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suugarbabe · 4 months

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[Chapter 9]

word count: ~4.6k

warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of torture, mentions of traumatic wounds, smut, oral (f!receiving), p in v

Mattheo picked up a vase from the table next to him, throwing it against the wall and smashing it into a million tiny pieces. Pansy’s whole body jumped in her place on the couch, Draco squeezing her hand in comfort. “You’re scaring her, Cousin, she said she was sorry and she didn’t know what happened.” Mattheo was seething with anger, his words spitting out of his mouth like venom, “I don’t give a bloody fuck what she says she does or doesn’t remember or how fucking sorry she is. My girl is gone and she’s the only one who can tell us who possibly took her.” Mattheo turned his back to the pair now, dragging his fingers through his hair and tugging at his curls in frustration.

“Well, there is a way for you to see, Matt,” Theo spoke up, giving Pansy a sorrowful look. Mattheo turned back around, Pansy nodding her head, “He’s right. Do it Matty. I can’t remember but it’s gotta be there.” Without hesitation Mattheo took out his wand, pointing it in the middle of Pansy’s forehead, “Legimens.” In a swirl of images Mattheo was thrust back into the club, the edges of his vision slightly hazy. He saw you in front of him, swaying to the beat with your eyes closed. You wore a cheshire grin and he could tell it was when you were talking to him. In front of you was Pansy, body moving similarly to the music. You laughed to yourself as Pansy did another twirl. Just as Pansy’s back turned, Mattheo saw a flash of red, it was like your body was falling in slow motion before a pair of arms wrapped around you, dragging you out through the crowd.

Mattheo pulled back, stumbling back into the sitting room where the rest of the family was watching him intently. Everyone could see Mattheo’s expression darken, worry fitted on all of their faces, “What is it, Mattheo, what did you see?” Enzo was trying his best to stay calm but he was just as angry as Mattheo. Enzo didn’t have any siblings growing up and thus his relationships within the family were of max importance. Mattheo closed his eyes, speaking through gritted teeth, “Someone cast a spell at her. I’m nearly positive it was stupify because-”

“Because she stopped speaking to you mid-sentence,” Theo finished the sentence for him. Mattheo’s jaw clenched as he nodded. Pansy’s eyes started filling with tears once more, the guilt she felt intensifying with each passing moment that you were gone. She opened her mouth to speak once more when she suddenly heard your voice ring in her head, and by the looks of the others she wasn’t the only one. 1538 Woodbury Lane, London. 1538 Woodbury Lane, London. 1538 Woodbury Lane, London. Immediately Mattheo’s eyes met his cousins, Draco nodding in silent agreement, “Blaise and I will stay here with Pansy, you three go.” The next sound a simple crack as Theo, Enzo and Mattheo disappeared from the room.

The space the three men apparated to was dark, emergency lights the only source of illumination around them. “Find her.” Two words were all the direction Mattheo gave as the three men started looking through the entire warehouse. Closets, old boxes, under machines were all scoured until Enzo walked into the the back room, breath catching in his throat, “H-here, oh bloody fucking Salazar, SHE'S IN HERE!” The sound of rushed shoes on pavement could be heard as Theo and Mattheo ran to where they heard Enzo’s voice, the latter boy already rushing to your body curled in on itself, wrist still chained against the back wall. Enzo got to you first, grabbing hold of your neck. His first two fingers immediately finding your pulse point, “She’s alive. Pulse is there, it’s strong.” He pointed his wand at the wall, the chain attached to you disintegrating.

Mattheo fell to his knees next to you, hoisting you up to a sitting position and pulling you into his arms. Your head was rolling, Mattheo holding your head in one of his large hands. “Princess,” he tapped your cheek lightly, voice strained, “Princess, can you look at me, please?” Your eyelids felt heavy, but they fluttered open, blurrily catching a glimpse of Mattheo as he held onto you. “T-teo?” Your voice came out horse, scratchy. “It’s me, Princess, don’t worry.” He looked at Theo and Enzo, both wearing looks of worry across their faces. Mattheo stood, holding your body close to his chest as he did so, “Theo take us back. Now.” Theo placed a hand on Mattheo’s shoulder, then Enzo’s. In a whirl the four of you were back at the manor, back in the sitting room where Blaise, Draco and Pansy were waiting.

Pansy’s mouth was agape, tears starting to flow again at the sight of what had become of you in your absence. Mattheo started toward the foyer, you still in his arms, “Come, cousin, she needs your help.” At his words Draco moved immediately, the rest of the family following suit. At the bottom of the stairs Mattheo stopped, turning towards the group, “Just cousin. No one else.” Theo and Blaise let out a huff while Enzo mumbled a “like fucking hell” but Mattheo doubled down, “It’s not a negotiation. Just Draco. That’s it. The rest of you need to start planning.” Through her tears Pansy managed to finally speak up, “Plan for what?” Enzo gripped Pansy’s arm lightly as they watched Mattheo and Draco take you into the room, “Revenge.”

