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smurphyse · 2 years

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Over Your Shoulder

Smurphyse - Masterlist

Chapter 7: Hungry Dogs

Summary: What happens after the car accident, with a few memories! Also, it's very late, so apologies for any grammatical errors/etc. I'm exhausted lol and was having a hard time finishing this chapter.

Notes: The song Jasper is singing is called, "Down to the River to Pray" and it is a GREAT gospel song! You'll probably know it if you watched O' Brother, Where Art Thou? I heard it for the first time in church a billion years ago, but it's a song that will hold a lot of significance in this fic!

CW: mentions of sex, blood, violence. A dog is involved again, but just like last time, he is not hurt!

- Smurph❤

Anne’s Place, Cedar Key, Florida- 17 years ago

“Happy six months, baby,” Jack grinned, sitting in the booth across from her. He seemed genuinely happy for the first time since she’d met him. A smile looked good on him, despite the healing bruises under his eyes from their training sessions.

“Thanks, old man,” she smiled back at him, heat blossoming across her cheeks in the soft night light of some dive off the coast.

“You know, not a lot of people make it this far in the training,” Jack’s smile dropped, gone as quickly as it had come, “They’re usually either dead by this point or they give up and… get dead. But not you, kid, you’ve done better than any recruit I’ve seen come to the island.”

They were somewhere off the coast of Florida, in some small town that lacked security cameras and police presence so they could fly under the radar.

The diner was mostly empty, only a few truckers and nomads scattered throughout the booths. She and Jack sat at a booth in the back, one with a view of all the entrances and exits, red and blue neon draped over their shoulders as headlights flashed through the windows.

Eli stood at the counter, paying for their meal and flirting with the cashier. With his tight jeans and t-shirt he cut quite the figure, one any woman would find attractive. A pair of thick glasses sat on his nose as he brushed back his reddish brown curls with one hand, the other propping up his bearded chin as he charmed her.

She was glad he was away from the table. This was the first time she’d been out of Church since Eli had taken her there. Six months of dark rooms and training had left her itching for the outside world. Each day since she left Louisiana had been plagued by eighteen hour days, bloody and painful training filling each moment. She was grateful to be out of that place, even if she was stuck with Eli and his wandering hands.

“Are you ready for your first assignment?” Jack asked, fiddling with the plastic basket that held his leftovers. He picked at the fraying paper lining, a concerned look etched into his features.

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You have to put a bullet in someone’s head. You’ve got no issue with that?”

“I’ve killed people before, Jack, it’s not like I’m doing anything crazier than I did then.”

“Yeah,” he nodded slowly, “but this is the first time you’ll be doing it on orders. You don’t have any other information except point and shoot. This isn’t self defense and it isn’t revenge.”

“It’s war,” she groaned, “Yeah I know the propaganda by heart now, thanks.”

“Did you pick your cover name, yet, Sugar?” Eli asked as he waltzed back over, sliding in the seat next to her.

His thigh pressed against hers, so she scooted over a bit to allow him more room, but Eli just wrapped his arm around her waist and tugged her back over to him. She tried to keep her body loose and unbothered, but she saw Jack stiffen out of the corner of her eye.

Eli’s hand stayed on her hip, hot and heavy through her clothes.

“I did, actually,” she smiled sweetly, relaxing into his touch the best she could, desperately trying to keep from withering under his gaze.

“Well, pet?”

“Jasper,” she said quietly, reaching to twist her glass between her hands. Eli’s hand tightened its grip, his brows furrowing as he watched her. “Donnelly.”

“What did I tell you about sentiment, Sugar?” he asked, reaching out with his other hand and gripping her chin. He turned her face toward him, forcing her to look up into his angry blue eyes.

One thing that she had learned about Eli in her time at Church was that he was possessive. He was easily jealous and he liked to maintain control of his recruits. He knew all about their pasts, all about hers with Sam and her parents, and he used the information to keep them in line.

The two had never slept together, and she suspected they never would unless he made it happen, but he acted like an overbearing boyfriend to her sometimes.

It unnerved her, scared her. He was a good fifteen years older than her and literally held her life in his hands. Eli had the unique ability to make her feel like a wild animal, with her back to the wall while he stood between her and the only door to freedom.

“That it would get me killed,” she swallowed heavily, holding his gaze. “But it helps me to remember him, Eli, it reminds me why I’m here.”

“You’re right. Without him I never would have found you, Jasper .” His grip on her chin eased, one thumb lightly brushing against her bottom lip as he smiled fondly at her. She shivered under his touch, terrified of those wide teeth that held nothing but pain for her. “My perfect little pet, I’m so proud of you. You’re going to do such good work for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” she said immediately, wincing as her voice shook. She hated that this was the only person who had ever made her scared, that truly frightened her.

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna take good care of you, Sugar. You’re mine ,” Eli’s eyes slid over to Jack as he spoke that work, ‘mine’, and his hands finally left her. “I’m gonna go get the car.”

Jack tapped the table, both of them watching Eli leave. When the door shut behind him she turned back to Jack, narrowing her eyes at his concerned face.

“You okay, baby?”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, crossing her arms like a child as she glared at him.

“But you are a baby. You’re the youngest one Eli’s brought to Church. You’re way too young for this shit, and I told him that when I first saw you,” Jack sighed and leaned back in the booth. He swiped a hand down his face, chewing on his lip as he thought. “Angriest person I’ve ever met, lashing out and more defensive than a wounded animal.”

He gestured to his broken nose, wiggling his fingers in good humor, “Absolutely feral.”

“I wasn’t too young to get myself arrested for murder,” she shrugged, smiling despite her attempt not to.

“You were just doing what you had to, kid.”

“The judge didn’t see it that way,” she chuckled bitterly, watching him as he watched her. He broke eye contact first, scratching his head as he shrugged.

“What else were you supposed to do? Let him live after what he did? I would’ve done the same thing.”

She liked Jack, and wanted to trust him. Some part of her wondered if the reason she wanted to trust him so much was because of how upset he became watching Eli drool over her. But maybe he was just too scared of Eli to drool over her himself. She didn’t trust either of them.

“How old were you when he found you, Jack?”

“Twenty one. I’d been inside for four years, ten months, and eleven days,” Jack nodded to himself, frowning, “How long were you there?”

“In prison?”

“No, Disney World,” he scoffed, flashing her a sardonic smile.

“I don’t remember.”

“You’re getting better at lying, kid, but you’re not there yet.”

“Practice makes perfect,” she sneered, making a stupid face at him. When he laughed she asked him something she’d wondered for a while, “Is Jack your real name?”

“No,” Jack shook his head, his eyes far away. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you what it used to be, when I can trust you.”

“You can trust me.”

“Oo-ooh,” Jack chuckled, “Practice does make perfect.”

-----------------------------------------

Just Outside of Ellison, Alabama.

Half Mile From the Halsten Property- Present Day

Somebody left their pager on. She could hear it, blazing through her skull like a fucking bullet. Some damned boot must have kept it on them instead of returning it to the watch commander.

Her right shoulder shook, jerking back and forth as she tried to sleep. She tried to pull away from whoever was shoving her but they just kept pushing.

It was so hard to sleep on base. The acrid scent of burning rubber and blood and sweat settled heavily in the air. The sounds of the base rumbled all night long, and people never shut the fuck up. She just wanted some sleep.

“What?” she mumbled, shaking off the hand again. A jolt of pain shot down her other side and her eyes flew open.

She wasn’t in Iraq.

The “pager” was her ears, ringing from the impact of the airbag smashing into her nose. Blood dripped down her face in heavy streaks and into her mouth. Splotches of green and blue smeared together as she tried to make out the sight before her. Blinking away the blurriness that clouded her vision wasn’t working. She reached up to adjust her glasses, only to find they were gone. Shit.

Her shoulder shook again, and she turned toward the source. It was JJ, hardly hurt from what little Jasper could make out. She was saying something, leaning close and trying to get Jasper’s attention.

“...lance is on it’s way, Jazz,” JJ’s voice cut through the ringing. She had something in her hand, it was black. The walkie? Her phone?

“Go,” Jasper groaned, waving JJ off, her muscles screaming at her to stop moving. “Go get that fucker.”

JJ nodded, saying something into the walkie. She kicked the door open and was gone, running into the woods behind the SUV. As she tried to make out the hill in front of it, Jasper tugged some hair off her face, wincing as it stuck to the blood on her forehead.

Okay. Take stock.

Glasses, gone. You blind motherfucker, you’re fucked.

Calm down.

My head hurts, and my arms are burning. The airbag. The weird chemicals that help it deploy can burn your skin. I read that somewhere, or maybe heard it? From Luke? No, probably Spencer. He likes to spout random information all the time.

Left arm-stiff and sore. Left leg- cut up, wedged in the door, but okay nonetheless. Probably a broken rib or two, but that’s what happens when you’re a fucking idiot and take the full force of a pickup so Miss Congeniality can go home to her kids.

You dumbass. This mission is going to get you killed.

Jasper looked down at her leg. There was a good amount of blood, but it wasn’t broken. She prodded her thigh, wincing as she felt a large gash. It was mostly superficial, but just deep enough to hurt like a bitch.

Her thigh was wedged tightly between bits of metal, her skin pinched where the door wrapped around it. She slowly pulled at the meat of her thigh, groaning as she tried to slip it from the metal. After a few tries it pulled free, the pressure on her skin releasing in an instant.

“Jasper? JJ?” a voice came from the passenger side. She looked over to no avail, pulling her gun from the holster as she scanned the window as best she could without her glasses.

“Jasper!”

She sighed in relief when she recognized Spencer’s voice. She tucked her gun away as he pulled himself into the passenger seat. He grabbed her chin, one hand pushing her hair away from her face as he searched for serious injury.

“Jesus,” someone said from outside the car, but she couldn’t see who.

“Ow, owowow, you motherfucker, ” she grunted, shoving his hands off her. “Go. JJ needs backup. That fuckhead is fast.”

“Jazz,” he started, but she just shook her head, wincing as a fresh round of ringing and headache pressure blossomed throughout her skull.

“Go, go after her!” she groaned, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward the trees. “If he’ll use the car as a weapon, he’ll just find something else to use. She’s all alone. Go!”

“Stay here,” Spencer demanded, hopping out of the car and yelling to someone. She thought it sounded like Luke, but she wasn’t sure.

“Nah, I think I'll go run a marathon!” she yelled over her shoulder as they bound toward the treeline. “Jackass.”

Jasper took a breath, steadying her heart rate. Her body was flying, bursting with adrenaline and ignoring most of the pain she would no doubt feel later. Oh, she was not looking forward to that.

Stay calm. Get yourself out of this fucking car.

She painstakingly pulled herself out of the seat, leaning on her right leg as she moved to stand on the leather. Her left leg burst with new pain as she tried to bend it, and it took all she had to rein in the yelp that threatened to leave her lungs. The poor limb had already been blown to hell.

Shit like this is why you’re always in pain.

Holding onto the sunroof with one hand, she slowly shrugged off her cardigan. She wrapped it around her fist and punched out the remaining glass in the window.

She leaned her forehead against the doorframe and winced again. There was definitely a gash on her face. Taking another breath, she stepped through the window and dropped onto the crushed hood of the Chevy.

It crunched heavily as she landed, bouncing up and tossing her off it. She hit the gravel below with a sick thud, the air leaving her chest in a strangled gasp. Tools from Halsten’s truck and pieces of the frame had scattered all around the crash site, and she’d landed right on the head of a wrench.

I need a drink.

A heavy panting sounded out over her own as she tried to catch her breath. She sucked in the little bit of air she had gotten back, waiting for the lurker to reveal themselves. It crept closer and closer, and she looked around wildly to find where it came from.

A smudge of brown appeared above her, and she raised an arm to protect herself from the upcoming assault, but instead something hot and wet brushed against her arm, coating it with a thick layer of slobber.

“Booger?” she asked incredulously. The panting became louder, and the dog flopped down on it’s belly against her, sending a shock of pain up the side of her body.

She cautiously petted the pitbull’s head and neck, noting that the leash was still attached to his collar. They had to be close to Halsten’s house if he’d managed to sniff them out or hear the crash.

“As I went down in the river to pray, studying about that good old way,” she sang quietly, just her and the dog laying in the dirt, trying to comfort one another as it leaned into her palm and snuggled deeper into her side.

She lay there, stiff as a board as she gently patted the dog and tested it’s boundaries. It seemed to like her enough. She hadn’t noticed before but he was skinny, and she could feel his ribs poking through his skin. She’d probably hurt him a bit when she pinned him to the ground. Dammit. Guilt pooled in her gut at the thought of hurting something and it still liking her after.

The only experience she had with dogs was running from Mr. Johnson’s dobermans with Sam Donnelly. Hand-in-hand, giggling like children and sprinting through the fields after they got caught using his hay loft for bedroom activities.

“And who shall wear the robe and crown, good Lord, show me the way.” She felt so stupid. This mission was going to kill her. Spencer Reid ripped open a hole in her plan and she wanted to kill him for it.

Maybe she’d see Sam someday soon, that would be nice. If you can get into Heaven, which is highly unlikely. You’re a murderer and a liar.

Feet pounding on gravel came barrelling out of the trees.

She looked up just in time to see Mark Halsten’s boot connect with her face. She drove her palm into the side of his ankle, rolling as best she could to get out from under his weight as tears burst from her eyes from the impact. He followed her, her sore body making her movements sluggish.

She tried to grab her gun from the holster but he kicked it out of her hand. His boot raised again, and she thrust her fist as hard as she could between his legs, letting out a satisfied huff as her knuckles sank into the flesh.

He let out a pained howl, sinking to his knees. Booger launched himself forward and clamped down on Halsten’s leg.

“You stupid dog!” he yelled, trying to kick the dog off with his free leg but failing. Booger held on, yanking his head back and forth as he played tug-of-war with his owner’s body.

“Don’t you know, Marky?” Jasper laughed through the blood streaming down her face, swiping one hand underneath her flowing nose, “Hungry dogs are never loyal.”

“Fuck you, you bitch!” he shrieked as he finally kicked Booger off of him. The dog yelped and ran behind Jasper. She tried to stand, but her leg shook with the effort and collapsed underneath her. As she struggled to get to her feet, Halsten stood. Much taller and bigger, he loomed above her, a nasty smile on his face as she glared up at him.

He bent down and picked up the wrench she’d landed on, a hefty piece of steel about the size of her arm and hand combined. He lifted it high above his head as she sat on her knees, trying to think of the best place to hit him before it landed on her head, but her brain was lagging behind, struggling through a concussed slush.

A loud boom rang out, and Halsten’s body lurched to the side. Blood sprayed across her face and neck, hot and sticky in the humid Alabama sun.

She turned to see JJ, holstering her gun and making her way over. She kicked the wrench away from the body, then leaned down to check his pulse.

Booger was back at Jasper’s side, nuzzling against her neck with his nose as JJ turned to face her.

JJ grabbed Jasper under the armpits and dragged her over to lean against the destroyed SUV. Booger followed and JJ eyed the dog for a moment before cupping Jasper’s chin in her hand.

“Stay,” Jasper grunted to him, waving his cold nose away from her. “Thanks, JJ.”

“You’re fucking crazy, do you know that?” she snarled, her hands wandering Jasper’s bloody frame, poking and prodding for injuries.

Jasper blinked in surprise at her tone, but nodded, “Yeah, I’ve been told that before.”

“All these cuts look superficial, so do the bruises. You probably have a broken nose, maybe a concussion,” JJ sighed, sliding down and sitting next to Jasper, their thighs touching as they took a breath on the gravel.

“I’ll admit it, the dog thing was stupid. I shouldn’t have just manhandled it, but I would have killed it if it didn’t just chill out,” Jasper started, waving a hand toward Booger. He laid next to her in the dirt, his head coming to rest on her thigh. “The car thing was more par for the course.”

“Honestly, seeing you in action? The dog thing makes sense,” JJ shrugged, all the anger leaving her, “I’m sorry I ran.”

“Why?” she asked, “Isn’t that the normal reaction?”

JJ fiddled with the grass sticking up between the rocks in the gravel, pulling some of it out and tossing it to the side. “I got attacked by these Rottweilers like eleven years ago? Spence and I were looking for a suspect on this farm and I lost him. I went to look for him near the barn, and that’s when they attacked me. There were three of them. I had to shoot them all.”

Jasper didn’t know what to say. That felt personal. She just stared at the ground instead, letting the information sink in.

JJ looked over at Booger. He looked back at her, and she raised her hand slowly, showing him the back of it. He sniffed her for a moment, then licked her fingers.

“Gross,” she groaned, pulling her hand away and wiping it on her pants.

“Thank you,” Jasper whispered, pressing her thumb into her palm as she stared at the ground, avoiding looking at the other woman.

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t going to let him beat you to death with a wrench.”

“I meant… about Spencer.”

JJ’s head snapped toward her. Jasper was glad she couldn’t see, because if she saw JJ’s face she’d never croak this out.

“I know you’ve only been hounding me because you’re being protective of him. He needs that,” she sighed, “He deserves that, to have people care about him as much as this team does. Back when I knew him, this guy named Derek seemed to be the only one looking out for him.”

“You know Morgan?”

Jasper chuckled, “Yeah, I know Derek Morgan. I met him the same night I met Spencer.”

“How did you meet?”

“He spilled an entire tray of fruit-tinis on me at a bar in Georgetown,” Jasper smiled, taking a breath before she continued. She hadn’t actually told this story before. “I had just come back from my first tour, and I was... pretty easily agitated- on high alert. I almost had to walk away because it scared the shit out of me, sent my flight or fight response into overdrive. I was seeing red. But he just looked at me with those big stupid eyes and pulled off his sweater, handed it to me.”

JJ sat quietly next to her, but Jasper could feel her eyes on her. Her voice was beginning to shake.

“I was pretty pissed off the rest of the night. I couldn’t sleep, and Jack walked with me for hours just so I could breathe again. But I saw Spencer the next day? I think he had been walking to a class or something. I just had to apologize. He asked me if I was hungry, and said I looked like I could use a coffee. We caught a cab to this diner in Dupont Circle…”

Jasper trailed off, biting her lip. She felt tears brimming in her eyes. She wiped at them half-heartedly, “Don’t you hate how getting hit in the head makes you tear up?”

“Yeah,” JJ breathed, still staring at Jasper. Though her vision was clouded, she could tell that JJ was analyzing her, seeing her. “He’s my best friend. He’s been… different since you got here. Tense, worried. He doesn’t need to feel sad, y’know? I don’t know what happened between you two, but I know it hurt him. He deserves to be happy, Jasper, he really does.”

“I know,” Jasper mumbled, “I suppose it did hurt him, when I left… but I only walked out because of what he did.”

“What do you mean?”

Jasper blew out a breath, then groaned as her ribs caught. Her hand pressed tightly against her rib cage, trying to ease some of the pain. She could hear the sirens coming up the road behind them, and she couldn’t wait to wash this blood off her.

She turned toward JJ, unsure how to explain. It was pretty easy, but she didn’t want to admit it, that she’d let someone hurt her so badly. It had crushed her in one fell swoop, obliterated her pathetic little fantasy of a future with Spencer Reid.

You want me to kill him? I’ll kill him for you, baby. I’ll kill him with you.

No, Jack. I don’t want you to do anything. Just leave me alone.

Not a chance, kid.

“He cheated on me.”

“What?”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Luke’s voice burst through the trees, Spencer following close behind him, “You two are never allowed to be alone again. ”

Jasper figured they made quite the sight- JJ with barely a scratch on her, Jasper covered in blood and glass with a seventy pound pitbull on her lap, Halsten’s body and subsequent puddle of blood, all in the wreckage of metal and tools and dirt.

“I can hear the team down the road, I’m gonna go flag ‘em down,” Luke said, taking off toward the sound of the sirens.

“What the hell happened?” Spencer asked, dropping to his knees in front of Jasper. He unbuttoned his top and peeled it off his undershirt. He pressed it tightly against the gash on her thigh, Jasper’s right hand shooting out and grabbing his forearm as she hissed in pain.

She felt something raised on his arm, a scar. It wasn’t as big as hers but it was long and smooth enough that it was definitely from a knife. “How did you get this?”

He flinched, pulling away from her. Even without her glasses she could see the shadow that passed over his face. “Kitchen accident.”

Jasper stared at him, her brows furrowed. He just lied to her. Spencer Reid just lied to her. She had half a mind to shove him away from her and stalk off into the trees. If she thought he couldn’t easily drag her back down in her weakened state, she just might do that.

“Tell me how you managed to do this amount of carnage on your second day.”

“He ran, almost hit us with the truck,” JJ said for her.

Jasper glared at Spencer, who glared right back as he continued to press his shirt on her wound.

Asshole.

“While we were in pursuit he turned it on a dime, but we were close enough that he would’ve hit us head on if Jasper hadn’t pulled the parking brake and forced him to hit the side.”

“Why did you do that?” Spencer grunted, pressing harder on her thigh. She winced, letting out a low growl of warning.

“What was I supposed to do? It was trees on one side, the drop-off of the hill on the other,” Jasper hissed, her teeth clenched as she motioned toward the body a few feet in front of her, “Should I have just Thelma and Louise’d us off the side? Then we’d be in a fucking ditch while dickhead here ran off into the sunset.”

“You didn’t have to use your car as a shield. You could’ve been killed.”

“Good thing we weren’t, then.”

“Reid. If Jasper had turned it the other way I could’ve been killed. And if she hadn’t turned it at all, we both probably would have died and Halsten would still be out there,” JJ warned, her tone stern and defensive.

Spencer looked between the two women, both glaring at him in the debris. He let out a defeated sigh, “Can you at least tell me why you have a dog?”

“Jasper somehow managed to get it to turn on Halsten,” JJ shrugged, “It came running at us out of the house and she just… made it like her better.”

