the government. He wanted to direct his assets where he wanted them to go.

There Is No ‘Means Testing’ For Wills

One of the most vocal criticisms of the bequest to Neymar is that the footballer doesn't need the money. To that, I would say, "And?" Arguably, many of the beneficiaries of gifts and estates don't "need" the money—that isn't necessarily the point of estate planning. It may be the case that you want to provide for someone—or an organization like a charity—that you believe could benefit from your money, but it may also be the case that you want to leave someone assets simply out of love and affection.

There's no ceiling or floor on what you can pass to beneficiaries in your will (although there may be thresholds subject to tax), and there's no gatekeeper to decide whether someone needs the money, or is deserving enough. That's up to you.

He Can Change His Mind

One of the things that can be intimidating about making a will is that it feels so… final. Only it's not. Most estate planning documents, including a will, can be changed at any time.

While this fan believes that Neymar is deserving right now, he might change his mind later. What if the fan has decided that he's a PSG fan for life—and Neymar returns to FC Barcelona, which, per recent reports, is a real possibility? What if the fan—who loves the national team—decides that he prefers Brazilian national team players Vini Jr. or Marta (a legend on the women’s team)? What if the fan gets married? Or has kids?

The reality is that a lot can change over a few years, but it's best to be prepared for today. You can always change it later.

Final Thoughts

I get that leaving your assets to your favorite footballer isn't everyone's cup of tea. And it can be easy to criticize someone who makes choices that are different from your own. But when it’s your money, you get to decide where it goes.

I'm an avid football fan (though I call it soccer). I can assure you that my will doesn't have any bequests for my favorite players, and that's not just because I'm confident that the likes of Gareth Bale and Andre Blake will be okay on their own. I simply have other priorities.

That's the great thing about estate planning. It’s your plan that reflects your circumstances and your values—and if that means that you want to leave your assets to one of the world’s richest soccer players, I think that’s okay.

MORE FROM FORBESBy Scoring A Lucrative Deal At Inter Miami, Lionel Messi Is Playing A New Financial GameBy Kelly Phillips Erb

Read more here https://f004.backblazeb2.com/file/rwwimz/TaxationTrends/US-tax/Understanding-Form-706-NA-A-Comprehensive-Guide-for-Nonresident-Aliens.html

#accounting

[harlowhaunted]

A Fan Is Leaving His Estate To Neymar—Here’s Why It’s Not A Bad Idea

MIAMI, FLORIDA - SEPTEMBER 06: Neymar Jr. #10 of Brazil reacts after assisting Casemiro #5 on a ... [+] goal against Colombia during the first half of the friendly at Hard Rock Stadium on September 06, 2019 in Miami, Florida. (Photo by Michael Reaves/Getty Images)

Getty Images

A fan of Neymar Jr. made headlines last week when he declared that he was leaving his estate to the football phenom.

The anonymous fan told the online newspaper Metrópoles that, in addition to his love for the Brazilian national team, he identified with the Paris Saint-Germain striker. He said, in an interview, "I like Neymar, I identify with him a lot. I also suffer with defamation, I am also very family-oriented and the relationship with his father reminds me a lot of mine with my father, who has passed away."

The fan isn't old—just 31 years of age—but noted, "I am not in very good health and, because of that, I really saw that I don't have anyone to leave my things to... I wouldn't want the government or relatives I don't get along with to take my things." He explained that he had tried to turn over his assets during his lifetime but was advised instead to draw up a will. He did—and had it notarized (a photo of the will is on the Metropoles website here).

The relevant language in the document is simple: “É manifesta a derradeira vontade do testador, que respeitada a legitima, determina que a parte disponivel dos seus bens, fique para Neymar da Silva Santos, Junior…” That’s the equivalent of what we would call a residuary clause in the US when, after any specific bequests, you name who receives the balance—or residue—of your estate.

As the story spread, so did criticisms of the fan's plan. Some pointed out that it was odd to identify with a person you've never met, while others pointed out that Neymar didn't need the money. Neymar has earned an estimated $85 million over the past year, landing him at No. 12 on Forbes' list of the world's highest-paid athletes.

I get that it's easier to poke fun. You may disagree with the fan's decision, but I think that the criticism is misguided. Here are a few things that I believe he got right.