“I like him,” Jasper laughed, grimaced as a jolt of pain sprung through her side. “He’s cute and his name is Booger.”

“Did you name him that or did the dead guy?” Rossi’s voice came from the side of the SUV. Luke and the rest of the team followed, as well as an ambulance. The reds and blues flashed across the blood on the ground in the dimming sunlight. It must be early evening, Jasper figured.

“The dead guy, but I like it,” Jasper patted the dog again, scratching him behind his ears. “He’s so skinny. Halsten probably didn’t treat him very well.”

“What do you say, handsome?” Jasper asked Booger, who sat up alert at her direct attention, his tail wagging. “You wanna come home with mean ol’ Jasper?”

“You’re going to adopt a serial killer’s dog?” Spencer huffed, “He attacked you!”

“Only because he was told to. Then he tracked us down and saved me before JJ got here. Tore the shit out of Halsten’s leg after he kicked me in the face.” Jasper smiled at Booger, scratching his chin and baby-voicing him, “You just need some food, a few shots, and a bit of snuggles and you’re gonna be a real good boy for me, aren’t you?”

Booger’s tail wagged harder as he licked Jasper’s hand. Walker and Rossi laughed as they watched, the rest of the team taking in the sight of the remnants of the cars around them.

“He probably helped chase those kids,” Spencer pointed out as he continued checking Jasper’s injuries. He poked and prodded along her side, lightly lifting up her shirt to check where the blood was coming from.

“He didn’t have a choice,” Jasper muttered, scratching Booger’s muzzle and chuckling when he nuzzled into her palm, “I understand, boy, you didn’t wanna hurt anybody, but you also didn’t wanna be hurt.”

“Jasper… How did you get this?” Spencer asked quietly, his cool fingers ghosting over the word on her hip, that word, MINE.

Jasper blanched. She shoved his hands off of her. Spencer fell back onto his knees, those big stupid eyes staring at her, wide with concern.

“Kitchen accident,” Jasper sneered, struggling as she moved away from him and closer to JJ.

“Jazz, you need medical attention,” Spencer pushed, reaching his hand out toward her once more.

She slapped it away, moving to stand herself up. JJ stood with her, looping her arm under Jasper’s to hold her up. Booger followed behind them, and JJ leaned down to grab his leash before handing it to Jasper.

“That’s what the ambulance is for, genius. Leave me alone.”

“Jasper,” Spencer stated firmly, but JJ held her hand out. He stared at her stupidly, obviously shocked at her defense of the new agent.

“Spence, drop it. She’s had enough excitement today.”

-------------------------------------

Spencer’s Apartment, Georgetown, USA- 15 years ago

The dim morning light drizzled through the windows as Spencer woke up. It turned the room a soft amber color, like they were swimming inside a piece of caramel.

He was warm, and he was happy.

Jasper was molded to his side, her naked body wrapped around him as she slept. Her nose was nuzzled under his chin, her hand twitching against his chest as she dreamed. One of her thighs was slung over his hip, giving him a perfect view of her warm honey colored ass. He brushed a hand over one cheek affectionately, smiling against Jasper’s hair as her body arched into his touch.

How did he get so lucky?

A buzzing noise rumbled through the room, and he sighed heavily when he noticed Jasper’s pager lighting up on the nightstand. He lightly shook Jasper’s shoulder, trying to ease her awake.

He had learned from their first night together not to startle her awake. That had ended with him having a bruised wrist and a panicked, wild-eyed Jasper that he never wanted to cause again if he could help it.

“Jazz, sweetheart,” he whispered, lightly brushing back her hair. He tried to move out from under her, but she moaned softly before clutching him tighter. The pager buzzed again, and he felt Jasper’s eyelashes brush his neck as she woke.

“Mmmm,” she groaned, messily kissing his jugular, her hands beginning to wander across his chest.

“You need to wake up,” he chuckled, trying to push her off him, but she moved to straddle his lap instead.

He smiled up at her as he saw her in the hazy morning light. Her hair was tangled up in the back, sticking up in all sorts of places from their rough lovemaking and her heavy sleep. She had a red mark on her cheek from laying against his shoulder, and he felt pride rip through his chest as his eyes landed on the deep bruises littering her neck and chest from his mouth.

She moaned softly as her pussy pressed against his cock, already hard and ready for her to sink down onto. This had become their routine whenever she stayed over, Jasper lazily riding him into oblivion, their mornings starting earlier than most and ending with more than a few rounds together.

Spencer ran his hands up her stomach as she reached up toward the ceiling in a stretch. He cupped her breasts, running his thumbs over her nipples. She ground down against him, her body already alight and responsive for him.

“You have to answer your phone,” he teased, sitting up and kissing her chest. He flicked his tongue over one nipple, working the other bud between his fingers. She moaned as she threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him in place as she sped up her grinding along his length, already slick and wet, ready for him to fuck her how she liked.

“Mmm,” she whined, pouting her lower lip, “You didn’t wake me up for sex?”

“Answer your page and I’ll think about it,” he said, running his hands up and down her thighs, pulling his ministrations from her sensitive nipples.

“Fine,” she grumbled, leaning over to grab the phone and pager, staying in place on his lap. She checked the pager screen, snapped open her phone and dialed the number.

“Staff Sergeant Donnelly,” she muttered into the receiver, reaching out with her free hand to cup his chin, stroking his cheek as she listened. He reached around her waist and pulled them both back until he was sitting against the headboard, leaning into her touch as he waited.

He loved moments like this, caressing her, holding her, just enjoying her warm touch. She never said much, but she showed him how she felt as often as she could. Whether it was a soft poke to his side while he was studying, or a quick brush of her fingers through his hair and she passed by, her love language was touch, and he lived for the feeling of her skin on his.

The sleepy smile she wore fell from her face and she sighed. She pulled herself from his lap, moving to sit next to him against the headboard. The voice on the other end was gruff, but he couldn’t make out what it was saying. By the way Jasper’s body had tensed up, it wasn’t anything good.

“Okay,” she nodded, rubbing her forehead as she avoided Spencer’s gaze, “I have my go-bag in the trunk. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“An hour?” Spencer asked as she hung up, “Jasper, it’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she turned toward him, an apologetic frown set on her soft features. “I have to go.”

Spencer sat up on his knees, his brows furrowing. She reached for him again but he pulled away from her.

“Spencer…”

“Go where? Is this for work?”

“I can’t tell you where, Stick,” her eyes were worried, full of a fear he couldn’t quite place. “I’m finally cleared for duty after Iraq, and they need me.”

“You know, we’ve been together for three months and… I still don’t actually know what you do for the Marine Corps.”

Jasper watched him for a moment, a literal battle of wills raging behind her eyes. She rubbed her thumb against her other palm as she thought, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

“I don’t wanna lie to you,” she said finally.

“Then don’t.”

“I’m a part of a specialized unit, Spence, I can’t talk about what we do.” Jasper moved away from him to the edge of the bed, tugging on a pair of sweats as she stood. She snagged one of his shirts from the floor and pulled it over her head. “You want me to tell you the same lie the other guys tell their wives? Is that what you want? Fine, it’s administrative work, nothing dangerous!”

“I’m a Marine, Spencer,” she sneered, “I only do dangerous work.”

“There’s a lot that you don’t tell me Jasper, and I try to be okay with it,” he scoffed, throwing his hands up in defeat, standing from the bed and pulling on some boxers. “You can’t talk about your job, fine, but… I don’t know anything about you , and that’s what worries me.”

“You know the best things, honey,” she crawled back onto the mattress, cupping his jaw in her hands again as he scowled down at her. “You know more than anyone else.”

“I don’t even know where you’re from,” he whispered, a bitter laugh leaving his lips.

“Uhm,” she started, obviously struggling with whether or not to tell him. She looked away from him, her eyes welling before she whispered, “It doesn’t matter. I’m never going back there.”

“Jasper,” he groaned, pulling away from her once more. He marched into the living room, Jasper’s bare feet pattering behind him on the hardwood.

“It doesn’t matter, Spence. It doesn’t!” she yelled after him, “What matters is this! Right now. I love being with you. I like the way we are.”

“Well, what if I don’t?” he asked, whirling around to face her. She stopped in her tracks, her soft face full of fresh hurt.

“Oh,” she muttered, suddenly looking quite small and lost in his baggy clothes. They hung off her small frame, blanketing her in him. He knew she felt safe in his clothing, and he’d just made her question his commitment to her.

“Jasper, that’s not what I meant,” he sighed, trying to regain some of the calm he’d felt when he first awoke. Can we just go back to bed? Can we just lay down and forget I opened my stupid mouth?

“This mission should only take a few days, “ she nodded, heading for the door. She tugged on her sneakers and looped her purse over her shoulders. “Tell me what you meant when I get back.”

She grabbed her keys off the hook and then she was gone.

He tried calling her the next day, but he only got her voicemail. Pacing around the achingly empty apartment, he’d flipped open his phone.

“Hey,” he said quietly, not quite knowing where he’d wanted to go with it, “Be safe.”

After the sixth day of radio silence, he started to get worried. Was she ignoring him? He couldn’t blame her for that, he deserved it. She probably needed to cool down.

“Hey,” he’d said to empty air, hoping she was at least checking her voicemail. “ Stay safe, okay?”

The tenth day came, and the panic began to creep in.

Maybe she was in a situation where she couldn’t answer. The thought opened a hole in his chest, a vacuum that sucked in every horrible situation he could picture a Marine going through, all piled on Jasper- his tiny, sweet, nightmare-plagued Jasper.

Would he be notified if she were killed in action? Would he ever find out? Or would he be forever sitting here, waiting for someone who would never come home?

He hadn’t kissed her goodbye.

Spencer hadn’t told her he loved her.

He had been too scared.

She was so reserved, so pent up and contained within herself. He walked on eggshells some days trying to avoid asking her about her past. She couldn’t talk about it, refused to talk about herself or her before , instead content to listen to him prattle on about blackholes or existentialism, or nothing at all.

He was worried that thinking of a future together might scare her off.

He should have told her.

“Look,” he muttered, a bit frantic into the phone, “I get it. You’re angry with me, and you’re on a job. But, if you could, like, find one way to let me know that you’re alive?”

He sighed on the sixteenth day, “Just… come home safe, Jazz.”

On the nineteenth day there was a knock on his door. His heart lurched in his chest. He didn’t get many visitors. Would he open the door to find a solicitor? Or two Marines in Service Alpha uniform who would read that statement, and end his entire life?

He stared at the wood, his feet seemingly glued to the floor. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be the partner of someone in the military. The fear that gripped him was too great, guilt and terror rotting in his gut as he dreaded whoever stood on the other side of that door.

The knock came again, and he was startled by how loud it was. His feet moved without his permission, carrying him across the room. With a shaky hand he opened the locks, turning the handle for what felt like a lifetime.

The door swung open, and there stood Jasper, smiling nervously at him. The left side of her dirt-streaked face was covered in dark cuts and bruises. Her olive skin was a few shades darker, tinted red from the sun. She wore her battered Marines shirt, now spattered with color from the night they met, and dirt and blood from whatever she had gone through after stepping out of his door.

“I’m from Louisiana,” she said breathlessly, tossing her hands up in a shrug, her military-issue backpack swinging over her shoulder. “But I hated that place. I hate that place. It’s a bad place, Spencer. I’m from bad stock, bad people, and I don’t wanna think about it if I don’t have to.”

Spencer just stared at her, all the disaster scenarios that had run through his mind for the past few weeks felt entirely plausible now. Her face was beaten to hell, but so were her knuckles. Both hands and arms, bruised and cut and swollen to the point that he knew she’d had to fight for herself.

“I know, I know, I should’ve just called you back, but I just got stateside and could finally listen to your messages. I couldn’t wait to see you. I don’t like how we left things and I, God, I want to tell you more about me but it’s so hard . I have so much bad in me, it’s rid-,” she rattled out in one breath, the air leaving her as Spencer pulled her into a crushing hug.

She groaned in pain, and he pulled away from her, his hands wandering and looking for further injury. He pulled up her shirt, gasping in horror as he saw the bruises littering her ribs and stomach. She tugged the shirt out of his hands, giving him an apologetic look.

“Get in here,” he commanded softly, stepping to the side so she could go inside the apartment. She trudged through the door, shoulders slumped, nervously tugging at her fingers.

“I know you’re mad, but I’m fine . I’ve had worse inj-” she started, her jaw snapping shut as Spencer interrupted her.

“That’s not the point,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. He didn’t know what he was angrier at; the fact that she was gone for so long, or whoever bruised her for daring to touch her in the first place. Or himself, for how scared she looked at that moment. “What happened?”

He reached out to cup her jaw, but she flinched away from him. He pulled his hand back like he’d been burned, his eyes wide as his heart fell through his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed lightly, a little hysterically. She brushed some of her hair back with a swollen hand, shaking her head, “It’s been a pretty… intense couple of weeks. I’m sorry.”

She stepped closer to him, grabbing his hand and pressing it against the bruises. She winced a little at first, but then she leaned into him. He wrapped his free hand around her waist, pulling her back into a gentle hug.

“I don’t need to know anything you don’t want to tell me,” he whispered against her hair, lightly stroking her cheek. He kissed her temple, sucking in a wavering breath, “I just need you to come home to me at the end of the mission, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered into his chest, clinging to his shirt like a child as she sniffled.

Spencer breathed in her scent, fully expecting her usual comforting spiced cherry and plum perfume, his lip curling as he finally caught a whiff of the blood and sweat on her tired body. He pulled away from her, holding his hands on her shoulders to keep her at a distance.

“Oof, you stink, Donnelly.”

Jasper looked up at him sharply, her brows knitted together. Then, she let out a relieved laugh, “I’ve been on a plane with an entire unit of sweaty Marines for seventeen hours, haven’t had time for a shower.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal, Stick, after a mission like that it’s kinda comforting.”

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head, “I mean, I’m sorry I got angry. I’m sorry for all of it. I shouldn’t have let you walk out that door without making sure you know how much I care about you.”

“Oh,” she smiled up at him, “Me too.”

That was Jasper, his Jasper. Never dwelling, never pressing on the bruise, moving on.

“Let’s get you in a hot bath.”

“Will you make me some coffee?”

“I’ll bring you a cup while you wash the stink off you,” Spencer smiled back at her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her toward the bathroom.

She sat on the counter while he poured a few bubble scents and oils into the water as the tub filled. When it was full, he turned to her. She looked a little embarrassed, her cheeks a dark shade as she looked up at him.

“I need help getting my clothes off.”

He nodded, steeling himself for the sight of those bruises again. He slowly helped her pull her arms through the shirt, tossing it on the floor behind him. Her pants were easier to peel off, but her sports bra was another story entirely. It took ten minutes just to maneuver one arm out of it.

“Jasper, this is a boot print,” he groaned, brushing his fingers along the purple and blue flesh along her ribcage.

She nodded, staring at the wall while he inspected her. She had a few more bruises on her legs, all defensive wounds from fighting off some attacker.

“You can’t tell me what happened, can you?”

“You should see the other guy,” she shrugged, her eyes vacant and far away. That familiar shadow darkened her face as tears welled in her eyes. Her chin wobbled for a moment, but she sniffed hard, blinking away any trace of her grief.

“How does that song go? The one about the river,” he asked, poking her shoulder gently.

“Oh, sinners let’s go down, come on down. Don’t you wanna go down,” Jasper sang softly, smiling at him. “Oh, sinners, let's go down, down to the river to pray.”

She’d sung it enough times for him to know it by heart. Whenever she’d have a bad nightmare, Spencer would hold her close to his chest while she sang it to herself. It calmed her, and he’d hum the notes along with her. He’d never actually heard the song sung with the band playing, just Jasper’s exhausted, desperate version of it, her last ditch claw at self-comfort.

“Where’d you learn it?”

“My mama used to sing it to me,” she murmured, her eyes welling up again. “We’d hide from my dad and she’d sing it while we hid in the woods.”

“She said God was watching us, even in our darkest moments,” she laughed bitterly, swiping the back of her hand across her cheek. “He never kept us safe, Spence.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My parents were… they weren’t…” she struggled, the words strangling in her throat. He waited patiently, not wanting to push her further than she wanted to go. She wasn’t good at this, and he needed to be more patient, to let her go at her own pace.

“It was a bad place,” she decided, nodding to herself. She looked up at him and smiled, “This is a good place.”

“You’re the good in this place,” he smiled, leaning in and placing a kiss on the tip of her nose. She scrunched it up, and he leaned in to give her another, but she just licked the tip of his nose.

“You’re so gross,” he laughed, looping one arm under her legs, the other around her shoulders as he placed her in the bath.

“You like it,” she laughed, sighing happily as she sank into the water.

“I love it,” he told her, kissing the side of her head before heading to the kitchen to make some coffee.

He’d tell her he loved her later, when she wasn’t feeling so raw. And he did- love her, that is. Spencer loved Jasper Donnelly, and so long as she came home after a mission, he figured he could handle this.

He could take care of her when she let him. He’d take these soft moments where he could get them, and he’d love her just the way she was.

He decided for himself then and there: Spencer would love Jasper forever, until the day he died.

---------------------------------

An Office in Georgetown , Washington, DC- One Day after Alabama

Jasper had ended up with a concussion, a broken nose, two broken ribs, a handful of stitches, and too many bruises to count.

Overall, not too bad. She’d had worse.

Luke had taken Jasper back to her hotel after the plane landed in Quantico. The plane ride back had been mostly a blur to her, as she’d slept with her head on Luke’s lap for a good part of it. Luke carried her on his hip like a child, all the way up to her room, ignoring the stares of other patrons. She’d been in and out for most of the night, barely able to keep her head up as the exhaustion of the past week overtook her.

Her team had picked an office building to work out of, now leased by a shell corporation of a shell corporation owned by nobody. If someone decided to dig, they wouldn’t find anything to connect it to Jasper or her team.

They had sang out a chorus of groans and pained hisses at the sight of her face, bruised and swollen and tired, but she was happy to see them nonetheless. They were all surprised to see Booger, but soon enough were playing with him and giving him pieces of their pizzas.

In the past ten years or so they had become a family. When you spent months in the mostly figurative, but all too often literal, shit with people, they became more than coworkers. Hell, they were more than family to her. They were soulmates, all four of them.

Taqib had been a soulmate, too. She’d found him in a prison in Las Vegas, convicted of killing a mark he’d conned out of a few million dollars. She offered him a new name, a new life, and more than a few measly million bucks.

The Church didn’t exist by that point, seeing as she’d destroyed it. Jasper had created a Church of her own, one that was without the likes of Eli and his violent urges. She curated this team. She didn’t recruit people for the government’s kill squads anymore, she did what she wanted and sent Homeland Defense and the CIA the bill.

Of course, there were only a handful of people high up in security that knew of her existence. She’d carved quite the little niche out for herself, her team becoming one of the most sought after units for clandestine and undercover operations world-wide.

They were currently sitting around a fold-out table, sharing a few drinks and pizza as they looked at their murder-board setup to find Liam Gallagher. Booger laid at her feet, chewing on a bone as she filled them in on the last few days, telling them about Spencer Reid and his hell-bent attempts to ruin her entire life. Or at least, that was what she interpreted it as in her mind.

“So, this guy was like the ex?” Wren asked, waving around his SOLO cup, some of the whiskey inside sloshing over the rim. It splattered onto the floor, but he just made a face and shrugged.

“I guess, yeah,” Jasper shrugged, palming her own cup and staring into the amber liquid. “He was definitely the one who hurt me the most.”

“I remember after Jack was gone, you fucking lost the plot, honey. This Spencer guy must have fucked you up if it was worse than what I saw eleven years ago,” Baheera slurred, rubbing her face and pushing back her poofy black hair.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be hard working here, but we’ll get it done. Just like we always do.”

“Well, boss, what’s next?” Oona asked, poofing up her kinky curls with her hands, her dark legs dangling off the table as she sat on it. “What’s the plan?”

“Yeah,” Billy laughed, nodding his head in excitement, “How are we gonna gut this Irish motherfucker?”

Jasper smiled at them, waving a hand at the board, “Let’s get to work.”

Notes:

Give me all the feedback! <3 I know I keep saying it, but we're finally about to get into the plot! Bye-bye Alabama! We're gonna start learning more about Eli, Jasper's team, and Liam Gallagher!

Also, tell me what you're thinking about Jasper's reveal about Spencer! 0.0 what do you think the story is behind it? How are you feeling about Jasper's character? Jack? Eli? Tell me everything! I'm insecure and desperate for validation XD

- Smurph❤

13 notes · View notes

riddlecrux · 3 years

Text

Miserable together, happy apart: a dive into Elain and Lucien's relationship

This meta is based solely on textual pieces of evidence that can be found through the whole ACTOAR series written by SJM. My observations come from the text and what was given to us, the audience, by the author of the book. Due to the fact that this topic is connected with a raging shipping war, I would like to make an important note at the beginning of this (probably) long comparison post. This meta will be touching subjects such as trauma, forced and unhealthy relationships, being uncomfortable around the other person, and enforced feeling of duty. On that note, it's anti Elain and Lucien relationship.

The starting point of the whole relationship and mating bond begins in ACOMAF, when Lucien contributes to Archeron sisters being kidnapped - leading to them being Made. I'm very concerned with the way how this fandom seems to collectively forget about the trauma that Elain went through when she was pushed inside the Cauldron. After ACOSF we are left with the idea that being Made wasn't pleasant - on the contrary, it was horrible and scary, it left Nesta with psychological scars and mental barriers. So why are people forgetting that, in fact, it was Elain who undergone the same terrifying experience first? SJM had described this whole situation very vividly and painfully detailed. It was there to show us that both Elain and Nesta went through something disturbing and traumatizing. That's why I would like to start with a notion of TRAUMA:

"Elain’s foot hit the water, and she screamed—screamed in terror that hit me so deep I began sobbing."

Feyre is there to witness her sisters being shoved into Cauldron and one can only imagine how terrifying it was to observe such a thing. However, there is no amount of words to describe how utterly frightening it was for Elain to be pushed into the unknown. She was the first one, an experiment for everyone to see.

"More water than seemed possible dumped out in a cascade. Black, smoke-coated water. And Elain, as if she’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown. Her legs were so pale—so delicate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them bare."

Elain was a proper lady. She was the one who went along with the prevailing etiquette and rules. Feyre notices Elain's bare skin and how she doesn't even remember when was the last time she saw so much of it in the broad daylight. Elain was modest, she followed the social obligations and we as readers are presented with the fact that all her principles are being violated in front of these strangers and people she knew from before.

"Elain was still shivering on the wet stones, her nightgown shoved up to her thighs, her small breasts fully visible beneath the soaked fabric. Guards snickered."

She was let out in the open after such a traumatizing event. Just after being Made, the first thing she experiences is another form of trauma. She is involuntary stripped bare in front of males, her proper upbringing and modesty ruined as they openly laugh at her nakedness. It's another traumatic event, not even a moment after her whole human life was taken away from her.

"As Lucien took off his jacket, kneeling before Elain. She cringed away from the coat, from him—"

It's not surprising that she acted that way. He is yet another male who appears out of nowhere, comes at her when she is in a very vulnerable position. Not to mention, that he is connected to the fact that she and Nesta were kidnapped and used as hostages. He plays a role in her trauma, a trauma that is still happening around her. Elain is subjected to watch her older sister going through the same thing she went through.

"Lucien’s hands slackened at his sides. His voice broke as he whispered to Elain, “You’re my mate.”"

I would say that it wasn't a good thing to say at that moment. It's yet another brick in the wall of traumas that Elain just went through. She lost her human life, she was Made, she lost her human fiance, was kidnapped and used as an experiment, ridiculed due to her nakedness and vulnerability, watched her sister being shoved into the Cauldron. Now she is presented with the fact that she was stripped off of her free will, and she still doesn't have freedom of choice. The lack of choice is evident, she just doesn't let it fall upon her as the trauma she had just endured was too great to even imagine how that declaration could shake her already broken heart.

“From my sister’s stories. Her friend.” “Yes.” But Elain blinked slowly. “You were in Hybern.” “Yes.” It was all he could say. “You betrayed us.”

Elain is aware of the fact that he was a part of her trauma. He was there when she got kidnapped and watched her being Made. She acknowledges the fact that he is partially responsible for what has happened to her and her sister. Not only Elain but Lucien as well. Lucien is also very much aware of the fact that he had contributed to her pain and hardship. Those feelings are also very prominent in the way he approaches her and behaves around her. The knowledge that she is that way because of his mistake.

FORCED RELATIONSHIP:

Both Elain and Lucien find themselves forced to "be" together. It wasn't a natural thing that happened between them, not a healthy type of bond snapping in its place. They were put together because of the Cauldron's decision.

She was nothing like Jesminda. Jesminda had been all laughter and mischief, too wild and free to be contained by the country life that she’d been born into. She had teased him, taunted him—seduced him so thoroughly that he hadn’t wanted anything but her. She’d seen him not as a High Lord’s seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him. Elain had been … thrown at him.

Even Lucien, who had loved and lost his previous lover acknowledges the fact that it is something that both of them didn't want. Their bond essentially stripped both of them of their free will. They hadn't chosen each other, they were just put together in a fickle decision of The Cauldron. His previous love story signalizes that Lucien also wants to be chosen, wants to be loved by someone who decided that he is the man that the other person wants to love and spend their life with him.

“I am Lucien. Seventh son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.” And a whole lot of nothing.

Lucien has also his own issues - family feud, the fact that his friend betrayed him and in the end, it was him who did the same. He has troubles on his mind that are concerning. He's self-conscious in front of Elain because as Lucien is a reminder of her trauma - she is a reminder of his biggest mistake and another painful ending on his part. She's a living proof of his betrayal, how he went against his common sense and stabbed his friend, Feyre, in the back by bringing her sister into the scene.

The words were a rasp as he instead said, “I know. I’m sorry.” She did not love him, want him, need him. Another male’s bride. A mortal man’s wife. Or she would have been.

He is aware of the fact that Elain doesn't feel anything for him, that she was promised to another and she had planned her life with that person. Just like him in the past - it was his choice to love, want, and need Jesminda. As he's trying to keep his composure the feelings of the bond swirl around, yet Lucien still understands that both of them ended up with something they didn't want.

“When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?” He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.”

Even though they were "blessed" with this bond, the thread of it is weak and very unlike the other ones in SJM universe. As if it wasn't working properly - they both do not complete each other. Few pages before Elain says that she can hear Feyre's and Nesta's heartbeat and yet her mate can't hear hers? How is that possible? Also Lucien doesn't understand Elain - he sees her as someone who is devastated by her ruined human life, which is true, but right we as readers know by now that Elain was suffering because nobody seemed to realize what was wrong with her. Their first meeting doesn't spark hope for their future. It only showcases how wrong they both are for each other, two wounds plastered against each other.

BEING UNCOMFORTABLE AROUND EACH OTHER: Sadly both Elain and Lucien are pushed together by Feyre and her little meddling - which isn't something that they both want to undergo.

It was the most uncomfortable thirty minutes I could recall. (...) Pretending, while Lucien and Elain sat in stilted silence by the dim fireplace, an untouched tea service between them.

Even Feyre admits that a previously arranged get-together was a mistake. Because Lucien and Elain are wary of their presence around each other, they constantly remind each other's traumas and painful memories. Elain can barely stand his presence and Lucien is aware of that fact - the only thing that keeps him trying to break that barrier is their bond.

She rose to her feet, and Lucien shot to his. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “What—what was that?” Mor put a hand on my knee to keep me from rising, too. “It—it was a tug. On the bond.”

Even their mating bond isn't a thing of comfort. They can't navigate through it, both of them uncomfortable because of their proximity. Lucien feels as if he has to repay his debt towards Elain, however, neither of them wants to close the distance. Their wounds are still fresh, both of them not entirely healed. They are constantly rubbing their hurt on each other, meeting after meeting.

“Nothing,” he said, and again faced his mate. “I’m sorry—if that unsettled you.” Elain sidled toward Nesta, who seemed to be at a near-simmer. “It felt … strange,” Elain breathed. “Like you pulled on a thread tied to a rib.” Lucien exposed his palms to her. “I’m sorry“.

He feels guilty all the time he's around her. He can't navigate through the mating bond as it doesn't work properly. It's uncomfortable, hurtful, and tense. Just like the relationship between them, it is not a good thing. They are basically strangers thrown at each other after seeing the other person at their lowest. It's not a coincidence that the bond between them is a mirror to their rough, strained relation.

Lucien murmured to me, eye still fixed on Elain, “Should we—does she need …?”

Lucien just stared and stared at my sister, as if he’d never seen her before.

Even with the bond, Lucien can't understand what Elain needs. They are basically strangers, yet the bond doesn't do anything to him in regards to helping her. They are constantly uncomfortable around each other, they try to avoid each other throughout the series because of the fact that they both don't want to be in this forced relationship. Lucien feels obliged to keep persuading her due to the bond, whereas Elain wants nothing to do with the said bond. They are in a maze of constant avoidance and unbearable proximity, which is very soundly described in the text and I would like to present some very important passages:

He hadn’t mentioned Elain, or his proximity to her. Elain had not asked him to stay or to go. And whether she cared about the bruises on his face, she certainly hadn’t let on.

Elain, at least, would be too polite to send Lucien away when he wanted to help. She was too polite to send him away on a normal day. She just ignored him or barely spoke to him until he got the hint and left. As far as I knew, he hadn’t come within touching distance since the aftermath of that final battle.

No, as Elain took a step back, hand falling away from the doorknob, she revealed Lucien smiling tightly at us both. “Happy Solstice,” was all he said.

A sidelong glance toward Elain, swift and fleeting. “Both of you.” Elain said nothing, but at least she bowed her head in thanks.

“You’re welcome to stay for the night,” I said, since Elain certainly wasn’t going to. Lucien lowered his hands into his lap and leaned back in the armchair. “Thank you, but I have other plans.” I prayed he didn’t catch the slightly relieved glimmer on Elain’s face.

My sister rose to her feet. “I should get refreshments.” Lucien rose as well. “No need to trouble yourself. I’m—” But she was already out of the room.

I would love to bring attention to the fact that Lucien understands and realizes that their relationships will never work. He acknowledges it in the text, with his own words!

"Give her time to accept it.” “To accept a life shackled to me?”

“Spend time with her.” “I don’t think she’ll tolerate two minutes alone with me, so forget about two weeks.” His jaw worked as he studied the fire.

He shook off my grip and headed for the door. “I can’t stand to be in the same room as her for more than two minutes."

ELAIN'S AGENCY: Throughout ACOWAR, ACOFAS and ACOSF Elain tries to get away from the bond and in conclusion also from Lucien himself. She doesn't acknowledge their bond and time after time she runs away from the fact that they are bound to each other. The thing is, Elain, probably doesn't know how to break their bond - we as readers are reminded in Azriel's POV how important their mating bond is for the Night Court, which makes her a sort of political pawn. It is yet another thing that is taken away from her, which to be honest is a kind of a hypocritical thing coming from Rhys and Feyre. We know that Elain is timid, however after slowly recovering from her trauma she started to voice out her discomfort connected to Lucien and their forced relationship.

I knew I wasn’t truly angry with her, not angry with anyone but myself, but I said, “You couldn’t say a single word to him? A pleasant greeting?” Elain only stared at the steaming kettle as she set it on the stone counter. “He brought you a present.” Those doe-brown eyes turned toward me. Sharper than I’d ever seen them. “And that entitles him to my time, my affections?”

Lucien still makes her uncomfortable, he is a constant reminder of her trauma and lost life. Another thing is that Lucien doesn't even know her, doesn't see her which is something that is very important to her. Everything he does is based on the fact that he is connected to her via mating bond, not by his own free choice. Which, again, is presented to us in her own words in the text:

“No.” I blinked. “But he is a good male.” Despite our harsh words. Despite this Band of Exiles bullshit. “He cares for you.” “He doesn’t know me.” “You don’t give him the chance to even try to do so.” Her mouth tightened, the only sign of anger in her graceful countenance. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want a male.”

It doesn't help that the one who pushes her forward into this spiral of unbearable proximity with someone she hadn't chosen and don't want to be around, is her own sister. Yet, she stands her ground and sets boundaries. She is her own person and she wants to get to chose. ELAIN AROUND LUCIEN:

I handed Elain the small box with her name on it. Her smile faded as she opened it. “Enchanted gloves,” she read from the card. “That won’t tear or become too sweaty while gardening.” She set aside the box without looking at it for longer than a moment.

I found my sister in the kitchen, watching the kettle scream. “He’s not staying for tea,” I said.

I said to Lucien when we’d settled in the armchairs before the fire, Elain perched silently on the couch nearby.

I found my sister in the kitchen, watching the kettle scream. “He’s not staying for tea,” I said.

I said to Lucien when we’d settled in the armchairs before the fire, Elain perched silently on the couch nearby.

Elain had picked up the teacup, and now sipped from it without so much as looking toward him.

Elain only stared at him for a long moment. And any lucidity faded away as she shook her head, blinking twice (...).

He glanced at Elain, who was again studying her lap.

Elain now watched Lucien warily. Blinking every now and then.

He only glanced at Elain, whose face was again a calm void while she traced a finger over the embroidery on the couch cushions.

Their gazes locked and held. But Elain said nothing. Did not so much as take one step downward.

Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get.

Elain only shrank further into herself, no trace of that newfound boldness to be seen.

As you can see Elain feels: - uncomfortable - on edge - withdrawn - wary - closed off - silenced (she always loses the will to speak around Lucien, going deeper inside of her) - melancholic (she watches as kettle boil without flinching as if she wandered in the maze of her mind). Elain loses her comfort and courage around Lucien, which is problematic and utterly sad to witness. He is a constant reminder for her of violation against her own free will, but also a living proof of her own trauma. LUCIEN AROUND ELAIN:

Lucien surveyed it all with cool indifference. What he felt about Elain, what he planned to do … I didn’t want to ask.

“I would never hurt her.” A bleak sort of honesty in his words.

He tried to sound casual—comfortable. Even as his heart raced and raced, so swift he thought he might vomit on the very expensive, very old carpet.

He didn’t expect her to answer, and he gave himself all of one more minute before he’d rise from this chair and leave.

Betrayal, queasy and oily, slid through his veins. He’d said the same to Jesminda once.

He wished she’d shoved him out the window behind her.

He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing, and drained his tea, even as it burned his mouth.

“I think she went through something terrible,” Lucien countered carefully. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have your best healer do a thorough examination.”

Lucien looked to her, then over to me. A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Nothing,” he said, and again faced his mate. “I’m sorry—if that unsettled you.”

Lucien exposed his palms to her. “I’m sorry.”

Lucien murmured to me, eye still fixed on Elain, “Should we—does she need …?”

Lucien silently slid into one of the chairs, before the window, that metal eye whirring as it roved over my sister.

Lucien just stared and stared at my sister, as if he’d never seen her before.

Lucien inclined his head in a bow, the movement hiding the gleam in his eye —the longing and sadness.

“I am not always in this city to see my mate.” The last two words dripped with discomfort.

Lucien feels: - uncomfortable - guilty - uneasy - confused (especially in the moments where Elain is having visions and he doesn't understand what's happening with her) - apologetic (he is constantly saying sorry to her) - tense

The guilt eats him every time he is around Elain, he is constantly apologizing while battling his inner problems such as remembering his true love. He was stripped off of his choice and even if the mating bond is there, he isn't happy. He is in constant pain just like Elain because both of them are each other wounds, each other reminder of trauma. They can't heal together because they are only happy when they are apart - Elain blooms in the Night Court, as we have read in ACOSF she is coming up with terms of Fae life and her own powers, adjusting her life to the notion of immortality. She is content and courageous and yet everything vanishes when Lucien is around. The same thing goes for Lucien. Lucien was struggling with her around him - he didn't know her, he didn't know what was happening to her as well. They were both strangers thrown at each other without their own say in this whole situation. Not to mention that their meetings were always arranged and supervised by others. When he sets on the journey to find Vassa he finds freedom and belonging - which was something he was battling in ACOWAR, after betraying his friends and his court, after being at odds in Night Court, and after being uncomfortable around his mate. He didn't have that sense of belonging in any of those things.

Elain and Lucien aren't compatible nor perfect for each other. They are constant reminders of traumas they experienced. They will never work out because they make each other miserable while being together, and they feel free and content apart. Their happiness lies with free choice, free will both of them were looking for in their lives. They are bound together against their own, and the only key for them being happy in this farce is setting themselves free. A choice of freedom. I strongly believe that after their rejection of the bond both of them could, perhaps, form a friendship. It would have been some sort of catharsis - to dwell upon the fact that they overcame that obstacle. That they chose to be happy apart, and not be shackled by this miserable bond.

#anti elucien #pro elain #pro elain archeron #elain archeron #acotar #i mean technically this is pro elriel #elriel #anti forced bond #elain and lucien as friends #not mates #also pls be civil in the comments

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trashogram · 4 years

Text

Ryuk/Reader 4

This is far more introspective than I intended it to be. I’m sorry you’re reading this and this one is the least fun. Or the most OOC.

Edit: Forgot to tag @doughdaddy84 as per request! I’m sorry!!

_____

You were a nice enough person.

Ryuk didn’t really care that much about you being nice or not, however. His last charge hadn’t been the most polite or considerate human, even though he’d been in the presence of a literal god.

Ryuk had taken offense to some of the things that Light had said to him in the past, but nothing the egotistical boy had done had ever angered the god. Light had been fascinating, but he wasn’t worth getting upset over. Ryuk’s pruney skin was thicker than that, and the shinigami kept on haunting the kid for about 7 years, give or take.

If anything, after watching you for a couple days, Ryuk had gotten close to reconsidering letting you keep the notebook. Which was a first for him - shinigami weren’t really supposed to directly influence users of the death note. You were just so mousy from a glance, and he’d acknowledged that breaking any more rules wasn’t going to matter when he had to return home. Ryuk was going to be punished either way.

Of that, he was very certain.

But there was just one little hitch that kept him contemplative, if one could call it that. When he’d ripped the death note from Calikarcha and tossed it to the human world, Ryuk had dove after it with unexpected urgency. He’d watched it land on the Earth and be claimed by it, before anyone had seen its appearance.

It had taken a while for the book to be found, but oddly it was a passing waif that hesitated before picking it up.

Ryuk had taken one look at you and your lifespan, and reached the conclusion that you were suicidal. You looked fragile and exhausted, your eyes distant and clouded even though you were visibly young. The sun had already set and any light left had been waning as you walked alone toward downtown, despite not having any way to defend yourself. You were also due to die in a few days.

That was before you’d laid hands on the death note. Before Ryuk saw something that he’d never seen in his lifetime, something that made him do a double-take before writing you off completely.

Your lifespan had increased as soon as you decided to take his notebook.

—

A year alone was nothing for a nigh-immortal being. In the shinigami realm, nothing ever changed, therefore the measure of time was considered obsolete insofar as their own lives.

Ryuk felt uneasy, thinking over the fact that he hadn’t even been following you for a year, and yet he’d been remembering times and dates like they were significant. If they meant something to you, then suddenly they were worth recollection.

You were still fragile and cute, like the day he’d found you. Yet, there were little improvements here and there that he could see. Your skin was healthier, the circles beneath your eyes were fading, and you were sound asleep at that very moment. Ryuk had made the observation within the first two months of possessing you that you were a troubled sleeper. You’d often thrashed in your bed, to the point where it was annoying for a long time.

The problem was only a memory, now.

As was the issue of your sickness, and your fear. You’d gained back the weight you lost in the beginning, and the color in your cheeks. You were objectively older than before, after several federal holidays and a birthday -- but you looked younger.

The blank walls of your bedroom were cluttered with colorful posters and a collage of drawings were tacked onto the dartboard, the same one that you had told him was useless once. He was no artist, but he’d contributed his part with a few optical illusions that you gushed over until he felt lighter than air.

Little pots of easy-upkeep plants sat on your window sill, both still alive even after three weeks in your midst. Below that, the built-in heater that you’d begged your landlord to fix was making itself useful, as was appropriate. The shelves were dusted on a weekly basis, and you’d reorganized your bookshelf the day before yesterday. Ryuk had helped of course, scanning the covers and making you point out how childish it was that he based his interest on the pictures and not what was inside with a laugh.

Then you’d shouted at him for tossing them over his shoulder recklessly, just to piss you off. None of your swats did a thing to him, but he loved that you even tried.

Your meekness extended mainly to other humans. People disregarded you easily, and Ryuk considered it a crime. He could repeat some of your most memorable phrases in his head, and laughed until he was hoarse. You said some stupid shit, yet you were thoughtful, worrying for others when they didn’t earn it. Soft as your skin, but you were sharp in your way. Brilliant in a way he had never thought of before.

He allowed himself to feel proud of you for those things.

You were a tease. Infuriating while you played innocent, but gave him a knowing look that only made the flurry of sensations in his lower stomach worse. He’d hidden the worst of it from you, but your hands started skimming below the neck. You made something like blood pump through his ancient veins, from his head to his toes. It was enough of a problem that he had moments on the roof out of sheer desperation, imagining you inviting him into your bed.

Recently, he’d gotten it into his head that maybe you felt the same way. It would’ve been funny were it not frustrating.

There were also things you didn’t tell him, and it irked Ryuk more than he’d like to admit. He couldn’t pinpoint when that particular part of you became less interesting and more concerning. You were closed-lipped about certain skin abrasions, certain moments in your life that he’d not been there for, and any mention of your family would oft put you into a trance. He hated those moments, wishing he could simply open up your skull and pick the information right out of your brain

At least your lifespan wasn’t changing.

Ryuk had floated down to the floor, hunched over your bedside. He could count the days since he’d started doing this, and was only a little self-conscious at this point. The scant trees bearing leaves outside your apartment had changed colors, and the nights were getting longer than the days. Little reminders that it was too late.

Too late for a lot of things.

---

Ryuk gazed at your face, smooth and untroubled. The god of death brushed the hair out of your face, curling it over the side of your head and behind your ear.

He dragged his talons away from your temple when you sighed, opening your eyes slowly and blinking at him. The recognition was second-nature now, and you no longer regarded him fearfully. He was an anchor for you, for though he could disappear from your sight, Ryuk never dared.

The look in your eyes made his stomach drop. You were so… happy. Happy to see him. You lit up with adoration, and a tug-o-war between feeling heated and feeling appreciation forced him fidget.

“Voyeurism is frowned upon in most societies.” You needled. “Probably against the law in most.”

He leaned forward intently. “Hyuk hyuk, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“The penalty is death.” You yawned, bringing his hand over to your chest and letting him touch the bare skin below your collarbone.

Your pulse slowed against his knuckles, and your natural warmth began seeping into his fingers.

Soon, you were drifting off again.

“I’ll kill you in the morning.” You promised.

#ryuk #ryuk/reader #ryuk x reader #death note #there's an itty bit of plot in there #this story is not sequential

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

Text

Stay Safe Part Four: Reaching Out

Fandom: The Mandalorian [Star Wars]

Pairing: Eventual Mandalorian [Din Djarin]/Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Welcome, welcome! I hope you're all having a good day, and that you're all staying hale and hearty. This chapter somehow got even longer than the last one, I do apologize once again. Enjoy!

Tag List: @wrestlingfae @toxiicpop @huliabitch @helplessly-nonstop @culturalrebel @literal-fand0m-trash @sinnamon-bunn @fioccodineveautunnale @hxldmxdxwn @lizajane3 @thewaythisis @nellyneko @absurdthirst

Part One [Should Have Known Better]

Part Two [Tranquil Turmoil]

Part Three [Vibroblade Mettle]

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains character death. Stay safe!]