He Had A Plan

MORE FOR YOU

Most Americans don't have a will. According to a 2020 Gallup poll, slightly less than half of US adults—or 46%—have a will describing how they would like their money and estate handled after their death. A survey conducted by Caring.com during the pandemic placed that number even lower, suggesting that only 33% of Americans have an estate plan. Those numbers confirm what most tax and estates lawyers like me already know: getting folks to talk about and carry out an estate plan can be difficult.

Why so few? Surveys—and real life—suggest that the top reason for not creating a will is that people just don't get around to considering how they want their assets to be distributed after death. Often, this has to do with age (they think they're too young) or assets (they think they don't have enough to worry about passing on). Others don't know how to get started or fear that it might cost too much. So, they don't take any action at all.

But this fan? Even though he's young, he realized that planning for the disposition of his assets was important. And, since he indicated that his health wasn't good, he knew that putting off his estate planning wasn't a good idea. So he took action.

He Kept Trying

According to Metropoles, the fan initially tried to gift his assets to Neymar. When that didn't work, he came up with another plan: leave the assets to the footballer in his will.

It's not unusual for clients to have an idea that isn't possible to carry out either as a matter of law or practice. But that doesn't mean that the ultimate goal isn't possible. It just means that they have to find another way to carry out their wishes—that’s where a good estate planner can come in handy.

I admire this fan's tenacity. When his initial plan didn't work, he didn't give up. He tried a different method—the outcome should essentially be the same for him.

He Knew What He Did—And Didn't—Want

Folks may avoid estate planning because they believe that they don't need to plan because their assets will pass to their "next of kin"—whatever that means.

When you die without a will, your assets pass by intestacy, which means that they are distributed according to state law. In Pennsylvania, for example, if you die without a will and you're married with no children and no living parents, your estate will pass to your surviving spouse—that's what most people expect. But if you're married, and your children or parents survive you, your assets will pass via a formula to your children and spouse (or to your parents and spouse if you have no children or direct heirs).

If you don't have a surviving spouse, there's also a distribution scheme—first, to your children or direct heirs. If you don't have children, your estate passes to your parents if they're still alive. If they're not still alive, your assets will pass to your brothers, sisters, or their direct heirs—and if none of them are alive, then to your grandparents or their heirs (typically, your uncles and aunts). It gets… complicated. And if you survive all of your family, your assets will pass to the state.

That's not always a desirable outcome, especially for those with nontraditional families or relationships that might feel like family but aren't—like the close family friend you've always thought of as your aunt.

The anonymous fan—who had already lost his father—made clear didn't want his assets passing to relatives he didn't know or the government. He wanted to direct his assets where he wanted them to go.

There Is No ‘Means Testing’ For Wills

One of the most vocal criticisms of the bequest to Neymar is that the footballer doesn't need the money. To that, I would say, "And?" Arguably, many of the beneficiaries of gifts and estates don't "need" the money—that isn't necessarily the point of estate planning. It may be the case that you want to provide for someone—or an organization like a charity—that you believe could benefit from your money, but it may also be the case that you want to leave someone assets simply out of love and affection.

There's no ceiling or floor on what you can pass to beneficiaries in your will (although there may be thresholds subject to tax), and there's no gatekeeper to decide whether someone needs the money, or is deserving enough. That's up to you.

He Can Change His Mind

One of the things that can be intimidating about making a will is that it feels so… final. Only it's not. Most estate planning documents, including a will, can be changed at any time.

While this fan believes that Neymar is deserving right now, he might change his mind later. What if the fan has decided that he's a PSG fan for life—and Neymar returns to FC Barcelona, which, per recent reports, is a real possibility? What if the fan—who loves the national team—decides that he prefers Brazilian national team players Vini Jr. or Marta (a legend on the women’s team)? What if the fan gets married? Or has kids?

The reality is that a lot can change over a few years, but it's best to be prepared for today. You can always change it later.

Final Thoughts

I get that leaving your assets to your favorite footballer isn't everyone's cup of tea. And it can be easy to criticize someone who makes choices that are different from your own. But when it’s your money, you get to decide where it goes.

I'm an avid football fan (though I call it soccer). I can assure you that my will doesn't have any bequests for my favorite players, and that's not just because I'm confident that the likes of Gareth Bale and Andre Blake will be okay on their own. I simply have other priorities.

That's the great thing about estate planning. It’s your plan that reflects your circumstances and your values—and if that means that you want to leave your assets to one of the world’s richest soccer players, I think that’s okay.