"Hand over the child, Mando." The man's voice said cooly over the comms. "I might let you live."

You snarled under your breath in frustration and you heard the Mandalorian echo your sentiment. Ever since the two of you had departed Sorgan, your proverbial footsteps had been dogged by hunters. At least they had followed you instead of harassing the small village. You still had yet to learn why the child was being hunted, but you supposed that was a minor detail in light of your current predicament.

"I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold!" The hunter continued to taunt as another hit rocked the Crest. The left engine sputtered and whined, rattling audibly.

"Alright, that's it." The Mandalorian bit out, flipping switches to cut power from the engine before it shredded itself. "You're up." He informed you, reaching for the thruster bar. "Be ready on the guns, we'll only get one shot at this. Take out that son of a bitch."

Your eyes were glued to the targeting screen, only barely noticing the choke of the thrust and subsequent drag of the Crest that threw you sideways against your seat harness. All you cared about was that blue ship indicator on the screen finally blinking red.

Right before the Crest's artillery roared to life and reduced the bastard that had been tracking you to space debris, the Mandalorian growled, "that's my line."

You laughed in relief, slumping down in the seat. "We did it!" You cheered quietly, raising your fist to bump his own when he extended it back to you.

Your celebration was short-lived, however, as sparks exploded across the panel in front of the armored man. He swore under his breath, quickly readjusting trajectory coordinates while the sextant holo reeled drunkenly. "Looks like the damage was already done. Sorry, stowaway. Unplanned pit stop." The Mandalorian grunted, actually managing to sound the tiniest bit contrite.

The ship shuddered and lurched, listing slightly while its main working engine struggled to maintain forward motion. "As long as we land safely, I can live with it." You assured him, eyeing the large, tan planet that loomed in the viewport. "Where to?"

"Tattooine. Closest port's Mos Eisley. Should be able to find a job so we can afford repairs." He flipped a switch overhead, then pressed his fingers to the side of his helmet. There was a shrill burst of feedback and he shook his head, grumbling and striking the control panel with a firm hand. Then, he tapped the side of his helmet again.

There was a brief pause. "Th-is is Mos Eisley Tower, we are tracking you. Head for bay three-five, o-ver."

The voice was staticky, but still easily understood. "Copy that." The Mandalorian confirmed, toggling the overhead switch. "Locked in for three-five."

His fingers drummed on the control panel absently, then shifted around to check the levels as the Razor Crest began its approach.

…

The landing was, to quote a certain armored man...not spectacular.

You could feel the Crest sliding to one side, the Mandalorian just barely missing the edge of the hangar bay. The landing gear whined loud when it extended and the whole ship settled onto the ground with a series of clatters and clanks that had you grimacing. You clearly had your work cut out for you.

"I'll get started." You sighed, undoing your harness.

"No. Stay put." He answered sharply, already shuffling past you.

"What? But I'm...I can help!" You protested, pursuing him down the ladder. Was he really still in that mindset of not letting you do anything? Even after you had patched this junker up on Sorgan?!

The boarding ramp lowered, steam billowing as the cool air inside the ship hit the blistering heat outside. Now this felt familiar. Sand, sun, grungy little droids…

You opened your mouth to greet the spindly pit bots and a blaster bolt kicked up a chunk of sand right in front of the closest droid. You whirled, snapping, "Hey! Do not shoot them! I was going to say hello!"

The impassive man offered you a shrug, sliding his blaster back into its holster before droning, "No droids near my ship."

You threw your hands up and then jammed them in your coveralls, spotting a surly-looking woman heading your direction. "You can talk your own way out of this one, bucket boy." You muttered.

A stifled chuckle issued from the Mandalorian at your hissed words, the warm noise sliding down your spine to curl in your stomach. You blinked several times, a little confused at the violent reaction your body had to something as mundane as his laugh.

The older woman (her jumpsuit name patch read PELI in faded blue lettering) did in fact proceed to verbally rip the Mandalorian limb from limb for "putting his bolts anywhere near her bots." She then started looking the Crest over, somehow simultaneously unimpressed with the state of it and impressed that he had managed to land it at all.

The Mandalorian bore the assault silently, but you could tell how irritated he was just from the set of his shoulders. You refused to pity him though, at least not outwardly. "I've got five hundred Imperial credits." He stated once she allowed him to get a word in edgewise.

"Five hundred and seven." You amended, shooting him a glare when he jerked his head to the side to look at you.

The woman snorted derisively, frizzy hair bouncing on her shoulders with the force of her head shake. "That'll cover the bay, but you want repairs done without droids. My time is valuable!"

"I'll get you your money." The armored man assured her tersely.

"I've heard that one before."

"I'm a former detailer." You spoke up, drawing her attention off of him. "I can follow directions and I'm familiar with this particular craft."

"Ah, that's why he's got you with him?" Peli mused sarcastically. "I figured it was for your stellar listening skills."

"I'm also a real crackerjack of a singer." You shot back, grinning. "I help keep the ship morale up."

"Oh I'll bet you do." She rolled her eyes and then jabbed a stern finger up at the Mandalorian. "Listen, I'll get started on it. But I'm making no promises and if you try to stiff me, I'm not giving you your junker back. Understand?"

He exhaled hard, nodding.

Peli made a shooing motion. "Alright then, git! Go on. Off you go. Find a good bounty and don't you dare come back without the money!" The fact that she was ordering him around made your giggles incredibly difficult to stifle, but somehow you managed until he stalked off out of the hangar. "Mandos are always so self-important and broody." Peli informed you sagely over the sound of your sputtering laughter. "Gotta' take 'em down a peg or two whenever you can."

A wail echoed from inside the ship and your cackling jerked to a halt. "Oh!" You exclaimed, bolting back up the ramp. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

The child, who had awoken alone and secured in the bunk, sniffled up at you when you hit the auto-roll for the shutter. They looked so incredibly distressed that you immediately felt guilty, scooping them up and moving back to the ramp.

"I'm sorry, were you scared?" You asked the child as their eyes squinted in the brilliant desert sunlight. "It's okay, I'm right here with you."

Peli whistled. "Maker, that thing is ugly. But a cute kinda' ugly, I guess." The baby cooed, clawed fingers tangling into your tan cloak. "Oh, he's a little heartbreaker. Look at those eyes!" Peli appeared to be absolutely smitten, the older woman scooting in close to examine the child. "You'll need to be careful with his ears in this sunlight, he looks thin-skinned. Don't want him gettin' crispy, no we don't!" She continued in a singsong tone, tickling them under their chin.

…

You were uncertain of when exactly the Mandalorian had returned from his job hunt, too preoccupied with the repair work. Up to your armpits in the left engine's ion acceleration chamber, to be precise.

Your only warning was an abrupt shout of "hey!" and then the kid started bawling, which in turn sent you into fight or flight mode. You pulled free of the turbine and skittered down to the cockpit of the ship, hauling your wrench with you for protection.

Your heart rate slowed once you realized he was just arguing with Peli, the older woman holding the child protectively to her chest.

"And you!" The Mandalorian yelled up at the ship, making you squirm guiltily. "Get down from there, I told you before that I don't want-"

"They're just helping me out!" Peli protested. "My joints are too rickety to be up on top of that death trap."

The Mandalorian glared at her, his shoulders heaving. You scrambled down the handholds alongside the cockpit and dropped to the ground from there, hesitantly coming alongside the seething bounty hunter. "I...I just wanted to help." You mumbled, fidgeting with the wrench and then tugging the repair manual Peli had given you out of your pocket. "I can-"

"Fine." The armor-clad man spat, the word jagged even through his modulator. "I've gotten a job. Shouldn't take too long." He was pointedly avoiding looking at you, all of his attention narrowed to Peli and the child in her arms.

The noise of an engine outside the doorway had him jerking his head up, and with a final muttered expletive he stormed off. Peli followed after him, still berating him for his "rude language in front of the baby!", and you trailed along behind. You were admittedly curious about the job. What could he have found in this tiny little town? Did they even have a Guild outpost here?

Once you reached the outer doorway, you realized that he was apparently no longer working alone. There in front of you was a young man, dressed in entirely the wrong clothes for the climate. He was perched nonchalantly atop a speeder bike, a second one hovering alongside him. "Mando!" He greeted the armored man, gesturing at the bike. "What do you think? Not too shabby, eh?"

The Mandalorian just grunted, beginning to circle around the bike.

Your hands balled into fists and you huffed out an angry breath. Oh sure, he would work with some random stranger he dug up out of the sand! But the second you tried to be helpful, you got put in a glorified cupboard on baby duty!

The young man leaned back, giving you a friendly look that went on for a bit too long. "Hey there. Name's Toro. Toro Calican." He introduced himself with a little bow, a smirk tugging at the side of his mouth. "I've been here a while but I haven't seen you before."

"Let's go." The Mandalorian demanded before you could say anything to Toro, impatiently revving the starter on his speeder bike.

"Stay safe!" You snapped. You might have said it more out of spite than good will, but the wish was no less potent for it.

The armored man tilted his head, giving the impression that he was surprised. "You...you as well." He replied begrudgingly, then opened the throttle.

"It was nice meeting you!" Toro called over the sound of the engine, throwing up a quick wave before he set off in pursuit of the other man.

"Well, that was interesting." Peli mused once the two hunters had vanished into the dust. She shot you a curious look. "Is your Mandalorian always so possessive?"

"He's not my Mandalorian!" You retorted hotly. "I have no idea why he's being so...so-"

"Pigheaded? Stubborn? Broody?" Peli suggested one word after another and you felt yourself smiling, even though you were still angry.

"Stupid." You corrected her. "He's stupid. And not mine. I take no ownership of that." You gestured out at the sand dunes. "If there's work that needs to be done, I'm not asking for permission."

"Well, we had better get to it then!" Peli said, strangely enthusiastic. "There's a hell of a fuel leak I'm going to need you for, as well as some kinks in the strut shocks. Never mind the engine, though I'm sure you're already halfway done with it."

You flipped to the first page in the repair manual, tapping your fingers down on the exploded view of the engine. "I did have a question about this section here. As you can see, this one has a weird shear point where one of the bolts should be removed. If I put the pins here instead, do you think it would hold better?"

…

The two of you worked long into the night. It seemed as soon as you fixed one thing, a new issue would arise. The Crest had been held together with nothing but spot-welding and a prayer! Your stomach flip-flopped at the realization that you had trusted that in deep space. Granted, you hadn't exactly picked the ship you were stranded on, but still-!

"You are a lucky, lucky thing." Peli called up the ladder, continuing to seat the refresher's new gasket snugly into its coupling. "If this seal had gone, your whole ship would be swamped with the grey tank backwash."

"Better the grey tank than the black tank." You replied, laughing when she made a gagging sound. You had taken a break from the engine to unbolt the cockpit shielding so you could scrape it, planning on putting down a fresh line of caulking around the edges of each pane. When you and the Mandalorian had returned to the Razor Crest after it had been parked on Sorgan, a small puddle had collected on the floor beside the pilot's chair. Whether from condensation or an actual leak you couldn't say, but everything on the ship seemed due for a replacement.

"Pass me the sealant when you're done with it." Peli requested loudly. "This gasket won't do you any good unless I patch these areas."

"Need the spanner too? I've got the fifths up here." You offered, hanging upside down through the ladder port to hand her the extra tube of caulking.

"Yeah--wait no, give me the flathead. Sealant and flathead so I can cinch this ring." Peli tweaked one of the child's ears fondly while you fumbled around in your tool belt. Sure, you could have sat upright and gotten it done much quicker, but hanging upside down was half the fun of even having a tween-decks ladder in the first place. "Does he usually just watch like this? He's being so quiet!" She remarked.

"Those eyes see everything." You replied wryly. "They're probably just glad something isn't exploding near them."

"Exploding?" Peli sputtered. "What have you two been up to?!"

You bit your lip, uncertain of how much you should actually say. "We had a few run-ins with some...less than friendly people. Raiders and stuff."

"And how did you end up around people like that?" Peli queried, her voice muffled as she ducked back into the fresher.

You groaned, rolling over onto your back on the cockpit floor and staring up at the starry sky overhead. "A certain stupid armored individual with a gruff attitude and…" you paused as the gravity of what you were saying hit you. "...and...and a soft spot for helping people in trouble."

"Oho, so that's his story, huh?" Peli's tone was smug. "Should have figured. Not everyone reacts like a raging anooba when they see a stranger holding their baby."

"Is that what he was angry about?"

"I'm pretty sure if I hadn't been holding this little nub the way I was, your Mandalorian would have put a hole in my chest." She didn't sound overly concerned.

"Not mine." You corrected her absently, getting back up and using the flat of your old knife to smooth out the bead line. "Never mine." You murmured quietly to yourself, barely resisting the urge to heave another sigh. Obviously the armored man's most prolific method of expression was rubbing off on you if even you were resorting to sighing.

What were you thinking, letting yourself get all twisted up over someone like him? This was pointless.

…

It was mid afternoon, nearly dusk the following day when you finally managed to finish repairing the engine. It had been a big job, the biggest one you'd ever tackled, but Peli looked it over several times and declared it fine work.

"You did almost as good as my droids!" She exclaimed, one of the spindly bots beeping a loud complaint in reply. "I'd offer you a job if I thought you'd take it, but I know better than to trust your Mandalorian alone with this little angel."

You had given up on insisting he wasn't your Mandalorian, simply rolling your eyes instead of wasting your breath. "What does the rough estimate look like? I may have no choice but to work off the debt if he doesn't come back." After the playful words left your mouth, your brow furrowed. He had said it wouldn't take too long. What was his idea of not taking too long? A day? Three days?

Concern churned in your mind as the older woman laughed off your inquiry. You had no real frame of reference to work with, no clue how long a bounty hunt could actually go on for. What if something had happened to him? You swallowed hard.

What if he and that young man he had joined forces with were stranded somewhere out in the dunes? Guilt elbowed in to war with the concern. If something had gone wrong, the last thing you said to him…

Stay safe, your memory reminded you, in a tone laden with spiteful sarcasm.

You shook your head at your unusually-dire train of thought. That would do you no good! The Mandalorian would be back soon enough and then you would be on your way to wherever came next, is what you told yourself firmly.

Fake it 'til you make it, right?

In the face of the encroaching twilight you sat cross-legged on the boarding ramp, slowly fishing tiny bits of pickled mudjumper out of one of the jars that Omera had sent with you. The child gurgled happily, little fingers clumsily shoving the meat into their mouth.

"Do I even want to know?" Peli inquired warily, gesturing at the jar.

"Mudjumpers." You replied, giving the brine a shake. "The kid loves 'em. They'd eat 'em whole."

The older woman pulled a face. "He's lucky he's cute. For anyone else, that'd be a dealbreaker."

The pit droids abruptly started to shriek and rattle, indicating that something had spooked them. You peered out into the darkness, squinting and then grinning with relief. "Mr. Calican!" You greeted the young man gladly, getting to your feet and wiping your hands off with a rag. "I take it you two finished the job?" You looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the large, beskar-clad form bringing up the rear. "Where's the Mandalorian?"

Toro seemed a bit preoccupied and didn't answer you immediately, his eyes darting to the baby who was still gnawing on a chunk of mudjumper. "Oh, yeah. Mando's uh...he'll be along. You guys have any water? I'm parched."

"Of course! I'll get you some, give me a second." You nodded, turning and rushing back into the Crest. As much as you had been fearing and anticipating the Mandalorian's return, it was still a relief to know that he was alright.

Calican accepted the small canteen you gave him with a murmur of thanks. He had the kid on his knee, the small child too invested in their snack to pay him any mind. "He's a cute little guy. Where'd you pick him up?" Toro asked curiously.

You shook your head. "I couldn't say. He was here before me. The tyke is a veteran shipmate."

"Oh? Huh. Interesting." Toro took another long swig from the canteen. "You know, I heard something a while back."

You cocked your head, confused and a little uneasy at the way his expression had darkened. You abruptly wished that he wasn't holding the kid. "What...what did you hear?"

"Well, I mean, it's not that interesting. Still…I'm kinda' interested to figure out if it's true or not." He shifted to his feet and pressed his blaster to the side of the child's head. "Call it...morbid curiosity."

"W-What are you doing?" You asked, your voice shaking. "Calican, if this is a joke, it's not-"

"Keep back." He warned sharply. "I'm not looking to hurt any of you, but I will if I have to."

The blaster gave neither you nor Peli any room to argue, though the older woman still wanted to try. "You're gonna' be real sorry when their Mandalorian gets here!" She said angrily, her hands hoisted over her head.

Toro scoffed. "Their Mandalorian is a traitor who shot up the Bounty Hunter's Guild on Nevarro! I'm bringing him to justice." He announced, his voice dripping with self-importance while he prodded the baby with his blaster. His motions made your heart leap into your throat in terror, "and this little runt is stolen property, which needs to be returned to its rightful owner."

Your mind whirled. That couldn't be right. Nevarro--

What the armored man had admitted to you on Sorgan came rushing to the forefront of your memory, "I won't be able to bring you back to Nevarro. I can't...I can't go back there."

Was it true? Is that what the child was? Is that why he couldn't return? He had stolen the child and shot up the Guild?

You took a step forward without conscious thought, reaching down to your boot for your vibroblade. "Let them go."

Toro wasn't some hulking Klatoonian. He wasn't a veteran dropship trooper and he definitely wasn't a lightning-fast Mandalorian. As far as you could tell he was just like you, except he had a gun. Reducing him down to that made him much less terrifying.

The young man yelped, jamming the blaster against the child's head. "You do anything with that and I'm gonna' take this kid apart. All I want is the Mandalorian." He snapped.

"Unfortunately for you, all I want is the kid." You snarled.

He whipped his blaster around to your head, obviously shaken. "I'm not-"

"If you shoot me, you'd better kill me. Because if you hurt that child, I will kill you." You announced firmly, your trembling knees locked in place. He's just a human. He's young and dumb. "Let me hold the child and I'll get rid of my knife." You bargained, holding the weapon up. "I know how the kid operates. If you keep jostling them around like that, you're going to make them cry. They're loud, Toro. Someone will hear." You extended your hands. "I promise. All I want is the kid."

Toro appeared to mull it over, his eyes narrowed as he stared at you. "Drop the knife first." He demanded finally. "You drop that knife and...and you promise to keep this little bastard quiet."

You nodded. Your blade landed with a hollow clatter on the boarding ramp and Toro shoved the child into your waiting grasp. You didn't even have a second to breathe before the young man had your free arm wrenched behind your back, making you cry out in pain when he twisted your wrist.

"Calican!"

You almost lost your grip on the child in relief when you spotted the Mandalorian standing at the end of the ramp, blaster in hand and somehow giving off the impression that he was fit to be tied. He had his shoulders squared, helmet tilted down and his feet spread like a raging mudhorn about to charge.

"Took you long enough, Mando." The young man drawled, his blaster thumping against your temple. "Looks like I'm calling the shots now, huh partner? Drop your blaster and raise 'em. And you," he jeered in your ear, "had better stay where you are if you know what's good for you."

The Mandalorian obeyed grudgingly, spitting, "Damn it stowaway, why-"

"Hey, it's not my fault that your hotshot pet bounty hunter skittered out from underneath your thumb!" You barked at him.

"I told you to stay safe!" He bellowed in reply.

"I told you first!" You screamed.

"Will you shut the hell up?" Calican punctuated his request with a solid slam of the pistol grip into the side of your head, the blow sending stars across your vision. "Shut the hell up, the both of you. Now," He continued to Peli, tossing her a set of magnacuffs. "Cuff him."

The older woman slowly made her way down the ramp and Calican shifted his weight nervously, keeping you tight against his side as a human shield. "Fennec was right." He giddily declared to the Mandalorian. "Bringing you in won't just make me a member of the Guild, it'll make me legendary."

The baby squirmed against your arm, obviously uncomfortable. "It's alright, sweetheart." You crooned, trying your hardest to keep your voice steady. "I'm right here with you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"Yeah, except it's not really up to you anymore, is it?" Calican pointed out snidely. Peli raised the cuffs to snap them onto the Mandalorian's wrists and Toro's arm went tense, no doubt in preparation to squeeze the trigger.

There was a strangely-muffled report and then blinding light seared your eyes, forcing you to slam them shut. Was that a flare? When you opened them again, the Mandalorian was gone. Toro swore, firing wildly at where the armored man had been standing. The kid started to sob pitifully and you struggled against Calican, simultaneously panicking and furious. "Let me go!" You yelled, straining to twist free.

The distinctive sound of the Mandalorian's heavy blaster firing from the side made your ears ring. Calican grunted and you felt his hold on you tighten, the young man toppling off the edge of the ramp.

The baby!

You reeled, cupping the back of their head when Toro's limp weight knocked you over with him. You barely managed to roll in time, absorbing the brunt of the impact with your shoulder as you hit the ground still half on top of Calican. The sharp edges of his belt buckle drove into your hip for your trouble.

You coughed out, keenly aware that the child was screaming. Maker, hopefully they were simply spooked by all the commotion. After all, if something happened to them the Mandalorian would absolutely slab you, or worse.

"You're alright sweetheart." You assured them shakily. You settled onto your haunches as they continued to wail, keeping them tight to your body while you blinked away your reflex tears. "Shh, shh, you're alright. It was just noise and some bumps, love," you soothed, rocking them gently. "I've got you."

The Mandalorian skidded to his knees in front of you, gloved hands fumbling at the little one's limbs like he was checking for breaks. As the child's hysterics petered out into exhausted sniffling, the armored man slowed somewhat. "I'm sorry." He said quietly. "I-I shouldn't have-"

"Hey, hey. You got him." You interrupted, shaking your head. "I'm just glad you're such a good shot. I'm sure losing my cool didn't help your aim!"

"I d-didn't...know what to do." He admitted. "He was...I just couldn't think of anything else." His hand covered your own on the back of the child's head. "I'm sorry. For everything." He apologized sincerely. "For being so--for treating you like…" he trailed off, muttering something under his breath. His helmet pressed to your forehead and you cursed inwardly, positive he could feel you trembling. "You're not here because you chose to come along." He said finally.

"I did choose, but I get it." You said softly. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have been so reckless. Both when I was working on the ship and, uh, just now, I guess."

"No, you did well. You...you did very well." There was a smile in his voice when next he spoke, "You got him to hand over the kid so I could take a clear shot. You keep surprising me, stowaway."

"Alright, break it up!" Peli said loudly, getting between the two of you to extract the snuffling child. "Honestly, shameless." She chided and the Mandalorian sighed in exasperation, the familiar noise making you smile for a second. "Now, I'm going to assume you didn't get paid."

The armored man turned and jerked a small pouch off of Toro's belt, then tipped the prolific contents into the older woman's hand. "That cover me?" He asked bluntly.

"Oh." Peli pursed her lips. "Yeah, yep. I'd say that'll just...well, you can have your five hundred seven deposit back." She amended after a moment of counting the various currencies in her palm.

The Mandalorian shook his head. "Keep it. We've put you through enough." He pulled you upright and as he moved to take the child back, you noticed the large impact mark on his breastplate for the first time.

"Hey, wait." You said, catching his arm. "What happened? Your chest…"

"Sniper bolt." He muttered to you. "Beskar took the brunt of it. Got a bruise and a headache from the impact."

"Excuse me, sniper?!" You squeaked.

"The bounty. She's dead, thanks to a certain someone." The Mandalorian grumbled, none-too-subtly shoving the toe of his boot into Toro's ribs. A large hand palmed the side of your head and you winced, letting him check the area where Toro had struck you with his gun. "Doesn't look like he broke the skin, but you'll be sore."

"Yeah, and you mauling me like a wampa isn't exactly helping that."

"Sorry. Forgot you're not used to the armor." He apologized again. Maker, you could endure him being apologetic! It made his voice all gentle, even through the modulator. He touched his forehead to the child's, running through a few gestures as their tiny hands clawed for purchase on his smooth helmet. "Let's get moving."

You caught his arm again when he went to turn away and you shifted up onto your tiptoes to press your forehead against his helmet. "Thank you." You said sincerely.

He was still for a moment, before he simply responded, "This is the Way."

"Alright pit droids, let's get this out of here!" Peli ordered, gesturing down at the former Calican as the Mandalorian headed into the Crest with you in tow.

…

You settled the child into their bassinet, running a hand over their tiny head. Those eyes watched you blearily, and a small hand clutched at your sleeve when you went to leave. "Okay love. Do you need a song?" You asked softly, smiling. "A little song so you can sleep?"

The child whimpered uncertainly, their body wriggling underneath their covers.

You cleared your throat, crossing your arms and leaning on the edge of their bassinet. "Say 'nightie-night' and kiss me, just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me," you sang, stroking a gentle finger down the bridge of their petite nose. "While I'm alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me…" You hummed a few bars, continuing to stroke downward on their face. Soon enough (sooner than you expected, truthfully), their heavy little eyelids slid shut.

You rose from your spot beside their bassinet, stretching and then climbing the ladder to the cockpit.

"How is he?" The Mandalorian asked worriedly before you could even sit down.

"Tired," was your honest answer. "I didn't even get through the full song before he was gone."

"At least he's sleeping." He sounded relieved. The Razor Crest cruised along sand dunes and broad, flat mesas bathed in the light of the stars and you moved up to the side of his chair, wanting to take in the sight before the ship broke the atmosphere.

"Wow." You breathed. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his head to look up at you, but you didn't pay it any mind. "It looks so pretty from up here. Lonely, but..."

"Beautiful." The Mandalorian finished quietly when you trailed off.

"Mm, yeah. Melancholy." You nodded, accidentally bumping his shoulder as you went to go back to your seat. He waved off your apology silently, already heavily involved in making the star map calculations.

You just sat and looked on passively, swiveling the seat back and forth. He was entirely engrossed, fingers tracing diagonal lines as he plotted the course he intended to take. It was entrancing to watch him work, watch the calculations play out in real time at the flick of a switch or the pull of a lever. You were so used to astromech droids being readily available, you had never realized the amount of effort that went into something as 'everyday' as flying a ship.

"I'm going to clean myself up." He announced after the Crest punched through the atmosphere and shifted into hyperdrive. "I've got sand in places I didn't know existed."

"It was just like being back on Nevarro." You said with a smile. He unbuckled his harness and rose from his seat, squeezing past you in the tight space. He stank of speeder oil and dewback, so you were absolutely on board with him bathing.

Before he swung down onto the ladder, though, you heard him grunt and his breath hitched.

"Are you alright?" The query came out louder than you had intended, making you cringe at your own volume.

"The bitch shot the speeder out from beneath me before she tried to kill me." He shook his head. "I got thrown. Just a little banged up, that's all."

"Do you…" You struggled to get the words out as he waited patiently at the top of the ladder. "Do you need help? I mean, I know you've probably dealt with way worse stuff than this. Alone, y'know."

You waited for the curt dismissal, or even worse, the heavy, wordless sigh. But instead, "That's very kind of you."

What?

He cocked his helmet, his visor just as unreadable as ever. "I'm sorry if I caused you concern." He said evenly. "I'm alright."

"Wh--Concerned? Me? Ha! I wouldn't...what, about you? It'd never happen!" You blustered. "I-I was just offering because I know you're--you don't have a great range of motion, that's all!"

He immediately bristled, "My range of motion is just fine-"

"Psh, you could barely get your hands up behind your helmet!" You teased, raising your own arms in mockery of his earlier motion.

"I'm stiff and sore. That's got nothing to-" The Mandalorian cut himself off with a growl, shaking his head again. "You're ridiculous."

"If you need help, I'm here." You sang.

"You certainly are, aren't you." And with that wry observation, he clunked heavily down the ladder.

You unbuckled your own harness once you were certain he was sequestered in the fresher, getting to your feet and pulling your tunic up over your head. Toro's belt buckle had left a healthy divot in your side just above where your pants sat; you winced in pain every time your waistband grazed the area.

You reached for your toolbelt, abandoned on the floor hours earlier once you had finished your work on the engine, and rifled through the pouches for your jar of bacta salve. A staple of any self-proclaimed drifter, the thick cream was useful for everything from numbing to disinfecting an area. You scooped a healthy amount into your palm and then gingerly started smearing it on the angry reddish-purple mark, hissing in pain.

The sound of footsteps on the ladder took you by surprise and you froze as the Mandalorian hoisted himself back up into the cockpit, flight suit peeled down to his waist and sans-armor aside from his helmet.

He also froze when he saw you all hunched over without your tunic on. Or at least, you thought he saw you. It was difficult to tell where he was looking sometimes.

"Sorry." You apologized with a helpless little grimace after he just stood there for a minute. "I thought you'd, uh, take longer."

"When did that happen? Did he do that to you?" His voice was rough.

"Oh! It's...it's from when I fell." Why was breathing so difficult all of a sudden? "He had a really fancy buckle that made itself comfortable in my hip." The Mandalorian crouched beside you, his hand reaching out. "Wait!" You exclaimed, catching his wrist with two of your clean fingers. "If you get this salve on your gloves, it'll stain-"

"I don't care." He gritted out. Something in his tone caught you off-kilter, different from when he had been apologetic. His fingers pressed into the skin just above the bruise, holding the area taut. "Shit." He grunted, his thumb circling to rub some of the salve in. "You landed hard."

"Had to. It was either that or crush the baby, and I'm not looking to hurt the kid and get slabbed for my trouble." You mumbled.

His head jerked up to look at you, beskar helmet barely missing your face. "What?" He asked. Why did he sound confused, of all things? He had been the one to threaten you with it!

"W-Well, when I first...when I came onboard, you told me you'd put me in carbonite. You know, if…if something happened to the kid?" You answered hesitantly.

He was silent for a long time, just continuing to work the salve into your skin while you sat panicking. "That was before," he finally replied quietly. "You were a variable. But after what happened on Sorgan, I..."

"Anyway, I'm not the one you should be worried about right now," you rushed on to point out. "You're the one who got thrown from a speeder bike and shot and whatever else you're not telling me. You're kind of the tactical priority in this outfit."

His chuckle was rueful. "Just thrown and shot a few times, stowaway. I'm hungry, thirsty and sore, not dying."

"Want me to put together a snack for once you're done getting rinsed off? It's the least I can do for your help here." You offered, gesturing down at your side.

He shook his head. "No. I-I won't be able to eat with you."

"I didn't assume that you would." You startled yourself with your own reply. "I know that your helmet is...well, a fixture. I don't know a lot about the Mandaloria...Mandalorian culture, obviously, but I know enough not to expect any shared mealtimes."

"I'm sorry."

"Shush, look, I get it. It's a vital part of your people's way of life, right?" You waited for his nod while struggling back into your tunic. "So, stop apologizing. Lots of different people have lots of different cultures. You not taking your helmet off isn't offending me, it's what your people do. It's your reality, your day to day." You thumped your chest sternly, "This is the Way, right?"

He laughed quietly, mimicking your gesture. "This is the Way."

"So don't worry about it. I just feel bad that you probably only get a few minutes to eat." You continued, "If you want, you can just tell me when you want your, um, out of helmet time, and I can leave you alone until you say otherwise?"

"I've survived this long." The Mandalorian hesitated, "That's kind of you to offer, though."

"I'm sure you're used to being alone and being able to take it off whenever." You theorized, a little sad that he had to stay in it all the time now just because you or the child were with him.

"I usually keep it on regardless." He shrugged. "Taking it off just means I have to put it back on. It's a necessity."

"Well yeah but...I'm sure you'd like to not have to inhale your food. Maybe wash your hair. Ooo, wait, do you not have any hair? Are you bald?" You gasped in mock-horror, clutching at your chest theatrically. "Maker, is that why you all keep your helmets on? You're as bald as the kid, aren't you?"

"I do groom myself, you know. Regularly." The Mandalorian retorted, the tilt of his head decidedly haughty. "And I'm not bald. Wish I was sometimes. The nape of my neck grows quickly and if I'm sweaty, I get knots."

"Sounds like something that a bald person would say if they're trying to hide it." You teased, grinning at him.

"M' not bald." He insisted after a second, sounding almost sulky. He yanked his threadbare liner shirt up, jabbing a finger at the thick trail of hair that began around his belly button. "I grow hair. I have hair." He continued indignantly.

"You have pubes." You corrected him automatically, your brain grinding to a halt afterwards. Maker, had you really just-?!

"I've got body hair." He stressed firmly. "Hair on my body. Not just my pubic area."

Ignoring the incredibly alluring prospect of following that trail of body hair down past where his flight suit bunched up around the 'V' of his hips, you forced your eyes upwards when he dropped his shirt hem. "Stars, that looks like it hurts." You winced sympathetically, taking in the livid purple contusion that spread across his right pectoral. The fact that it was dark enough for you to see it clearly through his liner-

"I can live with it. If I hadn't had the beskar, it'd be hurting a lot less." Because I'd be dead hung unspoken in the air between the two of you.

"I-I'm glad you have the beskar, then." You managed to say faintly. "I'd hate to have to explain to the kid if something...happened."

"Likewise." The Mandalorian responded, his own tone troubled. "He's...he's gotten used to having you around."

The both of you stood there awkwardly, the silence stretching long. "Did you need something?" You asked finally.

The Mandalorian jolted, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't be. "Uh, yes! Yes, I was going to ask if I could borrow your...salve. Used up the last of mine on Sorgan and I haven't been able to get more." He mumbled.

"Absolutely, definitely!" You exclaimed, hurrying to screw the lid back onto the jar. "I'll just...yep, here you go. Bacta salve." You pressed it into his hands, unable to keep from anxiously fidgeting when he didn't immediately leave. He just stood there, staring down at you. "Was there...was there something else you needed?" You queried nervously.

"I'm not sure." He muttered cryptically, tilting his head to the side. "I...I mean, thank you. I'll bring this back." He quickly amended, tapping his fingers to his chin and then all but bolting for the ladder.

"Be careful, you'll break a leg!" You yelled after him, certain that you imagined the husky laughter you got in reply.

…

It was much, much later when you decided to move down the ladder and head for bed.

You had stayed in the co-pilot chair for ages, slowly spinning back and forth while your mind replayed the way he had hauled his shirt up. It was so nonchalant, innocent. You had been under the impression that Mandalorians had strict rules about exposure, but maybe it only applied to revealing their face?

You could always ask, but the idea of offending him was somehow even more repugnant now than it had been when he was threatening to give you the full carbonite treatment.

You sighed and headed for the ladder, moving carefully when you realized the hold was pitch black.

He must be asleep, you reasoned a split-second before the fresher door slid open and you were blinded by the brilliant light. Right as your eyes shut in reflexive response, they landed on a pile of beskar armor heaped on the floor.

There was a very familiar helmet sitting on top of it, the visor glaring up at you mockingly.

You heard him curse and you immediately started apologizing, keeping your eyes shut and waving your hands wildly. "I'm sorry! I-I didn't see, I promise! The light-"

This is it, you realized grimly. This was the end of you.

"I thought you were still up there. You startled me." He paused, yawning loudly and then continuing, "s'alright now, I turned off the light."

"You're...you're sure it's okay to open my eyes?" You asked cautiously.

"Hmm? Yeah, it's fine." He mumbled, and you heard the sound of fabric rubbing rapidly back and forth. "Had to clean the armor first, n' then me." His voice was so clear without the helmet. You would be lying if you said you weren't entranced by the soft gravel of it.

You snuck a peek and were simultaneously relieved and disappointed to find that you were still blind. "Shit, I got all turned around." You swore, crouching slightly and feeling your way forward. "Don't want to trip on your knightly attire and wake up the kid." A large, warm hand caught your elbow and you almost shrieked. "Hey! Warn me next time. Maker, I lost years off my life from that!" You hissed, your panic intensified in no small amount by the fact that it was his actual skin touching you, not leather gloves.

In that moment, you felt like you were somehow responsible for breaking seventeen different rules. And you weren't entirely certain whether you were particularly contrite about it.

"Mhm." He could apparently see fine in the darkness, or at least well enough to lead you across the hold to the space behind the pile of crates that you had claimed as your own. "This s'your stop, stowaway." He murmured sleepily. You froze when you felt his chin brush your forehead lightly, stubble rubbing against your skin and a set of lips pressed to your hairline as he breathed, "G'night."

You managed to pull yourself together long enough to squeak out a reply of, "sleep tight," and you proceeded to tunnel into your blankets once you were certain he had left. What was that?! you asked yourself frantically.

That was...he was human underneath all that armor. You had known that.

Technically. Logically. Your brain understood that even before he had decided to flash the great golden expanse of his abdomen at you. So what was the issue?

Had he just kissed your forehead?! Did that even count as a kiss or was he just so tired that he had bumped into you accidentally? Nothing about it seemed accidental, but he was exhausted. It must have been a mistake, a clumsy little...accident. That's all it was.

You were just reading too much into it.

Part Five

#the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin imagine #eventual romance #slow burn #we are PINING #we are out here #this got so long

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pigeontheoneandonly · 4 years

Text

Lemongrass

So this was nominally supposed to be about a cooking lesson (loosely prompted by a post from @dr-ladybird), but it came out much more bittersweet and melancholy.

Thanks to @pushingsian for the beta!

NB: In my version of Mass Effect, Nathaly Shepard is vegetarian, and Kaidan Alenko's mother is Thai.

Lemongrass

The haunting quiet of a Canadian night along the Sunshine Coast still kept Shepard awake, even after two months. She missed the endless creaking of the ship, the muffled voices coming through the hatches and decks, the hum of the drive core lulling her to sleep. Everyone thought space was silent. She snorted and wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered on the porch, drawing a blanket close like a shawl. This was silence, this… lonely wilderness.

Footsteps fell soft on the cabin’s wooden floor. She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Kaidan padding barefoot to the door, still rubbing his eyes. Her face broke into a smile despite herself, quiet, tired. “Hey.”

“It’s cold out here tonight.” He rubbed his arms. “Can’t sleep again?”

“You don’t need to get up,” she replied, sidestepping the question.

He glanced out over the property, towards the coastline a half-acre away. “It wasn’t this quiet when I bought it.”

This was where he’d sunk his L2 reparations, into this piece of earth, though the house came after the war. His neighbors weren’t ever sitting in his lap, exactly, but a fair number either hadn’t survived or hadn’t returned. But the lack of people wasn’t the problem. “It’s a planet. It’s never going to be—”

Shepard stopped herself just in time. But her startled guilty glance, at the near slip, said it all anyway. His shoulders sank. “Come inside.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He put his arm around her and gave her a tug. “Come inside.”

The door swung shut. The main room was cozy in a hand-made sort of way. Kaidan’s mother had sent a seemingly endless stream of crocheted blankets, which now hung off every chair back and piled across the couch. Shepard made the metal-framed furniture herself in their own backyard. Kaidan spent his free hours scouring local extranet ads for books, and a coffee maker, lamps, cushions, anything anyone was selling or trading in the mostly cashless post-war economy. Earth could barely manufacture essentials, much less everyday comforts.

Now he walked over to the small corner defining their kitchen and lit the stove. She hiked one of those blankets higher on her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll sleep better with something warm in you.”

She joined him, putting her hand on his hip, leaning towards his ear. “I can think of something warm you could put in me.”

That got her a quick snort of a laugh, as she hoped. “That just wakes you up more.”

But his brown eyes sparkled in the dim light of the slumbering house.

She heaved a sigh, but pushed a lock of red hair behind her ear, and switched gears. “Need a hand?”

Flirtatious interest turned to surprise. “You want to help me cook.”

“Come on. I haven’t boiled a pot dry in weeks.” A touch defensive, but hell, she had been trying. It wasn’t her fault she never had reason or opportunity to learn to cook. At this point, her molecular composition verged on 100% military-issue freeze pack meals and MREs.

“That’s true.” He jerked his head at the cabinet. “Find me the coconut milk, and the stock.”

Kaidan’s kitchen staples came as something of a surprise. Beer and bacon she expected. His mother’s influence, not so much. Not that she knew a whole lot about Thai food to start with. “Where do you get this stuff?”

“My mom is friendly with every southeast Asian family in Vancouver.”

“Sure. But… citrus?”

“You’d be surprised how many people keep a tree in their condo. I’m negotiating for one, but nobody wants to give it up.”

“It’s just as well.” She pulled out a box. “I’ve killed every houseplant I’ve ever had.”

“You’re doing all right with the herb garden.” Kaidan said it with a straight face, despite them both knowing he did most of the work, especially after he caught her burying leftovers in the dirt to fertilize it. Gently, he explained about compost, but it still seemed like a load of middle-man work to her. He also explained about raccoons, which she had to admit had the weight of evidence behind it, in the holes and broken plants they left behind. But Shepard had learned to water and prune, even fuss over the plants, here and there. They seemed to enjoy the attention.

What was the other thing? Stock. Right. She opened the fridge and pulled out a plastic jug, the remains of a giant batch Kaidan made last week from all their vegetable scraps. It had been an experiment, but somehow, all of Kaidan’s kitchen experiments seemed to work out.

“Put that in the pot,” he said, pointing.

She complied, with one raised eyebrow. “Don’t you think this burner is up a little high?”

“It needs to reduce.” He gave the pot an expert swirl and set it back down. “We still have mushrooms?”

“I think so.” They’d stored up too much in the lower drawer. She sorted through the items. “What’re we making?”

“Soup.” He declined to elaborate, and began to slice the mushrooms. “We’ll also need lemongrass, cilantro, and some of those tiny peppers from outside.”

“You’ll send me out in this cold?” she griped, but she was already reaching for the scissors.

He put down the knife. “It’s summer, Nathaly. It’s almost ten degrees outside. And the garden’s right beside the back door.”

“Anything south of twenty is fucking frigid.” Pulling the blanket tighter, she headed out.

The moonlight gilded the leaves in silver as Shepard sorted through the huddled plants, trying not to drop the blanket. Cilantro reminded her of home, the first home she ever had. Her grandmother grew bales of it in window boxes. Bending to cut some, she might have been six again, and smiled to herself in spite of the cold. Or maybe because of it— the Arizona desert took on its own chill at night.

Lemongrass was more foreign. Its pungency stabbed through the air as she cut it near the dirt, gathering several stalks. A side of Kaidan she hadn’t known, like the cooking, until recently. Sure he fixed a few meals in the apartment, back when the apartment was habitable. Seeing him now, it was clear he’d grown up watching his mother, and absorbed everything she had to teach. That added new depth to her understanding of the damage BAaT did to his family. It was easy to sense, lurking there even today, in every interaction between mother and son, but harder to interpret.

When she was done, she returned to the kitchen, and found he’d added tofu, galangal (not ginger, she reminded herself, firmly), the aforementioned limes plus some kaffir lime leaves he’d obtained god-knew-how, and fish sauce to the waiting ingredients. He smiled as he heard the door shut.

“Here you are.” She dumped her handful of fresh produce beside his pile.

“These look great. Take this.” He handed her the spoon.

Shepard held it like a dead mouse. “Wait a minute—”

He took the lemongrass to the sink. “Nope. This time, you cook, and I help. Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it.”

Everything about this read imminent disaster. Kaidan noticed her frown, and pushed her arm towards the pot. “Add the coconut milk.”

It trickled in, aided by her tentative stirring. She put the spoon down. “Kaidan, look, cooking… My biggest accomplishment is getting a microwave burrito thawed the whole way through without drying it out. I know you want to do this whole domestic thing—”

He picked it up and put it back in her hand. “I have never known you to admit defeat on anything. What’s going on? Talk to me.”