MORE FROM FORBESBy Scoring A Lucrative Deal At Inter Miami, Lionel Messi Is Playing A New Financial GameBy Kelly Phillips Erb

Read more here https://f004.backblazeb2.com/file/rwwimz/TaxationTrends/US-tax/Understanding-Form-706-NA-A-Comprehensive-Guide-for-Nonresident-Aliens.html

#international tax #taxes #us tax expert

[ringbananaphone]

A Fan Is Leaving His Estate To Neymar—Here’s Why It’s Not A Bad Idea

MIAMI, FLORIDA - SEPTEMBER 06: Neymar Jr. #10 of Brazil reacts after assisting Casemiro #5 on a ... [+] goal against Colombia during the first half of the friendly at Hard Rock Stadium on September 06, 2019 in Miami, Florida. (Photo by Michael Reaves/Getty Images)

Getty Images

A fan of Neymar Jr. made headlines last week when he declared that he was leaving his estate to the football phenom.

The anonymous fan told the online newspaper Metrópoles that, in addition to his love for the Brazilian national team, he identified with the Paris Saint-Germain striker. He said, in an interview, "I like Neymar, I identify with him a lot. I also suffer with defamation, I am also very family-oriented and the relationship with his father reminds me a lot of mine with my father, who has passed away."

The fan isn't old—just 31 years of age—but noted, "I am not in very good health and, because of that, I really saw that I don't have anyone to leave my things to... I wouldn't want the government or relatives I don't get along with to take my things." He explained that he had tried to turn over his assets during his lifetime but was advised instead to draw up a will. He did—and had it notarized (a photo of the will is on the Metropoles website here).

The relevant language in the document is simple: “É manifesta a derradeira vontade do testador, que respeitada a legitima, determina que a parte disponivel dos seus bens, fique para Neymar da Silva Santos, Junior…” That’s the equivalent of what we would call a residuary clause in the US when, after any specific bequests, you name who receives the balance—or residue—of your estate.

As the story spread, so did criticisms of the fan's plan. Some pointed out that it was odd to identify with a person you've never met, while others pointed out that Neymar didn't need the money. Neymar has earned an estimated $85 million over the past year, landing him at No. 12 on Forbes' list of the world's highest-paid athletes.

I get that it's easier to poke fun. You may disagree with the fan's decision, but I think that the criticism is misguided. Here are a few things that I believe he got right.

He Had A Plan

MORE FOR YOU

Most Americans don't have a will. According to a 2020 Gallup poll, slightly less than half of US adults—or 46%—have a will describing how they would like their money and estate handled after their death. A survey conducted by Caring.com during the pandemic placed that number even lower, suggesting that only 33% of Americans have an estate plan. Those numbers confirm what most tax and estates lawyers like me already know: getting folks to talk about and carry out an estate plan can be difficult.

Why so few? Surveys—and real life—suggest that the top reason for not creating a will is that people just don't get around to considering how they want their assets to be distributed after death. Often, this has to do with age (they think they're too young) or assets (they think they don't have enough to worry about passing on). Others don't know how to get started or fear that it might cost too much. So, they don't take any action at all.

But this fan? Even though he's young, he realized that planning for the disposition of his assets was important. And, since he indicated that his health wasn't good, he knew that putting off his estate planning wasn't a good idea. So he took action.

He Kept Trying

According to Metropoles, the fan initially tried to gift his assets to Neymar. When that didn't work, he came up with another plan: leave the assets to the footballer in his will.

It's not unusual for clients to have an idea that isn't possible to carry out either as a matter of law or practice. But that doesn't mean that the ultimate goal isn't possible. It just means that they have to find another way to carry out their wishes—that’s where a good estate planner can come in handy.

I admire this fan's tenacity. When his initial plan didn't work, he didn't give up. He tried a different method—the outcome should essentially be the same for him.

He Knew What He Did—And Didn't—Want

Folks may avoid estate planning because they believe that they don't need to plan because their assets will pass to their "next of kin"—whatever that means.

When you die without a will, your assets pass by intestacy, which means that they are distributed according to state law. In Pennsylvania, for example, if you die without a will and you're married with no children and no living parents, your estate will pass to your surviving spouse—that's what most people expect. But if you're married, and your children or parents survive you, your assets will pass via a formula to your children and spouse (or to your parents and spouse if you have no children or direct heirs).