She stared into the pot, expressionless face flickering in the burner’s flame.

Kaidan tried another tact. “You’re not sleeping. You barely eat.”

“I…” She let the spoon go, and slumped over the stove, tiredly. “I didn’t expect winning to feel like this.”

His face softened. “That’s because we didn’t win. We just beat the reapers.”

She brushed some of the hair out of her eyes. He rubbed her shoulders, left a kiss on her neck. “Let’s just make soup, ok? Lemongrass is next. Smash it first.”

The damp stalks left small puddles on the board as she ran the knife through them, and then upended it and brought the butt of the handle down on each piece, thump thump. Then the same to the peppers. The motion was almost comforting; Kaidan made this soup a lot.

Kaidan slid sliced galangal into the pot. “Your turn.”

Picking up the lemongrass with the blade, Shepard watched it disappear into the white broth, only to bob back up again, filmed with coconut milk. Already leeching all its intensity and leaving the herb softer, milder, spent; having sprouted and fought through the dirt to the sun, grown tall and proud, only to give up all it made to this. Because she declared that this was its purpose and its end.

A fistful of bright leaves fluttered down over the lemongrass pieces. Shepard started. Kaidan’s brow furrowed, and he touched her arm. “You sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah,” she said, distantly. “I’m just tired.”

He watched her a few moments too long for comfort. “Even the squirrels know that.”

It caught her off guard and she laughed, as he clearly hoped she would. Just one chuckle. But it helped.

“Tofu and mushrooms next,” he prompted. Shepard gathered them up and dumped them in.

She just about remembered to stir it every so often as they juiced limes and chopped cilantro. To her endless gratitude, Kaidan took it back to finish it when it came off the burner; she never could get the amount of fish sauce just right. Somehow, he’d gotten the rice cooker going while she messed with the soup, too. She liked dumping it all into her bowl with the soup, a practice that never failed to earn her a look of mock-disappointment that was half the reason she kept doing it.

They settled on the couch. For a few minutes, they ate in the quiet dark of the cabin, lined in moonlight, wrapped in blankets. Shepard had spent all her life in motion. Now she was trying to learn how to live with stillness.

The soup-soaked rice felt good in her mouth, something she could bite down on. Something solid and warm in her stomach. She hadn’t realized exactly how cold she’d gotten, or how hungry; each spoonful brought a little more color into the room.

Kaidan sipped at his own bowl, smaller than hers, with a slight smile. “Feel better?”

She looked down into her nearly-empty bowl, and back up at him. “How did you know?”

“You skipped dinner. And lunch.” His tone just a little too light. “This isn’t easy for me either, but regularly crashing your blood sugar isn’t helping.”

There was nothing to say to that. “I don’t know what to do with myself up here.”

“Yeah.” He set his food aside and inched closer to her, settling his arm around her waist. “You’ve got a stack of requests piling up.”

“Busy work,” she scoffed.

“There’s never going to be another reaper war, and that’s a good thing.” He gave her a squeeze. “You’ll just have to subsist without the adrenaline and cortisol, high blood pressure, constant small injuries, and all those other things.”

“Tomorrow.” It was too complicated to unpack right now. She set the empty bowl aside.

“Tomorrow,” Kaidan agreed, and pulled her to her feet. “Now, let’s sleep.”

#mass effect #kaidan alenko #nathaly shepard #shenko #fshenko #post-war #fanfiction #pigeon writes

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sp00kworm · 4 years

Note

H,,hi is it possible for you to do a darth maul with a male s/o sfw and/or nsfw imagine? Love your content!! UwU

Pairing: Darth Maul x Male Reader

A/N: I’m glad you enjoy reading anon! Due to the nature of events on tumblr at the moment, I don’t think its wise for me to write adult content for anonymous asks since there has been a big issue with underage users consuming this content. However!!!!!! I adore Maul and I would die for some content with him so I have written this to rot your teeth.

---

Fathier Race

Raising Fathiers was perhaps the hardest thing you knew of in the Galaxy. Sure, Republic fighters were out and around constantly, the Jedi helping in wars and disputes everywhere, but you could show them bruises and aches beyond anything like that half the time. Fathiers were needy and required hours of hard training to keep them in shape. You’d spent numerous years on Naboo, looking after the beasts for the races that used to occur. Rich Senators and other such Nobles liked to race them, and had done for years before the race courses were set up across the Galaxy. Highly prized and known for their ability to run amazingly fast across any terrain, you’d grown to love Fathiers more than anything. That aside, you grew to hate the Stable Master, and that had quickly made you leave. Even the money you had stashed wasn’t enough for even one of the Fathiers in your care.

All that had changed when you’d encountered the silent Zabrak.

You’d been in the stables late. Far too late. Late enough that you would be undoubtedly questioned roughly by the guards or the Master if he was still around. Golden eyes glowed underneath a shadowy hood. A fist clenched by his side as he caught sight of you, teeth clenched with a snarl as he stalked away, out of the ring of stables, and towards the door. With a last look at the door, you dared to breathe again, feeling the tension in your entire body dissipate as you glanced back and remembered the red skin and black, thick tattoos. The golden eyes glared at you behind your eyelids as you tried to sleep that night.

The memory of the Zabrak haunted you often after that but it wasn’t until many months later that the city exploded with violence, the thunder of rifle fire bouncing from the walls as the military moved in to take Naboo’s trading federation back by force. There was the hissing of lightsabers being drawn as you reached for the stable doors of the Fathiers. They bucked and brayed unhappily even as you undid the doors and got them running. They would be safer running in the greens rather than in here when the roof caved in. You grabbed a saddle and pushed it over the back of your favourite mare. She tottered unhappily with the noise but let you on top of her with minimal fuss.

The hum of a lightsaber made you freeze, sat atop the Fathier with your bags clutched close and a rope for catching some of the stray beasts.

“Are you going to kill me?” You asked as you turned in the saddle, holding your breath at the sight of the burning red saber and golden eyes.

The Zabrak reached for his hood and tilted his head as he pulled the black hood away from his head, revealling the crown of horns on top of his head, golden eyes boring into you. The man hummed as he took three, slow steps forward, prowling closer, looking at the quivering muscles of the beast underneath you. It was ready to bolt, nostrils flaring at the smell of him.

“Run, little stable boy. Take those beasts with you...” He turned back to the door, stalking away, stance low as he readied to fight, “They stink of spices.” He was gone in an instant, the sound of his saber cutting through flesh deafening. Your Fathier bucked underneath you. With a snap of your heels she bolted, howling to the wind as you clutched your belongings close, trying to escape from the war zone behind you.

Years later, you were set up with your own farm. Fathiers were happier with space to be free and roam, and although you didn’t race them, a few were selected as studs or mares for breeding sometimes. Most of your visitors were childrens groups. The farm was, however, often silent. Just you and your rescued Fathiers. Getting them from Naboo had been a task, and your favourite mare was living her final years out now in pasture. Ten long years had passed, and life was finally good. Sicemon was a long way from Naboo. The bribery of two of your Fathiers had been the price to get the rest here to the planet of vast grasslands. Still, the cargo ship’s crew had promised they were for the youngsters more than anything. One went to live on one of the crew’s own farms.

With a smile you watched two young Fathiers prance around each other in the paddock, kicking powerful legs up in the air as they darted underneath the adults and around their legs. Holding your tea close you watched them play for a little while more, breathing in the fresh air. That was until a figure appeared out of the trees, clad in black. The Fathiers startled as the figure stepped into the pasture, swathed in tattered cloaks, dragging their feet as they came close. The Fathiers brayed and scattered, leaving a clear path for the person as they stumbled in some of the longer grass before righting themself again.

With a growl you reached for the blaster tucked at your back and pointed the muzzle dead at the person’s chest, “State your business!” You hollered over the field.

The figure stopped and seemed to take heed of the weapon pointed at their chest. Gloved hands reached upwards slowly, careful of making sure that you weren’t going to shoot them my accident. They pulled back the black hood and scarfs to reveal a familiar crown of horns on top of red skin and inked black tattoos. Golden eyes looked at you from a gaunt looking face. This was not the man that had once scoffed at you before telling you to take the Fathiers. This man was the leftovers from that creature you had watched prowl to the slaughter.

“I mean you no harm.” He growled, teeth grinding as he looked upon your farm, a small home with miles of land around it. A little something in the middle of nothing, “I am...looking to inquire about your beasts.”

You glared, holding the blaster tight, “Liar. You look like you’ve been beaten up pretty bad. The least you can do is admit you need help. Plus, my Fathiers aren’t for sale.” He grumbled again with that and and directed his eyes at the blaster once more.

“I need food, water and maybe a bed.” He ground out, “If you would be so kind.”

“No I won’t.” You snapped, “Get on your way. I don’t want your trouble. Not after what I’ve heard.”

The Zabrak growled, “And just what have you heard.” He sneered at you.

“That a Zabrak swathed in black leads a criminal underworld gang.” You offered peering at his feet, “Something about him being half robot.” With a flick of the safety you looked at the man and sighed, “But I also know you have nothing left.” With a gentle curl of your fingers you let him come closer, “I’ll let you rest a while. You look like you need some food...” You pinched your nose at the stench emanating from him, “And a very hot bath.”

The Zabrak snarled at you once more as you turned towards the house and offered him a smile. He didn’t return the grin as he ducked inside of your home, pushing away dried herbs and vegetables away from his horns as he entered.

“Here. I have some breakfast. Its just porridge but its better than nothing.” You spooned a heap of it into a wooden bowl, placing a spoon alongside it before taking the pot from the fire and replacing it with one for water. You drew over the metal basin and took the hook along with some buckets, “I’ll be back soon.” The Zabrak nodded as he sat at the table, peering around the room with tired, sunken eyes.

It took three days to coax his name from him. Maul. Just Maul. He said nothing about it for three more days before you both drank rice wine and told each other about the brutality of your childhoods. He told you of his home planet and the Nightsisters. His brother. You watched a tear drip from the Zabrak’s cheek before gently reaching out to wipe it away.

“This is weakness.” He hissed, snatching himself back, pressing his fingers together tightly around the wine.

You smiled and swallowed the last of your own wine, “This is normal. There’s no weakness in expressing yourself.” You grinned at the other male before leaving him to look at the dozing Fathiers and to contemplate your words. Maul felt a cynical smile turn his lips upwards, stretching the tattoos on his face as he poured himself another long drink of alcohol.

“So, Maul, when can I expect you to actually ride one of these Fathiers?” You asked, perched on top of a young stallion, riding in tight, quick circles.

Maul scoffed from the fence, searing eyes watching every movement closely, “I would rather wrestle a fabled demon than sit on top of one of those.” He commented as he watched the male Fathier spin and buck, prancing with energy despite the exercise.

“They’re not scary.” You laughed before leading the stallion close and pointing over at your old mare, “She would be easy to learn on, I promise.” You leaned over in the saddle and grinned at the Zabrak before sticking your tongue out at him.

“You are not a child.” He snapped before pinching your tongue between his thumb and finger, tugging harshly before he rolled his eyes, “I will not learn to ride. Accept that and find another thing to pester me about.” He stretched his arms over his head and turned before you caught him by the sleeve and tugged him back.

“What?” Maul snapped before going silent, eyes wide.

You kissed the Zabrak harshly before letting him go, cantering away with a great laugh.

Maul snarled behind you, “You are the single worst human male I have ever met.”

“Then get off my farm!” You teased from across the paddock.

#darth maul x reader #darth maul x male reader #maul x reader #star wars #darth maul #maul #star wars the phantom menace #star wars the clone war #the clone wars #fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #request #sw #star wars the clone wars #star wars: the clone wars #the phantom menace

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redhawtriot · 4 years

Text

Caught in the Act: You and I (Bakugou x Reader)

Tip Jar ☕- Not expected but always appreciated💞

Hiiii bbys

Back by popular demand: The Sequel to Caught in the Act!

This story shifts perspective like a mother fucker so take some pepto-bismal and enjoy the ride.

PS: You and I both have the same name

HnM 💕

What… just happened? You turned back around to face the door and placed your hand on the knob. You let it sit for a moment before you slowly retracted it, cursing under your breath. His soft, sad smile replayed in your mind over and over again as you stared at the handle—each run through of the scene causing you to fall deeper into uncertainty.

You had never seen him smile like that before. You had, of course, recently been exposed to a new, vulnerable side of him—raging and begging like a caged animal as you struggled to separate yourself from him, yet you had never seen him accept his defeat so solemnly. Actually, you had never seen him accept defeat in general.

Your face settled into a hard expression.

Was he really going to be okay? Did he finally crack after everything? Maybe you should turn back around, just to make—

“Y/N!”

You jumped at the sudden voice before a set of familiar, firm hands were pat down on your shoulders, “Sorry! I am so sorry!” It was only Kirishima. You relaxed from your tense stance as he continued, “I didn’t know Bakugou had left the hospital, I swear! I would have never sent you here!” You whipped your head toward Kirishima’s frantic expression as he profusely apologized, clasping his hands together and praying for your forgiveness. His sudden appearance sent a jolt of realization into your being: Katsuki cheated on you—that’s why you left him.

That’s why he was feeling the way that he was now-- why you were feeling the terrible way you were now.

No matter how much you wanted to make sure that he was okay, you needed to give yourself that pleasure first. You owed yourself at least that much after dealing with his bull shit for the past months.

You shook Kirishima off of your shoulders, startling him slightly; however, you sent him a reassuring smile, “You have to take care of him...” you didn’t mean for your voice to break toward the end of you sentence.

“W-what?”

“I…” You cleared your burning throat in an attempt to save your voice from cracking again, “I can’t-- won’t take care of him anymore, so I need you to, okay?”

“O-okay. Well—uh. I-uh… I was not expecting that,” he nervously laughed—breaking himself off mid-chuckle to search your eyes for any distress signals, “You okay?” He had an eyebrow raised.

“I’ll be okay. Thank you so much Kiri,” You once again smiled at him before you made your way to your car.

“N-no problem, I guess… You are really not okay right? I feel like that is what I am gathering from this situation,” his eyes continued to dance across your expression in an analytical matter.

“Don’t worry about me. You’ll have…” you signed a load of air that you hadn’t even realized had been stored within your heavy chest, “...a lot on your plate,” you finished before turning around to walk towards where you had left your car.

You could only manage a few heavy trundles before you felt strong arms wrap around you, “You’re solid, Y/N. I am so sorry you had to go through this, but if anyone can handle it, its you,” he whispered into your hair before placing a light, friendly kiss on your forehead, “Love you,” he bid his farewell as he pulled himself from you.

Kirishima watched as you made your way to your car to make sure you made it safely since it had grown dark outside. He noticed the tired way that your shoulders drooped as you walked. The dense man was never thought to be the most perceptive of the bunch—he knew this, but he swore that somewhere within your somber stance, was a hint of relief. It was as if your drooping form was due to a sudden weight being lifted off of you. You were only contoured to the emotional baggage that had weighted you down and soon, like the resilient, wonderful woman you were, you’d eventually mold back into yourself.

Kirishima felt the corners of his lips tug into a warm-hearted smile as he watched your car pull off—exchanging one more wave to you before you left.

It was bitter-sweet for sure. After all, who knows when the next time he’ll see you will be?

Never mind that though; He’s got another buddy to worry about right now. The man’s red eyes uneasily shifted to he front door of his crisp, worn down apartment, wherein he knew a train wreck resided.

Would Bakugou even listen to him after all that they had been through that day: the tree villain, the argument, the fire?

‘That night, you told me that you didn’t want her to leave us. There is no us, you delusional bastard. It is me and her.’ Bakugou’s words rang in Kirishima’s ears worse than any one of his explosions had ever managed to. Obviously, there was still some unresolved issues between them, so what chance would he have in being the comforting friend that Bakugou needed in that moment?

Kirshima suddenly shook his head in a crude attempt to get rid of the swarm of doubt infesting his mind, and pushed his chest out strongly as a man should,

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered under his breath as he opened the door to the home, “Bakugou?! Bro? You in here?” He knew very well that he was, but it felt right to give him some sort of alert to his presence. He read that about feral bears once when he used to hike with Bakugou a lot. It seems as if it could apply in this situation a well he guessed…

“Come get your crap,” the sudden rough voice shook Kirishima out of his his wandering thoughts. He looked up to see Bakugou holding a large plastic crate, “I only brought two bins, so make sure not to pack like a dumbass.”

“Huh?” Kirishima was expecting him to be much more of a... mess. The dull shine that your hazy eyes had held a few minutes ago was very similar to those of shell shocked veterans, yet this scene in front of him was far from war-- actually pretty domestic for Bakugou standards.

Bakugou’s expression hardened as he slammed the crate down in front of Kirishima. It sounded with a loud clang as he spoke up once more, his pressing voice just as booming, “We are going to Racoon Eye’s aren’t we, dumbass??”

“Uh-- right, yeah!” Kirishima found himself being distracted by a glint of something else in Bakugou’s angry expression, “You’re… okay with that now?” he questioned as he moved around the apartment, searching for salvageable items to bring with him.

Mina was the first and only one of their friends to come visit them at the hospital that evening, only because they were hospitalized for just a few hours and she was so close by.

She obviously offered to house her two friends until they got back on their feet since she had plenty of room in her duplex; however, before she could even get the words completely out of her mouth Bakugou had already begun protesting with “I don’t fucking need your help,” and “I’d rather live on the street than live in your garbage can house, Racoon eyes!”

The explosive man was now singing a different tune, “Well it’s not like I have much of a fucking choice now do I?” The blond man currently grumbled to himself as the two packed up their belongings.

Kirishima simply shrugged in return-- a slight smile on his face. Bakugou seemed to be doing much better than he was when he left the hospital. Maybe he was afraid for him for no reason.

The two men continued packing as a thick sheet of uncomfortable silence engulfed them. Kirishima didn’t mind though. He would much rather have this than have Bakugou explode the apartment again. Besides, the two were soon enough, finished packing up and Bakugou went to go “take a piss” one more time before they departed for Mina’s apartment.

As Kirishima placed his final item in his bin, a sudden gleam from Bakugou’s crate caught his attention. It was honestly nothing too vibrant or spectacular, yet something inside of the man told him to go investigate it. He shuffled the tightly packed items a little to uncover more of the object and turned it slightly to its side to unvcover its shattered face when suddenly—

“Don’t fucking touch that!” Bakugou roared, snatching Kirishim’a arm and tossing it away from the bin, but it was too late-- Kirishima’s eyes told that he had already seen what it was.

“That was the sports festival picture of you and Y/N from high school…” Kirishima reported with a concerned expression.

“I know what the hell it is, you idiot,” he gruffly replied as he snatched up his bin and began marching toward the exit.

Kirishima hurriedly grabbed his own and followed Bakugou’s actions, “I... saw her leave when I came in,” he wasn’t sure how to start this conversation, but this seemed neutral enough. And it actually piqued the blond’s interest.

His eyebrows slightly furrowed in surprise. Kirishima hadn’t come in for a long while after you had walked out of the door. Were you really waiting out there for such a long time? What the hell did that mean?

“She looked a little upset, but not like usual.” well recently. Kirishima could only internally add that, “You got the closure you needed, didn’t you.”

“Are you gonna just run your goddamn mouth all damn night??” Bakugou suddenly snapped, but upon seeing his friend’s worried expression a pit of guilt settled deep within his stomach. An awkward air of silence filed in between the two friends once more as a big Taxi van pulled up in front of them. Bakugou blew out a gust of hair as a pout rested on his face.

He would never say this out loud but maybe he would apply his new found methods of care to his best friend as he had planned to with you. It was no secret that Kirishima had pretty much been the only thing holding him together for the past few months, and he honestly didn't deserve all of the thrashing that Bakugou dished out toward him-- no matter how thick his skin was.

The blond didn’t know what he would do if Kirishima left him alone like you had.

“I kissed her... I kissed her a lot actually,” Bakugou grumbled under his breath. Kirishima’s jaw dropped in shock as Bakugou continued, “It felt like good bye, but also really good,” His cheeks crept into a slight blush at the recollection of how amazing your body had felt on top of his. He shook this light feeling away as the Taxi trunk lifted open, “So it can only mean goodbye for now. I’ll get her back one day—if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll have her be my wife,” Bakugou knew that he wasn’t saying this fully because he believed it, but as Kirishima as his witness, he would be held accountable for his winning or failing. No. Fuck that. For his winning.

Surprisingly, Kirishima ate up Bakugou’s determination and made it his own, “Sounds like a plan,” his eyebrows tensed as his expression folded into a proud smirk, “Just don’t do any thing irrational, these things take time.”

Bakugou grabbed the other man’s bin from him to load it, “Do you think I’m and Idiot or something?! I know that! That’s why I sent her out.”

“Wow…” Kirishima’s heart began swelling up, “That was really manly of you. Mature too! I am proud of you, bro.”

The other man simply rolled his eyes, “You haven’t ever even been in a real relationship, shitty hair. I don’t know what the hell makes you think that you’re better than me at this shit,” A sudden dull pain ripped through Kirishima’s chest at Bakugou’s words. He knew that he hadn’t meant it with more malice than typical, but for some reason, these words had reached him in a sore spot in his heart.

As Bakugou finally finished packing his final objects into the taxi, he slammed the trunk down, snapping Kirishima out of his wandering thoughts. Finally, the two made it back to Mina’s just as the sun had begun to rise again.

They walked up to her apartment, but just as Kirishima raised his hand to knock a loud screeching of metal could be heard from next door. A fumbling voice cursed under her breath before a face peeped out of the other half of the duplex.

“You must be Mina’s new house guests! Sorry for scaring you! This door is stupid loud! It just needs some oil, but honestly, I like to call it my homemade alarm system,” Kirishima gave hearty laugh at the woman’s passing joke, while Bakugou only glared away.

“Yep! We’ll be hanging out for a little while! I’m Eijirou Kirishima!” the red haired man excitedly greeted, “And this is my buddy, Bakugou.”