If you don't have a surviving spouse, there's also a distribution scheme—first, to your children or direct heirs. If you don't have children, your estate passes to your parents if they're still alive. If they're not still alive, your assets will pass to your brothers, sisters, or their direct heirs—and if none of them are alive, then to your grandparents or their heirs (typically, your uncles and aunts). It gets… complicated. And if you survive all of your family, your assets will pass to the state.

That's not always a desirable outcome, especially for those with nontraditional families or relationships that might feel like family but aren't—like the close family friend you've always thought of as your aunt.

The anonymous fan—who had already lost his father—made clear didn't want his assets passing to relatives he didn't know or the government. He wanted to direct his assets where he wanted them to go.

There Is No ‘Means Testing’ For Wills

One of the most vocal criticisms of the bequest to Neymar is that the footballer doesn't need the money. To that, I would say, "And?" Arguably, many of the beneficiaries of gifts and estates don't "need" the money—that isn't necessarily the point of estate planning. It may be the case that you want to provide for someone—or an organization like a charity—that you believe could benefit from your money, but it may also be the case that you want to leave someone assets simply out of love and affection.

There's no ceiling or floor on what you can pass to beneficiaries in your will (although there may be thresholds subject to tax), and there's no gatekeeper to decide whether someone needs the money, or is deserving enough. That's up to you.

He Can Change His Mind

One of the things that can be intimidating about making a will is that it feels so… final. Only it's not. Most estate planning documents, including a will, can be changed at any time.

While this fan believes that Neymar is deserving right now, he might change his mind later. What if the fan has decided that he's a PSG fan for life—and Neymar returns to FC Barcelona, which, per recent reports, is a real possibility? What if the fan—who loves the national team—decides that he prefers Brazilian national team players Vini Jr. or Marta (a legend on the women’s team)? What if the fan gets married? Or has kids?

The reality is that a lot can change over a few years, but it's best to be prepared for today. You can always change it later.

Final Thoughts

I get that leaving your assets to your favorite footballer isn't everyone's cup of tea. And it can be easy to criticize someone who makes choices that are different from your own. But when it’s your money, you get to decide where it goes.

I'm an avid football fan (though I call it soccer). I can assure you that my will doesn't have any bequests for my favorite players, and that's not just because I'm confident that the likes of Gareth Bale and Andre Blake will be okay on their own. I simply have other priorities.

That's the great thing about estate planning. It’s your plan that reflects your circumstances and your values—and if that means that you want to leave your assets to one of the world’s richest soccer players, I think that’s okay.

MORE FROM FORBESBy Scoring A Lucrative Deal At Inter Miami, Lionel Messi Is Playing A New Financial GameBy Kelly Phillips Erb

Read more here https://f004.backblazeb2.com/file/rwwimz/TaxationTrends/US-tax/Understanding-Form-706-NA-A-Comprehensive-Guide-for-Nonresident-Aliens.html

#us tax #taxation

[another-manganime-lover]

A Fan Is Leaving His Estate To Neymar—Here’s Why It’s Not A Bad Idea

MIAMI, FLORIDA - SEPTEMBER 06: Neymar Jr. #10 of Brazil reacts after assisting Casemiro #5 on a ... [+] goal against Colombia during the first half of the friendly at Hard Rock Stadium on September 06, 2019 in Miami, Florida. (Photo by Michael Reaves/Getty Images)

Getty Images

A fan of Neymar Jr. made headlines last week when he declared that he was leaving his estate to the football phenom.

The anonymous fan told the online newspaper Metrópoles that, in addition to his love for the Brazilian national team, he identified with the Paris Saint-Germain striker. He said, in an interview, "I like Neymar, I identify with him a lot. I also suffer with defamation, I am also very family-oriented and the relationship with his father reminds me a lot of mine with my father, who has passed away."

The fan isn't old—just 31 years of age—but noted, "I am not in very good health and, because of that, I really saw that I don't have anyone to leave my things to... I wouldn't want the government or relatives I don't get along with to take my things." He explained that he had tried to turn over his assets during his lifetime but was advised instead to draw up a will. He did—and had it notarized (a photo of the will is on the Metropoles website here).

The relevant language in the document is simple: “É manifesta a derradeira vontade do testador, que respeitada a legitima, determina que a parte disponivel dos seus bens, fique para Neymar da Silva Santos, Junior…” That’s the equivalent of what we would call a residuary clause in the US when, after any specific bequests, you name who receives the balance—or residue—of your estate.