“Nice to meet you Bakugou—Kirishima,” the way that his name rolled out suddenly made Kirishima’s blood pool into a hot mess near the surface of his cheeks.

I studied the two of their faces and gauged them with my serial killer/freak/pervert radar and found nothing too alarming, “I am her landlord, Y/N,” I continued with a smile as I made my way fully out of the apartment to properly greet them-- eyeing the light shade of pink dusted across the cute one’s expression. I was obviously too infatuated to notice that the other man’s face had crumpled considerably at the mention of my name.

“We didn’t ask,” the ignored man spat instinctively, causing my eyes to sharply snap in his direction. He looked almost hurt. I honestly have seen a lot of hurt men in my day—not because I’m some kind of heartbreaker or anything, but because my apartments are usually dirt cheap. The inevitable divorce that happens with two people are fed up with one another usually sends the male party packing, and guess where the sad saps end up?

My duplex apartments—or some other crappy place like them.

So, what’s this ‘Bakugou’s’ story? I looked to him with an intrigued expression; however, he still hadn’t found the resolve to look me in the face yet.

“Bro! Can you stop that!” Kirishima instantly reprimanded his friend. He was completely embarrassing him in front of the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, “I am so sorry for him! He’s just had a bad day.”

I don’t even entertain that bullshit as I keep my eye’s steadied on the angry, obviously broken man in front of me, “Uh-huh… So anyways,” I finally looked back toward the cute red-head, “Here’s the keys Mina wanted me to give you. She’s got a early shift today so she won’t be around, but I am always here... sadly,” it was true. Being a landlord was pretty much my only gig. I really should pick up a damn part time or something.

Yeah right. And miss out on sad sap soap operas like this? I stifled a laugh at my thoughts before walking back to my apartment.

I sharply turn around catching the red-head’s eyes lingering on my form, “Holler if you need anything, but don’t holler if you don’t because nobody likes a noisy neighbor, got it?” I wink at him before making my way into my apartment.

Bakugou finally averted his gaze from the metal rail that he had been glaring at in the distance and snatched the key’s out of Kirishima’s frozen hands, “You’re drooling, dumbass,” he snaps his friend out of the trance that I had left him in as he roughly shoves past him toward Mina’s front door. The blond felt his heart ache begin to creep up on him again.

I just had to have the same name as you did. Who knew Y/N was such a popular name?

On the other side of town, you had only just returned home as well, “Todoroki?” you called out softly into the dark house. No reply came and you weren’t sure if you were relieved or upset. Your feet were still heavy from earlier as you tiredly shuffled into the living room and plopped down onto the couch, a huge sigh being released from your being as you threw your head back.

You sat like this for a moment, unable to feel much as a numbness began spreading throughout your aching body. Your eyes peeled open to stare at the ceiling above you. You forced your heavy head back up and took in the mess of papers scattered throughout your home from yesterday evening’s transgressions.

“Y/N,” The sudden voice made you jump, but your tense body was soon engulfed in Todoroki’s tight arms, “I was so worried when you didn’t come home last night! I--” the man found himself trying to calm down. He took a short breath and restarted his approach once more as he looked into your eyes, “You were stress driving again, weren’t you? I don’t like how we left things, Y/N. I can’t have you leave upset like that ever again. I love y-“

“Katsuki and I hooked up,” you abrupted his oncoming confession. You had to let him know. You were the mess of a human that ruined Fae’s love and stomped on Todoroki’s as well-- god!

A well of tears pooled in your eyes as you stared at the man who loved you-- the man you were definitely destroying. “W-what?” his stoic demeanor completely shifted into a zone of hurt.

“Katsuki and I kissed. A lot,” you corrected, “God Todo, it was like melting back into home-- into what I am supposed to be! I-I am no better than him!” your voice finally cracked as your first tears began falling. You moved your body to walk away from him, but he tightened his grip on you just enough to hold you in place,

“You’re nothing like Bakugou. You’re caring and honest and considerate and beautiful and I don’t take back what I said. I do love you. I still really do,” regret began filing into his expression as his pursed his lips, “Maybe I shouldn’t have waited so long to show that. I know that actions speak louder than words,” His eyes flickered down to your lips.

He had wanted to wait thing long to give you the time to properly heal, but that approach was obviously was simply letting your emotions simmer and crust over. Maybe the Todoroki would have to take a more direct approach in showing you your worth.

“How I feel remains the same,” his breath reached your face in a warm blanket as he wiped away your tears, “Y/N, I’d like to know if you feel the same way,” he leaned in closer to you and waited. He needed you to close that last centimeter of distance, then he could fully show you how much you meant to him—No reservations.

“I... do...” you weren’t sure if you sounded too sure, but to Todoroki’s ears, he’d never heard anything so certain! Taking initiative Todoroki disappeared the final distance between you as his lips slowly found their way towards your own. He passionately pressed his mouth against your own as if he were desperately trying to erase any trace of Bakugou.

Fuck that bastard for hurting the woman he loved and then having the gall to keep you entranced in some sort of spell. He was going to erase that fool from your life no matter what...

“Achoo!”

“Damn, city flowers!” The sun was at full mast as Bakugou made his way back toward Mina’s apartment after his “hike.” Mina lived pretty much in the middle of the city’s most urban area and there was practically no tree’s in sight. What was supposed to be a refreshing walk was turned into an aggravating extra shift at work as he came across multiple attempted muggings, an assault, and even a flasher.

The man huffed.

It wasn’t like he had shit else to do. He fucking wished that he could be like Kirishima, sleeping like a baby. He was going on 40 hours without sleep, after all. The past two days had been, in lack of better words, a complete shit show.

But things were about to look up for him. He had a plan in place to get you back. All that he needed to do was follow that plan and nothing in heaven or hell could stop him from—

A feminine shriek snapped him out of his thoughts, “Get you damn hands off of me, prick!”

Bakugou growled in frustration. He was gonna explode the hell out of whoever this was he swore to god.

The man angrily marched toward the bickering voices. They were near the base of Mina’s duplex.

Bakugou paused as he walked straight into one of my frequent arguments with my on-and-off dick of a boyfriend, Ty.

“Baby, you know that I love only you,” his voice hardly sounded believable. In, fact I was sure that I have heard toddlers be more persuading, “It shouldn’t matter what happened in the fucking past. Can’t you just let bygones be bygones?” A half-laugh, half-snort love child tore out of me as I rolled my eyes at the bag of dicks in front of me.

“You’re full of shit, Maybe that’s why your breath smells like ass all of the time,” I tried to turn to walk back into my apartment, but he suddenly snatched me by my shoulder and roughly whipped me around toward him,

“Dammit, Y/N!” the sound of yours and my name caused Bakugou’s heart to race as his nervous system suddenly went on edge. An intense mode to protect suddenly activated within him as the man that I was arguing with continued, “If you’d stop being such a bitch for five seconds and let me explain!” he roughly snatched my face in his hands.

“GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME!”

Should Bakugou interrupt this lover’s quarrel? Or ignore the couple’s arguing and go home?

YOU DECIDE!!

Follow this link to cast your vote

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infinitelytheheartexpands · 3 years

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So a while back, @monotonous-minutia did a short yet comprehensive review of every production of Les contes d’Hoffmann they’d seen, and now, in much the same vein and because a) I think about this opera way too much for my own good and b) I’ve actually seen all ten available filmed productions of this opera (and several multiple times), here is my semi-replication but with Les Huguenots instead of Les contes d’Hoffmann.

And yes I am up at 5:30 on a Friday morning DON’T JUDGE ME

The Productions And The Unique Attributes That Come To Mind Immediately:

Sydney 1990: the OG for yours truly that was also Joan Sutherland’s farewell to staged opera so that’s cool

Montpellier 1990: the production that had strikingly-colored sets but gave pretty much everyone a form of one of three or so costumes

Berlin 1991: there is a wall. also it is in German. also pretty much the entire third act is cut for some reason.

Bilbao 1999: the production that had horrible lighting and that’s most of what I remember thinking tbh

Metz 2004: the one that had the monstrosity of a Black and White Checkered Floor and also fucked up the ending very badly and I’m still mad about it almost a year and a half later

Liège 2005: one of only two productions to follow the stage direction of Nevers sailing in on a boat at the end of Act III (the other was Bilbao). fittingly, Nevers looked like a pirate.

Bard Summerscape 2009: the production where the director looked at the libretto and went “this opera isn’t dark and violent ENOUGH”

Budapest 2017: the one that looks like it was operated entirely with Baroque stage machines and also GIANT WORDS

Paris 2018: what if we set this opera in the future

Genève 2020: what if we set this opera in a movie studio but not consistently and then shipped pretty much everyone with everyone else

Further thoughts under the cut:

Sydney 1990: as mentioned, the first production I ever watched. a great way to hook first-timers. the production is rather heavily cut but in such a way that if you don’t know the opera well it seems to flow quite nicely, cutting about an hour of music. Urbain’s insert rondo is included but slightly cut, the ballet is cut in half, the ball scene is not included. the cast is one of the stronger ones out there: in addition to Sutherland, who still manages to be impressive, both of the other main ladies (Amanda Thane as Valentine and Suzanne Johnston as Urbain) are excellent. the guys are all good too; special mention to John Wegner, who is one of the few Saint-Brises who doesn’t disappoint me. production is traditional, occasionally a bit static, but it works well.

Montpellier 1990: despite my nagging about the costumes and the occasional standing around, probably my favorite overall production. the ball scene is included; neither Urbain’s rondo nor the ballet are. other cuts (remember, this is before the critical edition) are minimal. the most consistently strong leading septet; all of the principals are towards the top of my favorites for their respective roles. production is traditional erring towards minimalist; this works surprisingly well. unfortunately there are no subtitles and the video quality isn’t the greatest.

Berlin 1991: this production is just so confusing to me. cuts are...confusing to say the least. almost all of Act III is cut; all that remains are the first five or so minutes, the nightwatchman’s scene, and the finale, which are fused into an unrelated scene in which a Catholic/Huguenot game of tug-o’-war turns deadly. the ballet, the ball scene, and Urbain’s rondo are all cut. as earlier stated, it is in German, and the translation used has some odd differences (Marcel becomes Raoul’s brother in this staging for no specific reason). Richard Leech’s Raoul, Angela Denning’s Marguérite, and Camille Capasso’s Urbain are all excellent; the rest of the cast is decent but no more. setting seems to be Berlin in the 1960s but references to World War II are continually made through various production elements. the production handles the last two acts surprisingly well but messes with characterization some.

Bilbao 1999: it’s freaking DARK in here did the lighting designer later move to Vienna or something??? ball scene and ballet included; Urbain’s rondo no. one of the lesser-cut productions, actually: it’s in the ballpark of about thirty minutes. cast is mostly unmemorable (which is both a good and bad thing), with the exception of Marcello Giordani as a wonderful Raoul. production is traditional. would help if I could have SEEN MORE OF IT

Metz 2004: the production started off well enough and I had high hopes but things RAPIDLY went south in the final act. the amount of material cut wasn’t so much the issue as what they cut (more on that in a bit), as not much was actually cut. the ballet and Urbain’s rondo were cut; so was the aria portion of the ball scene but not the ballet, which meant (oh God how did I forget about this) we were treated (?) to what was presumably a group of Huguenot TAP DANCERS who were all eventually shot midroutine. total cuts are also around thirty minutes or so. cast once again mostly unmemorable, although Jean-Philippe Marlière is another of the very few who isn’t disappointing as Saint-Bris. speaking of which: the director completely fucked up the ending BY CUTTING THE PART WHERE SAINT-BRIS FINDS VALENTINE GODDAMMIT IT STILL MAKES ME SO ANGRY. production is traditional, except I certainly hope that hideous Black and White Checkered Floor didn’t exist in the 1570s

Liège 2005: pretty production although it also has some lighting issues. nowhere near as egregious as Bilbao, though. one of the more heavily-cut productions: Urbain’s rondo, the ballet, and the ball scene are all cut, as well as a whole lot else, shearing off about 75 minutes of music. cast mostly good: Philippe Rouillon may be my favorite Saint-Bris. I do apologize though for this but I gotta say it: the Raoul and Marcel are terrible. at any rate, the production is traditional. Saint-Bris shoots Valentine at the end, so there’s that.

Bard Summerscape 2009: what??? the??? ever-loving??? hell??? is??? this??? production??? it feels like an extremely violent fever dream. yes, this opera is violent. no, you do NOT need to hammer this into our heads through everything from a mixed martial arts match to onstage sexual violence to a dude getting stabbed with a processional cross. also the production aesthetic is WEIRD. one of the less-cut productions; Urbain’s rondo is not included. cast for the most part holds up admirably; Michael Spyres and Erin Morley are Babies but already great as Raoul and Marguérite. the Saint-Bris is a huge disappointment though (and the poor guy has to sport a hideous tiny beard). I don’t even know what time period this is supposed to take place in. I just don’t know.

Budapest 2017: very pretty production. also largely very boring. one of the more-cut productions, cutting a little over an hour (including the ballet and Urbain’s rondo) but almost paradoxically being one of only three productions to include the full ball scene (the Montpellier and Genève ones are the others) and the post-2011 production that uses the most critical edition material in Act III, including the only filmed production to include Marcel’s Act III aria. Catholics in white, Huguenots in black, the set consists largely of flats with 16th-century images that get raised and lowered; otherwise, the stagehands (and sometimes cast) move around big letters to form certain key words such as Bachus, Amor, the Hungarian word for mercy, etc. at various points in the score. cast is mostly decent. Gabor Bretz is an excellent Marcel. the main issue: there’s no life, no activity, no passion in this production. the Raoul and Valentine have zero chemistry. lot of standing around. it doesn’t feel compelling. in any rate it’s traditional.

Paris 2018: the concept is surprisingly sound albeit somewhat of a head-scratcher when considered on its own. production aesthetic is very minimalist, clean, and bright. about thirty or so minutes are cut, including both ballets (but not the aria in the ball scene) and Urbain’s rondo. one of the most solid overall principal casts. no one can top Lisette Oropesa’s Marguérite. Yosep Kang, particularly given the circumstances surrounding his participation in the production, is excellent and deserves better than what the Parisian public gives him. overall very good musically. the production is set in an imaginary France in the year 2063. it is very interesting.

Genève 2020: the least-cut production of the bunch; it mostly just cuts a bunch of critical-edition Act III material. as previously mentioned: it’s supposed to be set in a movie studio but this is largely pushed into the background for both better and worse. the cast, for the most part, is excellent (will give you one guess who disappointed me in this bunch). John Osborn and Rachel Willis-Sorensen are a phenomenal Raoul/Valentine duo, Michele Pertusi joins them for a thrilling final scene (having expertly navigated his other material), Léa Desandre is the world’s most adorable Urbain. production design is excellent. directorial choices are very interesting, to say the least. the directors apparently woke up and decided to try to establish as many romantic relationships as possible. I am not opposed to it in principle; in fact, I really like a lot of it. however, the directors completely ruined it by trying to put forth the idea that Marcel has a crush on Valentine??? that was just...extremely uncomfortable to watch (also it COMPLETELY missed the point of the duet) but yeah, the production, although weird and confusing in places, is mostly good. setting, specifically I’m not sure about the location but the time period is somewhere between interwar and WWII fashions. so yeah.

anyway, if you’re here now, thanks for reading this unsolicited article! ask me any questions you may have!

#opera #opera tag #Les Huguenots #reviews #productions #analysis #Meyerbeer #Giacomo Meyerbeer #the ravings of a tired 17-year-old brain

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troughtonmedia · 3 years

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Political Division in the USA

Centuries sandwiched inside of millennia that is the United States of America. A melting pot of white, black, Asian, and Latino colliding religions and race for hundreds of years. With that said, the United States is not an experiment, It is a fine collection of the planet’s people, places, and things. A country has never been so diverse. All the world’s religions are practiced here and everyone’s culture is represented in one way or another. People come from all over the globe in hopes they will live out the American dream. Some do; some do not. This is a look into American Politics.

The past is the past but ever since the founding fathers officially created this musical of a place, power has rotated through a two party system. Sure the names of the parties have changed but it usually gets twisted into duel viewpoints that brake the acceleration of humankind. Like a game of tug-o-war Democrats and Republicans get elected, reelected, and dumped in certain spans of time based upon social issues, the economy, and war. Successes and failures.

In essence, the job of a politician is to insure there is happiness with its citizens. It can therefore be argued that Democrians and Republicrats are barely passing and to some of the citizens; certainly failing. I feel for the inner cities, the soldiers, and the minimum wage workers. There is a book of laws so thick now people break them everyday and that only benefits the Judicial Business system which leads the way to industrial prisons. It seems that cancer warnings are everywhere in fast food land gas station America.

There is certainly hope in this great land as Americans have been connecting with more Americans thanks be to the World Wide Web. Together, some of the greatest thinkers in our current day are trying to figure out what to do and not just for profit but to benefit humankind because benefiting humankind is way better than making a profit. We are coming together from all over the globe to make things better but it is certainly easier said than done.

America is currently cooling down after a hard fought two party election that ended with a storming of the Capitol. It is no secret that people are steaming mad right now and I personally believe the solution is comedy. Make people laugh again! If you really wanna laugh I highly recommend opening your mind and forgetting all that politically-correct-nonsense-mumbo-jumbo. You are who you are and you cannot change that but that shouldn’t stop you from laughing at some of the funniest jokes of all time. Alien zombie reptilian shape shifters are coming to harvest golden brains. Bigfoot, Yeti, and Chupacabra are gonna enact crystal skull prophecy to create a new form of government! Humankind will evolve into the next spiritual age from Pisces to Aquarius!

Carter Troughton

#american politics #government

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

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Argonaut Atalanta

[Tour!Verse]

This was supposed to be a fic about body image issues...but then I was writing it...and it didn’t become that at all

This also isn’t my best work. It feels kinda rushed but 🤷‍♀️

Word count: 2596

Prompt: “Look at you… Goodness, you’re so cute.” “Thank you for staying with me.” “Don’t look.” “No, please! No, no no no no no!”

Tw: Blood

———————

A wave roared into the beach and crashed around Howard’s feet. Her toes sank into the wet sand. Her pink and dirty blonde hair billowed in the wind.

She couldn’t really remember whose idea it had been, but someone had decided they were going to spend the week away at a rented beach house. Not that she was complaining. It felt nice to finally get out of the cities and get away from performing.

Suddenly, there was a blur of aquamarine to her left- Maggie crashed into the water a moment later. Howard watched her flounder around in the small, but powerful waves in amusement for a moment before she managed to roll over and get back to her feet. She threw her arms up with a triumphant yell before stomping further into the ocean to go swim. Anne and Maria soon joined her, while the others finished setting up.

“Alright, kids,” Aragon said, flipping on her sunglasses. “Do not bother me for the next four hours. There will be hell to pay if you do. Toodles!” She waved and then loped over to a beach chair, which she promptly lounges her elegant body on. If she was trying to show off her toned stomach and muscles arms in her golden bikini, then it was definitely working.

“Do you have mommy issues?” Cleves strangely asked Joan, who had been caught staring at the queen. “Because isn’t Catalina like your—”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Joan cried. Aragon lifts her sunglasses to peer over at her when she yelled, but resumed sunbathing when she was sure the music director was okay.

Howard shook her head before looking around curiously. It only took her a moment to find who she was looking for.

“There’s my sweet girl,” She cooed, walking over to Bessie, who had been rooting around through the fluffy white sand.

Bessie looked up at her and grinned brightly. She, like Joan, didn’t have a bathing suit showing, instead donning a white sundress. Although Joan was wearing swim trunks and a rash guard because she would fry in the sun. But Howard could assume why Bessie wasn’t taking off her covering.

“Found anything?” Howard asked, crouching down next to her.

“Not yet,” Bessie shook her head. “But we just got here! So I’m sure I will soon!”

Howard ruffled her hair, which was dyed pink at the tips (she had wanted to match with her mother), affectionately.

“Wanna go in the water?” She asked. “Or do you want to keep digging?”

Bessie perked up. “Let’s go in the water!”

Howard laughed and helped the girl to her feet. They both snagged goggles from the beach bag before venturing into the cool water.

“This is freedom, Bessie,” Howard said, taking in a deep breath.

“Freedom smells a lot like fish.” Bessie observed, and Howard splashed her playfully.

They both walked until they were in stomach-deep water. Well, stomach-deep for Howard, closer to her shoulders for Bessie. Still, the shorter girl seemed content as she put her goggles on and then disappeared under the surface. Howard watched her swim down with a loving smile before joining her.

Swimming was a tad difficult to say the least. The current kept trying to shove her back up to the beach and then yank her out again, turning her body into the rope used in a game of aquatic tug-o-war. Bessie, however, didn’t seem phased, as she pulled herself through the water to look at the sea floor. She grabbed at handfuls of sand for grip, but the ground was far too loose to hang onto, and she was left flapping her hands awkwardly as she tried to stand at the ground. Howard laughed as she watched this, flurry of bubbles exploding from her lips, and Bessie stuck her tongue out at her—only to remember she was in saltwater.

“Silly girl,” Howard chuckled when they both resurfaced. Bessie was still spitting and sputtering. “You’re such a good swimmer! Like a little bleached frog.”

Bessie’s face flushed red and she laughed awkwardly, but Howard can tell that comment made her uncomfortable. She could see her arms snake around her stomach in the water, and her theory of why she kept the sun dress on was suddenly proven.

“Hey, hey,” Howard said quickly. “I’m sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. I just meant you were swimming like a frog. You know—they do that kicking thing with their legs. That’s what you were doing.”

That just made Bessie blush harder and she sunk below the water without a word. Bubbles burst on the surface as she sank. And then she’s careening right into Howard’s legs like a cannonball when a vicious current knocked her forward.