As the story spread, so did criticisms of the fan's plan. Some pointed out that it was odd to identify with a person you've never met, while others pointed out that Neymar didn't need the money. Neymar has earned an estimated $85 million over the past year, landing him at No. 12 on Forbes' list of the world's highest-paid athletes.

I get that it's easier to poke fun. You may disagree with the fan's decision, but I think that the criticism is misguided. Here are a few things that I believe he got right.

He Had A Plan

MORE FOR YOU

Most Americans don't have a will. According to a 2020 Gallup poll, slightly less than half of US adults—or 46%—have a will describing how they would like their money and estate handled after their death. A survey conducted by Caring.com during the pandemic placed that number even lower, suggesting that only 33% of Americans have an estate plan. Those numbers confirm what most tax and estates lawyers like me already know: getting folks to talk about and carry out an estate plan can be difficult.

Why so few? Surveys—and real life—suggest that the top reason for not creating a will is that people just don't get around to considering how they want their assets to be distributed after death. Often, this has to do with age (they think they're too young) or assets (they think they don't have enough to worry about passing on). Others don't know how to get started or fear that it might cost too much. So, they don't take any action at all.

But this fan? Even though he's young, he realized that planning for the disposition of his assets was important. And, since he indicated that his health wasn't good, he knew that putting off his estate planning wasn't a good idea. So he took action.

He Kept Trying

According to Metropoles, the fan initially tried to gift his assets to Neymar. When that didn't work, he came up with another plan: leave the assets to the footballer in his will.

It's not unusual for clients to have an idea that isn't possible to carry out either as a matter of law or practice. But that doesn't mean that the ultimate goal isn't possible. It just means that they have to find another way to carry out their wishes—that’s where a good estate planner can come in handy.

I admire this fan's tenacity. When his initial plan didn't work, he didn't give up. He tried a different method—the outcome should essentially be the same for him.

He Knew What He Did—And Didn't—Want

Folks may avoid estate planning because they believe that they don't need to plan because their assets will pass to their "next of kin"—whatever that means.

When you die without a will, your assets pass by intestacy, which means that they are distributed according to state law. In Pennsylvania, for example, if you die without a will and you're married with no children and no living parents, your estate will pass to your surviving spouse—that's what most people expect. But if you're married, and your children or parents survive you, your assets will pass via a formula to your children and spouse (or to your parents and spouse if you have no children or direct heirs).

If you don't have a surviving spouse, there's also a distribution scheme—first, to your children or direct heirs. If you don't have children, your estate passes to your parents if they're still alive. If they're not still alive, your assets will pass to your brothers, sisters, or their direct heirs—and if none of them are alive, then to your grandparents or their heirs (typically, your uncles and aunts). It gets… complicated. And if you survive all of your family, your assets will pass to the state.

That's not always a desirable outcome, especially for those with nontraditional families or relationships that might feel like family but aren't—like the close family friend you've always thought of as your aunt.

The anonymous fan—who had already lost his father—made clear didn't want his assets passing to relatives he didn't know or the government. He wanted to direct his assets where he wanted them to go.

There Is No ‘Means Testing’ For Wills

One of the most vocal criticisms of the bequest to Neymar is that the footballer doesn't need the money. To that, I would say, "And?" Arguably, many of the beneficiaries of gifts and estates don't "need" the money—that isn't necessarily the point of estate planning. It may be the case that you want to provide for someone—or an organization like a charity—that you believe could benefit from your money, but it may also be the case that you want to leave someone assets simply out of love and affection.

There's no ceiling or floor on what you can pass to beneficiaries in your will (although there may be thresholds subject to tax), and there's no gatekeeper to decide whether someone needs the money, or is deserving enough. That's up to you.

He Can Change His Mind

One of the things that can be intimidating about making a will is that it feels so… final. Only it's not. Most estate planning documents, including a will, can be changed at any time.

While this fan believes that Neymar is deserving right now, he might change his mind later. What if the fan has decided that he's a PSG fan for life—and Neymar returns to FC Barcelona, which, per recent reports, is a real possibility? What if the fan—who loves the national team—decides that he prefers Brazilian national team players Vini Jr. or Marta (a legend on the women’s team)? What if the fan gets married? Or has kids?

The reality is that a lot can change over a few years, but it's best to be prepared for today. You can always change it later.