“Sorry!” Bessie cried when she came back up. “I’m so sorry, Kat, I didn’t-“

“Shh,” Howard cupped Bessie’s wet cheeks after regaining her balance. “What did I tell you about apologizing for things you didn’t cause?”

“Don’t do it...” Bessie’s shoulders hunched. “Sorry. Argh! Dang it!”

Howard chuckled lightly. She leaned forward and kissed the girl’s forward, then immediately began spitting out the salt that brushed her lips.

“Ew.” She said in distaste. “Anyway, we’ll still work on that. Now...think you can find me a nice shell?”

Bessie lit up. “I’ll find the prettiest one!”

With an excited giggle, she disappears under the surface like an eager dolphin. Howard watched her go with a loving shake of her head, then turned around to observe what everyone else was doing.

Aragon was still lounging on her beach throne, although she was in a different position. The closest person to her was Joan, who sat under an umbrella and was simultaneously reading and drawing. Cathy and Jane were sitting on the bay, letting the tide lick hungrily at their legs as they drizzled mud on their thighs and knees over mild conversation. Maria and Cleves were playing with a volleyball in the shallows, while Anne and Maggie were somewhere further out. Howard thought she saw a flash of her cousin’s emerald green bathing suit a few meters away. Then, there was her wading in the water and her precious Bessie exploring the depths below her.

Where Bessie was, the water was much warmer and bursting with aquatic life. Plain sandy plateaus turned into a petrified forest of pale pink and washed out orange coral. Bessie stared at the underwater jungle with wide eyes before getting another breath of air and paddling over excitedly.

There were so many shells!

She dug her hands into the sand as best as she could after deciding that grabbing onto the coral wouldn’t be the best idea. She gawked at all the shells around her and grabbed a particularly pretty white and grey one. She turned it over and was immediately met by a grumpy hermit crab. It flailed its little legs and pinched its claws in the air angrily until she put it down. The tide captured it almost instantly and Bessie watched it bounce around the sea floor until rolling to a halt a few feet behind her. She giggled, then moved on.

After a bit of searching (with two trips back to the surface for air), she spotted a long, brown and pink-white shell with a pointing end. She picked it up and made sure there was no residence inside before darting back to Howard.

“Oh!” Howard yelped when Bessie suddenly popped up in front of her. “You startled me, baby.”

Bessie giggled, then proudly held up the shell she had found. Howard gave an impressed coo and plucked it up from her palm.

“Pretty?” Bessie asked hopefully.

“Very pretty.” Howard confirmed, smiling at her.

“Yay!” Bessie cheered. “I’m really glad! There’s a lot more over— EEP!!”

The girl suddenly leapt into Howard’s arms, wrapping all her limbs around the woman to cling onto her like a frightened koala. She looked fearfully over her shoulder to peer into the water.

“Something touched my foot!” She cried.

Howard gasped. “How dreadful! I’ll make sure to squash it to tiny pieces so it’ll never do such an evil thing to my princess ever again!”

“Mum,” Bessie groaned, burying her nose against Howard’s wet neck. She giggled when she was given a quick peck on her salty cheek.

“Look at you,” Howard said, bouncing the bassist in her arms. “Goodness, you’re so cute.”

Bessie made a flustered noise and pressed her face further into Howard’s neck. She was lucky the queen didn’t mind her throat being touched or else she surely would have been shoved off.

“What? I never had a daughter, darling. I’m going to gush over you. You know that.” Howard chuckled. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Bessie said back. She peeled away from Howard after a moment, although she felt colder when not in the queen’s arms. She felt like she fit perfectly in them.

They began the short trek back to the beach after that. Howard retired to a towel to tan on, so Bessie bounded off down the shoreline so she could find some more things.

She passed by Joan, who was sculpting a very intricate sandcastle and didn't seem to be aware that her arms and legs were baking in the sun. Bessie winced at the alarming shade of red the skin has already turned to.

Further down the beach, quite a ways away from the little campsite, Bessie found that the sandy bay turned into a rocky shoreline that was dotted with colorful tide pools. Pale pink starfish clung to the edges of the dugouts while schools of bright yellow and orange fish spiral through the enclosure. White and grey oysters and clams sat lazily at the bottoms in the grains of sand.

Bessie stepped carefully over the pools to get to the edge of the shore. The waves were much stronger there, crashing heavily against the sides of the rocks and sending a spray of white foam splattering through the air. The water cascaded over her feet, churning around her ankles, then sucked back jarringly. Bessie stumbled at the force, then fell.

The riptide seized her. She’s pulled into its raging body and smothered with its mass. She struggled when the shock wore off, but something caught her in foot and anchored her back down. Something sharp and pointy, which elicits a despaired wail before salty water rushes down her throat and clogs every passageway.

—

Howard jolted upwards on her towel. She looked around, then shot to her feet and briskly walked down the beach. Uneasy was prickling through her and she wasn’t sure why. She felt way too restless to just lay in the sand and try to tan.

Something was wrong.

Something was wrong; because she soon spotted a figure convulsing under the water further down the beach.

Bessie.

Her daughter.

Howard broke out into a sprint, adrenaline now pumping through her veins. She dove into the water and swam over to where Bessie was struggling. Flailing limbs whacked Howard several times in the face, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the gel to calm down. She just kept writhing in the angry tide.

Clouds of murky red were billowing around her. Blood. She was bleeding.

Howard took a breath and submerged herself. Despite the horrible sting of salt water, she opened her eyes and began to search, quickly finding what had her daughter ensnared—a fishing wire.

She pulled, but all that did was cause Bessie to make an agonized cry. Howard tried again to no avail. She swam lower, feeling the undertow claw desperately at her waist and legs, and just decided to bite the wire, cutting it in half with her teeth.

Bessie convulsed as she was freed and Howard grappled her body, swimming her to the surface. A wave instantly crashed over them and slammed them both into the rocky shoreline. Howard took the brunt of it, wincing when her waist hit against the rough stone. She shook the pain off and clambered onto the bay, pulling Bessie up with her. She half carried, half dragged the girl back into the sand then set her down. Immediately, Bessie began to cough, and seawater came flooding out of her mouth.

“Get it all out, sweetheart,” Howard encouraged, helping her roll over. She patted her back. “It’s okay. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

“Mama,” Bessie sobbed through another watery cough. Her head flopped back miserably against the sand.

“I’m right here, baby girl.” Howard brushed her soaked cheek. “I’m right here. Mama’s here.”

Her eyes slowly gazed down as Bessie continued to struggle with the water she had swallowed. There was a dark stain in the sand around her legs—blood. There was blood on her left foot, too, from where a fish hook was pierced all the way through her flesh.

“Oh no,” Howard muttered.

“What?” Bessie said fearfully. She tried to get up to look, but Howard eased her back down.

“Don’t look.” Howard said. “Just relax and try to breathe for me. Think you can do that?”

Bessie nodded shakily. She rested her head in the sand, doing her best to maintain her breathing, but it was hard after nearly drowning and with the panic he mother was giving off.

“You’ve got a hook in your foot, baby.” Howard told her grimly. She saw Bessie’s entire body tense up and her heart ached for the girl. “I’m going to pull it out.”

“No, please! No, no no no no no!” Bessie begged. “It’s gonna hurt. P-please don’t!”

“I have to, baby,” Howard frowned. She brushed a clump of pink-white hair out of the girl’s face. “It’s going to hurt worse if I leave it in. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Bessie just made a miserable whimper and screwed her eyes shut. Howard took that as permission to get to work, so she held Bessie’s left ankle down with one hand and carefully grabbed the hook caught on the side of her foot. The tip had gone all the way through and was now sticking out of the top. Howard winced; Bessie was not going to like this.

The cry Bessie made when Howard slid the hook down was heart wrenching. Her body convulsed with pain and she wailed again as Howard continued to pull the hook out of the hole it created until it was free from her foot. She threw it away and then cradled Bessie’s head in her lap as she wept.

“It’s out, sweetheart. I got it out.” She told her, stroking her hair and face. “You’re okay now. The hook is out.”

Bessie sniffled weakly and opened her teary brown eyes. Howard was smiling down at her warmly.

“I-it is?” She asked. Her foot twitches slightly.

“It is.” Howard assured her. “I promise.”

Bessie took a few deep breaths, then nodded. She squeaked softly when Howard suddenly scooped her up in her arms.

“Wh-what are you doing?” She asked shyly.

“Carrying you,” Howard replied. “You can’t walk in the sand with an open wound!”

“But everyone is gonna laugh at me,” Bessie whined, hiding her face.

“Then I’ll kill them.” Howard simply said and Bessie giggled.

“Thank you for staying with me.” Bessie said softly.

“Of course,” Howard said. “I wouldn’t just leave my princess on the beach with a hook in her foot!”

“I’m glad,” Bessie closed her eyes. The panic of being stuck underwater surfaces for a moment, but then she hears the sound of Howard’s heartbeat and calmed down slightly. “Did you see Joan’s sunburn?”

“Oh yeah. That’s BAD.”

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berrymascarpone · 4 years

Text

For the last few months, I’ve been rereading the Earthsea trilogy by Ursula K Le Guin, and has very beautiful descriptions of idyllic mountain towns and different landscapes. And, of course, being a huge fanfic nerd, I immediately thought of writing a fic like that. So yeah, here’s the result:

Title: Hope Like a Sword, Intolerable

There is no death, there is the Force. The Force is an endless ocean that crashes its unresting waves on all the shores across time and space and eternity, and each life merely an instant of foam on the crest.

One man falls into the Force and tries to keep himself from splintering into foam. He has the knowledge of the Whills behind him, and the clawing desperation of a lifetime. The Force takes, it takes his brother’s betrayal like a red-hot blade between his ribs, the scouring, lonely years in the desert, the candlelight flicker of hope in the war that had no end. The Force takes it all, and leaves the man, clinging, desperate. He thinks he can swim the currents, stay the tide, but the ocean drags him under, into the deep undertow. It draws him in, inexorable, and when it has taken enough, brined the years and sun-bleached distances from his bones, it spits him out like all the beached whales and floating debris on a strange shore.

He stumbles, unsteady, and, with a final crash, he wakes.

===

Obi-Wan Kenobi is born crying.

This is not unusual, but after his first gulps of air, after being cleaned and swaddled and rocked, he continues to wail, thin and reedy, and refuses to stop, except to drink from his mother’s breast and sleep in fits and starts. But his parents, Druma and San-Mai Kenobi, are an older couple who have four other children they’ve raised through sleepless nights and more crying than a Chandrilian tragedy. They are worried, but not overly so. They soothe him with lullabies and gentle rocking, and sometimes a bit of sweet sleep-grass for him to chew on. It’s just a touch of colic, they argue, nothing unusual. He will grow out of it.

He does, eventually, and though he still wakes to his own cries occasionally, he quickly stops as soon as one of his parents comes into the room, staring with wide eyes at Druma’s sleepy face, or San-Mai’s tired smile.

He’s the perfect child, all big eyes and quiet curiosity, and very little fussing. His parents are grateful for a calm child at last, especially because they are busy with the farm and the Shaak herds, and the many things that must be done in a small Stewjoni village around harvest time. Perhaps that is why they don’t notice the way he stares at them sometimes, at his own hands and at the small blue-painted room he shares with his toddler sister Nerva, and the way he reaches out to things with just a bit of hesitation, like he’s reaching for a soap bubble that will disappear once he touches it.

===

He grows.

In his first two years, Obi-Wan is a quiet, somber child. He plays with his toys quietly, moves his little stuffed nexu toy around with a faraway look on his face, though he doesn’t touch the toy soldiers his older brothers give him. He tolerates the antics of his older siblings with an unending patience, letting them tote him around the house and dress him in their too-large clothes. He doesn’t cry much, even when Ric, his second oldest brother, drops him accidentally and he hits his head on the side of the dining room table. He stares at the blood on his hands like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen, and Ric is the one who starts bawling, drawing their parents over like concerned hens. He doesn’t fuss, doesn’t do anything to cause worry, and his parents are grateful. They have four other children to chase after and placate, including a toddler girl who is just learning to run, a pair of preteen twins, and a teenage son who is just starting to assert his independence, and they are happy for a little peace from him.

His parents do worry when he does not speak for his first year, does not babble and coo like the other infants, though he masters crawling and his first wobbly steps with apparent ease.

“There’s nothing wrong with him, physically,” the village pediatrician says, “He’s hit all the growth milestones, and there isn’t any sign of physical or neurological issues. Maybe he just needs a bit more time.”

His mother sighs and frets and smooths his hair as he sits quietly on her lap, but his father shrugs. A quiet boy is not the worst thing in the world, especially not after the first few months of non-stop crying. They know his vocal cords work, at least. And his sister Nerva only started speaking real words at eight months, he reasons, though he does not mention she had chattered endlessly in nonsense syllables since she could make sound.

And perhaps their worries are heard by some higher power, because Obi-Wan speaks the next day, a quiet, “Mama,” just before dinner.

Then, he looks at his father sitting in the next chair over, and tilts his head, and says, “Papa.”

His mother cries, and envelops him in a hug. His father is proud, of course, but there is a niggling sense in the back of his mind, that says this is not how the rest of your children learned to talk. He ignores it, because what does he care of the proper order of things, now that his youngest child is calling him papa?

It’s a cause for celebration in the house, and they spend the evening trying to teach them their names. Nerva, already four and speaking in full if not always grammatically correct sentences, laughs happily as he murmurs quiet syllables to her. Ric and Mari point and name every object they can find and try to get him to repeat the words. Even Owen, deep in his sulky teenage phase, musters up a smile for his cute littlest brother, who says his name with a frown, stumbling over the syllables with adorable frustration.

===

Obi-Wan wanders.

He starts wandering as soon as his legs are strong enough to hold his weight, with the aimless curiosity of a child, peering into every burrow and hole around their farm. His father, who has grown up in this town and knows the fields and hills as well the back of his own eyelids, sends him out to the pasture with the goose flock and a long switch made of rushes with which to herd them, as he sent all of his children before, and was sent himself as a toddling child. There is nothing in these hills that can hurt him, and the boy should learn some independence. They sent their akk-hound Maruma with him, though. Just in case.

His siblings sometimes catch him sitting on a rock in the hills, swinging his feet into the air and singing little nonsense songs with a marching cadence. Druma hears him once, and he’s reminded of the songs soldiers sing in the capital, ones he’s heard once in his boyhood years, when his father took him to see a military parade of crisply-uniformed militia members singing their way down the cramped streets, feet pounding a rhythm into the cobblestone.

Once, and only once, Obi-Wan wanders off the farm, past the fences and pastures, and into the forests of tall, dark conifers, and does not come back with the geese at dinner time. His parents are frantic, and send word out to the neighbors, who quickly organize into a search party, combing through the trees.

They find him in a field of vetch and clover, face blotched with crying and buried in Maruma’s soft scales. When they ask what happened, he shakes his head and says, “I can’t find him. He’s gone, gone.” And bursts into fresh tears.

They never do figure out who he meant, who was missing. No one in the village has left or died recently, and even the animals have been safe from predators and disease. No travelers in the summer, or visitors from the city. Druma remembers suddenly the old stories, of ghosts and barrows full of ancestors’ bones, and he wonders. But he does not speak these thoughts aloud.

Occasionally, when Obi-Wan stays up late enough to see the dawning stars, his mother notices a shift in his expression, a yearning, bereft look too old for his face, like he is searching for something loved and lost out amidst the black.

San-Mai feels something almost like fear in those moments, because her youngest, her little ember child, seems so far away, seems poised to leap up and join the cold stars in the heavens. Perhaps he belongs out there—far away among the stars and nebulae. Perhaps he is only here on borrowed time, and one day something will tug on the hook already buried in his heart and call him back.

But the next morning, he is in his bed again, sleeping. San-Mai’s heart is still once more, reassured that he is still here, still theirs.

===

He relearns things he has forgotten.

When he is three, his siblings teach him to fish in the cold mountain streams, how to stomp on the ground to make the worms come to the surface, to bait a hook and to lay on his stomach at the riverbank, holding the fishing line, and to jerk the string back quickly when he feels the faint tremble that indicates a bite. The first time he hooks a fish, everyone cheers even though the wriggling silverfish at the end of his line is only as big as his tiny palm. Owen cleans and cooks the fish over a crackling fire regardless, and Mari, his older sister, blows the crisping skin until he can eat it without burning himself.

His mother teaches him the songs of Stewjon, the lullabies, lays and ballads in the high lilting Stewjoni language that they speak in addition to Galactic Basic, and he mimics her in a wobbly voice, singing of fey creatures in the hills, brave heroes on the mountain slopes, maidens lost and maidens found, and maidens who find themselves. His favorite songs, however, are the ones about the old adventurers coming home, the hero returning after years of toil and war to his ploughshare and his scythe, to sing and rest before the crackling hearth fire, warming his old bones. He listens to those songs, which are not at all popular except in the cold winter months when all people long for warm hearths and friendly voices raised in song, and there is something of heartbreak in his face.

===

Obi-Wan dreams.

He sometimes wishes he could stay here forever, grow up again tall and weedy in the cradle of the valley of his birth, away from all power and darkness, forgetting all hope and horror. Live a farmer’s life, herding shaak and nauga, singing the joyful mountain songs, worrying only for the next season’s rains and the next year’s harvest.

But that is his wish, not his fate.

===

Stewjon is an agrarian planet, full of farmers and shaak herders with their mundane problems, solved by the local villagers’ collective experience and rugged determination. They do not, as a rule, receive foreign diplomats or visitors, except perhaps the buyers of nauga wool and local herbs, or an occasional wanderer looking for some peace. So it is with surprise and not a bit of nervousness that the small village cradled in the valley like a hundred other valleys gets word that a Jedi contingent is arriving the next week. It’s only for an Agricorps project, collecting samples from the buckwheat fields, and collecting information on livestock breeding and rainfall and harvest yields.

San-Mai mentions this fact casually to her husband, a bit of village gossip. She does not realize that Obi-Wan is listening, as he always is. She does notice when he drops the bowl of nauga wool he’s combing and looks up at them.

“Jedi?” He says, wide-eyed, “They’re coming here?”

“Yes dear,” Druma says, picking up the bowl and pressing a large, calloused hand over Obi-Wan’s head, ruffling the fine-gold hair. “They are big, strong warriors, like the ones that fight monsters in the songs, you remember?”

Obi-Wan nods, but there is something different in his eyes. It is a look that sets Druma’s nerves on edge with a sudden foreboding. His child looks so far away. Though he’s looking at Druma, he stares also at something beyond his father, beyond the house and the valley, and his gaze is full of longing.

“Are they here to stop a—a monster?” Obi-Wan asks.

“They’re here to help with the fields,” Druma says, “They are scholars too, you see. Wise men and women, who can feel the crops and the animals and tell if they are sick. They are here to make sure that ours are healthy and hale.”

Obi-Wan hums, kicks his feet as they dangle over the countertop where he’s seated.

“Can I go see them?” He asks, quietly.

“Of course,” San-Mai says. The whole village is likely to be out to see the Jedi. It’s not often that such exciting guests arrive. And though it is hard to remember that Obi-Wan is only four, with how serious he seems, it is not unusual for their youngest to grow excited over new things.

But Obi-Wan does not look excited. His face is drawn and thoughtful, and very distant.

===

Obi-Wan leaves.

The Jedi arrive in town, a tall bear of a Master and his sullen, dark-haired apprentice. They visit the required farms, take the samples they need, all the while trailed by a gaggle of curious village children, brave enough to follow but too shy to approach. Master Jinn smiles indulgently at them, and produces candies from the city from his voluminous sleeves. Padawan du Crion scowls, but when his Master is busy talking to Druma about the rainfalls and Shaak births, he entertains them with a magic trick—juggling rocks without use of his hands, and preens as they gasp and giggle with every little leap of stone and wave of his hand.

Obi-Wan does not laugh, but he smiles, reaches out and—the stones fall, but do not hit the ground. The apprentice gapes, his hands still, and he points at Obi-Wan and says, like an accusation, “You’re Force-sensitive!”

The children scatter, like startled birds, leaving Obi-Wan alone unperturbed.

Master Jinn comes over in two long strides. Druma follows closely behind, and he pales when he sees his youngest son, palms upward, and the stones floating about his head like planets orbiting a star.

“Obi-Wan?” He murmurs, more acceptance than surprise because he has always known, somewhere deep in his marrow where the old stories are rooted, that his child has never been his, has always belonged to another world, another fate. That eventually the day would come to let him go.

From the look on his child’s face, he knows that time has come.

He has four other children, but it is still so hard to give this one up.

===

“There is no death, there is the Force,” Obi-Wan says, and Qui-Gon freezes, looks down at the child with the old man’s eyes.

“All life and years and distances,” Obi-Wan says, “All stars and sunlight, all will and hope. That is what one must give, and that is what the Force demands. We are not saints, but seekers, Master Jinn.”

Qui-Gon Jinn kneels down before the child. Whatever expression his face might hold is obscured by the curtain of his hair, to all except the boy.

“Where did you learn that?” He says, softly. He remembers the words, has read them in ancient texts of Force-ghosts and spiritual presences, as no more than rumors and references in historical accounts. He thinks he might delve deeper to satisfy his esoteric curiosity, one day, when he has finished training his apprentice and has more time on his hands. He wonders, now, if there is some kernel of truth to those whispers.

“From you,” the boy says, quietly enough that no one else can hear, “From life and from loss.”

Qui-Gon is silent for a long time. He says, “What do you want to do, now?”

Obi-Wan’s lip trembles, and Qui-Gon is reminded suddenly that this is still a child in body, despite what his spirit remembers.

He says, “I want to go home.”

#My writing #obi wan kenobi #time travel au #basically a list of headcanons for a fic i probably won't write #star wars fic #bb! obi wan #and obi-wan's family #just let obi-wan be a happy farmer #for a while at least #ambiguous ending #also on my ao3

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