Final Thoughts

I get that leaving your assets to your favorite footballer isn't everyone's cup of tea. And it can be easy to criticize someone who makes choices that are different from your own. But when it’s your money, you get to decide where it goes.

I'm an avid football fan (though I call it soccer). I can assure you that my will doesn't have any bequests for my favorite players, and that's not just because I'm confident that the likes of Gareth Bale and Andre Blake will be okay on their own. I simply have other priorities.

That's the great thing about estate planning. It’s your plan that reflects your circumstances and your values—and if that means that you want to leave your assets to one of the world’s richest soccer players, I think that’s okay.

MORE FROM FORBESBy Scoring A Lucrative Deal At Inter Miami, Lionel Messi Is Playing A New Financial GameBy Kelly Phillips Erb

Read more here https://f004.backblazeb2.com/file/rwwimz/TaxationTrends/US-tax/Understanding-Form-706-NA-A-Comprehensive-Guide-for-Nonresident-Aliens.html

#us tax #tax consultant

[presumenothing]

said the blossom to the brook

aka: finally-sorta-finished extension of this hanahaki au

Zhao Yunlan isn't unaccustomed to being on the wrong end of a cosmic joke; he's not sure there's any other way to describe how he'd ended up in Zhao Xinci's old post after spending most of his life until that point (and since then, too) doing his best to avoid the old man.

This once, though – just this once, he would very much like whoever's laughing at his suffering would cut him a damned break.

Or at least give him his breath back. That'd be a good place to start.

Lin Jing side-eyes from over the top of his monitor. "You… don't look too good, Chief," he ventures, and Zhao Yunlan only stops short of throwing his hands in the air because he's trying not to jostle his insides more than necessary. Goodness knows they don't need the encouragement.

He must really look like shit for Lin Jing to be saying that, risk to his bonus and all, but Zhao Yunlan can't say he's surprised. Even considering the kind of luck they've been having lately this case hasn't been one of their easier ones, both in terms of being tricky as hell to investigate and also the general foreboding sense he's getting that whichever Dixingren they find at the end of this, it won't be someone they actually want to be apprehending.

Or rather someone that the Black-Cloaked Envoy – that Shen Wei would want to be bringing back to Dixing in trial for their crimes. Same difference, these days.

Even the thought of Shen Wei makes something in him twinge, deep yet still too-close to the surface. It's definitely not his stomach, at least, because that whole situation has really gotten better now that he's having regular meals not dictated by what eateries will deliver to his flat or the SID, but he can't fully separate that from the not-great day – possibly not-great week – he's having.

"Better make that evidence report succinct when it lands on my desk, then," Zhao Yunlan declares in a snap decision, leaving Lin Jing to gape like some bespectacled fish as he turns on his heel and unwraps another lollipop on his way out of the lab.

Only after his office closes behind him does Zhao Yunlan let himself think about what he's trying to cover with the hard edge of artificial flavouring (the cloying sweet of flowers, and not entirely successful today) or the extent to which he'd rather have a smoke instead (quite a lot).

Though it's just as well he'd quit when he had. The flowers are already making it challenging enough to draw breath without coughing petals especially these last few years and months, like a doomsday countdown; the last thing he needs is to tax his poor lungs with smoke on top of all that.

It's times like these Zhao Yunlan wishes he'd gotten a couch instead of armchairs up here, too, but today it's not worth braving the main office for. Instead he scoops Da Qing off the seat of his swivel chair and bodily relocates him to the desk, all without moving the chair an inch.

Damn cat always knows how to pick a sunning spot, at least, and the warmth is tangible enough to breathe in even if Zhao Yunlan can't help bracing a little in case said cat also decides to try reclaiming the chair.

Said heavyweight stays on the table for once, at least. Small mercies. "Still moping?"

Zhao Yunlan is fairly certain the rude gesture is implied in his voice. "You're lucky Yashou don't get luohuabing."

"I didn't say all Yashou are immune." Da Qing holds a freshly-licked paw up for all emphasis it has. "Cats, though. Independence comes with its benefits."

"Get back to me when you have financial independence, too," Zhao Yunlan grumbles, but at least this freeloading relationship makes sense.

Unlike whatever's going on with Shen Wei – or more accurately, how all of that still hasn't stopped flowers from catching like the damn flu.

Screw this. Nap first, philosophical problems later.

#fanfiction #mine #guardian #zhao yunlan #da qing #lin jing #for the record the flowers only stop after he goes back in time #because ~rainbow hands~ full ciiiiircle #wip clearance 2k20

[phoenixyfriend]

Anakin Assists the Jedi Council While On Medical Leave

AU brainstormed primarily by @atagotiak, @gelpenss, and myself.

Basically, a fix-it based in Anakin getting a peek into the daily life on the Council early, and accidentally Figuring Some Shit Out along the way, mostly because Palps Fucks Up.

So, Anakin gets injured in a way that limits him to Coruscant for a few weeks. He can still walk and talk, but he can't fight. The specific injury doesn't matter, just this:

Anakin runs errands on behalf of the council and sits in on meetings to take minutes as a "you're on medical leave but we need all hands on deck, congrats you get to be the secretary until we can send you on stabbing missions again" thing.

Also, there just aren't a whole lot of people with Anakin's clearance level. They had to send out Stass Allie to handle the mission that was originally next on Anakin's roster, and Anakin's the most convenient person to substitute into her position.

He's not super happy about this but he can more or less understand the point of it. Given that he gets antsy about needing to fight almost immediately, he can acknowledge the worth of having something useful to do, if only as the person who's writing down who says what and making sure everyone has the right file on hand.

(Besides, Obi-Wan jokes in a way that Anakin thinks might be encouraging, this is good practice if Anakin ever wants to be on the High Council himself!)

(This is a very helpful conversation.)

BASICALLY, Anakin is resigned to this but agrees because "Usually we have Master Allie handle this but we need her running that mission that was originally set for the 501st, so you get to fill in for her until you can switch back. Think of it as training for eventual mastery or admin or--listen, we're just really stretched thin."

Here's the key thing, though: Anakin isn't supposed to leave the Temple, for medical reasons, so Palpatine doesn't know Anakin is sitting in on Council meetings. They haven't met up since Anakin's last surgery, and because [muffled hand-wave reason] he didn't find out another way, like Anakin comming him or the Council giving him the heads-up about the change in attendance.

It's fine. He's just taking notes and doing preparatory research, he has the clearance, the Chancellor likes him anyway. Hell, they'd have had someone's Padawan doing this, before the war increased the necessary clearance levels. They'll toss in a quick message in the brief they send to Palps that he never reads anyway, and that's really all they need to do. Skywalker's getting some rounded experience and this way the medics won't be freaking out about him stressing his heart after getting electrocuted by trying to spar too early.

Palpatine doesn't talk directly to the Council, he just sends a recording the first time Anakin is there. It's a bit weird, but nothing goes wrong. Anakin's off-screen from whatever device they use to send a response, since he's not technically a member, just assisting for a bit on the part of Master Allie's duties that he's actually allowed to touch (and not the bits that are getting added to Mace, Plo, and Shaak's stuff).

The first four or so meetings are like that. Anakin starts having a bit of sympathy for the Council as he sees how many things they want to do that are hampered by the need for Senatorial approval, things that he would also want to do and didn't think required this much red tape.

About a week in, still mostly recordings with Anakin just sitting on the side playing paralegal, the wheel of fortune turns a few pegs.

Palpatine hands over a an order on the range of injury that a soldier should be treated for, "to ensure that republic resources aren't being wasted on clones that, while expensive, would actually be cheaper to replace than repair."

Oh, he dresses it up in prettier language than that. Anakin doesn't process it as such first.

The Chancellor manages to couch his phrasing in "prioritizing resources for taxpaying republic citizens and employees of the GAR," which... well.

The natborn commissioned officers pay taxes. The Jedi are employees. The clones are neither, because they're slaves.

Probably he frames it as the employees thing, very much the kinda language that sounds halfway ok unless you’re fluent in political bullshit.

And Anakin is really confused at first about why the council is upset by the order because, okay, he would PREFER to be able to use medical supplies on refugees when possible, but he understands prioritizing the soldiers?

He just looks up, totally lost, when someone groans and goes, "That's the third time this year, is he trying to get us all killed?"

And it vibes as such a genuine, aggrieved, sad reaction that Anakin is completely blindsided because it's not the sarcastic, petty resentment he kind of expected? It's just... desperate depression.

And someone gently has to explain that this is the third time they've had resources restricted to only GAR employees and that it's a polite way of saying "prioritize natborn officers, stop wasting resources on clones, we can replace them easier."

Or maybe he doesn't ask, because he's just there to take notes, not argue, and he can see the masters drawing up a response that amounts to "We would like to remind you that our soldiers do not fall into that classification, and to limit their access to our medical supplies is liable to cause a loss of life that we find unreasonably high. Please see the annotations attached to adjust wording so that the clones may receive the same level of care."

Anakin's internally just like "Yeah, that's phrased nice and addresses the main problem, Palpatine will obviously agree and change it!"

And then he comes in the next day and the response comes in and it's just dripping condescension about considering the clones actual people.

"This is why we can't use the bacta tanks on clones anymore, just the patches. We could use them at first, we had a few of the CCs get through fatal injuries with them, but they cut that off and said we could only use the tanks on Jedi and non-clone officers a few months ago. The Banking Clans keep tightening their belts on the army, and the Chancellor insists we put citizens first, and the clones aren't citizens. We've been arguing back as much as we can, but he keeps going on about the economy and we can't... we just can't, Skywalker. We're trying to save as many of our men as we can, but..."

Something like "Allocation of resources reiterated, the Kaminoans have assured the senate that the Jedi are far from exhausting the resources ordered."

And Anakin's like. He can't blame the council for lying about Palpatine's past or future actions. He just saw Palpatine's actions. Those actions were to order people under his control to throw away lives he saw as replaceable commodities.

These are his friends' lives.

His soldiers are being thrown away by a man in a tower that he trusted.

And then that man has the gall to suggest it's the council's fault.

Palpatine is good at what he does, especially in public, he dresses it up in flowery language and everything, but Anakin's just like "Those are my FRIENDS and also this is??? How slavers talked about their property on Tatooine???? FRIENDPATINE, WHAT THE FUCK."

Anakin can be passive aggressive sometimes as well as outright aggressive. So if he brings up the guidelines and why they make him upset in general terms, and Palpatine says something about how he’s sad the council doesn’t care about the clones...

Anakin, internally, having just watched the council scramble to save as many clones as possible within the guidelines that Palps handed down: Uh-huh.

(Anakin is just the gay horror teeth gif from queer eye.)

Just. “Yeah, funny you say that, Palpatine! Because as I remember, you told the council not to waste more resources than necessary while Mace Windu was arguing to expand the treatment range!”

Palps doesn't even have time to salvage the situation or attack Anakin because Anakin just bulldoze rants for fifteen minutes and then storms out.

Anakin... maybe does a little treason and gets a copy of the orders so he can ask Padme "Hey, can you explain the politics of this?" and doesn't tell her who wrote it so she isn't biased (he tells her that this is why he's not sharing the author's/speaker's name), and just lets Padme pick apart all the 'this is a nice way of saying they don't view the clones as people' details.

Alternately, someone on the Council sees Anakin dithering and manages to get him to admit that he's not great at political language and wants to ask someone to help him understand the full implications. The person--Mace? let's go with Mace--is aware that Anakin is on good terms with Senator Amidala, if not necessarily aware of the depth of said relationship. Mace points out that he's probably going to be seeing her soon just because he usually does and, as a Senator, she can get easy access to these sessions since they're not about specific missions, just allocation of resources, etc. It's not an optimal solution, but she's got a bit more free time than anyone else Anakin knows with the clearance levels, like Order members that are actively involved in the war effort.

Anakin dithers and panics and Mace, trying to be helpful, tells him that plenty of Jedi have made friends among the Senate over the years, didn't you know Qui-Gon Jinn was a personal friend of Former Chancellor Valorum?

At any rate, Anakin goes to Padme and asks her to explain it to him, because she knows how to phrase things so he gets it.

Anakin has to have her pause and he goes outside and destroys some things halfway through.

(Anakin maybe thinks back to the times Padmé or Obi-Wan were really obviously frustrated and when he asked, they said stuff like “I can’t stand Palpatine rn, sorry Anakin I know he’s important to you and you don’t want to talk about politics, let’s just talk about something else.”)

(Obi-Wan: I don’t trust Palpatine Anakin: you just don’t like politicians in general Obi-Wan: yes that is also true)

(Obi-Wan does like Bail and Padme but he does also talk a bit about how politicians generally aren’t to be trusted.)

#Anakin Skywalker #Sheev Palpatine #Jedi High Council #Mace Windu #fix it fic #star wars #star wars prequels #Phoenix Posts #Padme Naberrie