In the room Mattheo quickly laid you down on the large bed, pulling Draco up to the side, “Check her. Do it now, cousin. Just like Aunt Cissy taught you.” Draco glanced over his shoulder nervously, clenching and unclenching his fists before giving a nod. He turned back to you, taking in the sight before him. Your breathing was shallow, but steady. He noted the dry blood on your chin and the edge of your mouth like you had been slapped or punched in the face. The dried blood that seemed to have dripped down your legs worried him as well. A large purple bruise was forming on your shoulder that looked like the heel of a boot. Draco closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath before nervous hands hovered over your body. He started at the top, near your head, just as his mother taught him. He concentrated his thoughts, slowly moving his hands over your body, “Cut lip,” he moved lower, “left collarbone broken,” he grimaced as he kept going, “ribs seven and eight on her right side cracked, right kidney bruised,” he moved down towards your legs, “seems just a few cuts and bruises, cuts are what the blood down here’s from.” Mattheo nodded solemnly, “So he didn’t…”

“No, he didn’t,” your voice was shaky, but you knew what Mattheo was implying, “Just…heal what you can Dray, please.” A tear ran down your cheek as your bottom lip wobbled. Draco leaned down as he wiped the tear with his thumb, a sad frown on his face, “S’gonna hurt a little, darling.” You nodded meekly, “I know, just…get it over with.” Draco nodded, standing back up fully and slipping his wand from his sleeve. He worked backwards this time, knowing your collarbone was going to hurt the worst to heal. Slowly the cuts started to close and heal, the bruises fading to small dark marks that would disappear in a day or two. He healed your ribs with one swift motion, the cracks healing with little pain much like a cramp. He healed the cuts from your lips and mouth next before pausing. “You ready for this last one, darling?” You nodded, closing your eyes in anticipation. Draco’s wand hovered over your collarbone, “Episkey.” The bone snapping back into place was loud, nearly drowning out your own whimper as you bit your lip to conceal how painful it really was. Silent tears slipped from your eyes, Mattheo quickly by your side to wipe them away.

Draco chewed his lip nervously as Mattheo consoled you, “There’s one more thing, cousin.” Mattheo turned towards the blonde as you turned on your side, back facing them as your curled in on yourself once more into the covers, “What is it?” Draco peered over at you, grey eyes swirling with sorrow, “They…they used the cruciatus on her, like...a lot, Matty. From what I could feel I think more than one person used it on her at a time.” Mattheo closed his eyes at the information, not wanting to imagine you in that situation, how it must have felt for you. Draco continued, “There’s no healing I can do to take that away from her. You know better than any of us-” Mattheo cut him off, “I know.” Draco nodded, walking over to you once again. Draco leaned over you, placing a gentle kiss on your head, “I’m so sorry this happened to you, darling.” You turned to face him, grabbing hold of his wrist with a weak smile, “Thank you for healing me.” Draco huffed a laugh, “Not as good as you by any means, love.” But you shook your head, “Might give me a run for my money.” Draco smiled at you lightly, nodding to Mattheo as he left the room to leave you two alone.

Mattheo rounded the bed on the opposite side of you. It was obvious he wanted to grab hold of you but wanted to respect however you were feeling, “What do you need, Princess? Do you want to be alone? Do you want me to go?” You slumped further into the bed, not making eye contact with him as you shook your head, “Don’t go. Will you…” You looked up at him almost shyly, “Will you hold me…please?” Your bottom lip trembled once more. Mattheo gently crawled into the large bed, shuffling under the covers to pull you close. You grabbed hold of him, grasping to whatever you could get your hands on like you couldn’t get close enough to him as the tears started to flow. Mattheo’s heart was shattering, squeezing you so close to his body he feared he might crush you but you relished in the pressure. Lips pressed to your forehead, he mumbled into your skin, “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, Princess. I swear it.” With his reassurance, your body finally relaxed. Mattheo could tell when you finally fell asleep as your grip on his arm and around his neck went slack, however he still held you close.

As you woke up hours later, you were still wrapped up in Mattheo. His scent enveloped you like the most delicious intrusion to your senses. You started to release your grip on him, needing to attempt to stretch away the soreness from everything that happened the night before. Mattheo was apparently already awake, hand sliding down your side as his eyes quickly gave you a once over. As his hand reached your hip you caught his wrist, breath catching in your throat at the memory of what now lay carved in your skin there. “Sorry,” his words came out sheepish but you only shook your head, “No, s’okay. M’just, sore.” Mattheo nodded, anger bubbling back inside his chest, “I get it.” He sat up then, giving himself a proper stretch before turning towards you. “Coming down for food with me?” You shook your head, pulling to covers back up to your chin, “Think I’m gonna stay here for a little longer…if that’s okay.” Mattheo nodded, leaning down and kissing your lips softly, “Course it is, sweetheart.” He stood from the bed, leaning down with his hands on the mattress as you turned to him, “The boys and I are gonna be in and out of the manor for a little while, but you know how to call me if you need me.”

You met his eyes, tone flat as you asked, “You’re going out looking for him aren’t you. For…Damiano.” Mattheo closed his eyes at the name, but nodded. You leaned up, capturing him in a soft kiss once more. Mattheo grabbed hold of the side of your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek as he separated your lips. You laid back down as Mattheo made his way towards the door. He turned back once more before exiting, chest tightening as he saw you curl in on yourself again before closing the door behind him.

The days that followed all blended for you. This was due to the fact that you hadn’t left Mattheo’s bed since that first night, the most to use the bathroom. But with how little you were eating, you barely had to do that either. Mattheo and the other boys were gone more than they were home. You knew when they were home because the door would creak open. You knew it was Mattheo, but every time you heard the door open the mark on your leg seemed to pulse and shame washed over you. Pansy came to comfort you often when the boys were gone, laying in bed beside you, rubbing your back as you sobbed. She never asked what happened, never asked for details. The first time she cried with you, apologizing and saying how it was all her fault. You held each other that night, cried together until you convinced her that if he had to, Damniano would’ve taken both of you that night, just to prove a point.

Gimball would bring you meals, smiling sadly as he took the untouched plate from the previous when dropping off the next. After a few days he started changing what he brought you, making you special meals he thought you might be able to stomach versus what he was making for the rest of the family. “Please, Miss, just a few bites. Gimball make special, you don’t have to eat it all to help.” You started to comply slowly, if only for the fact that Gimball had also started begging for you to eat something and that made you feel slightly pathetic for pitying yourself so harshly. Gimball noticed you’d eat more when you thought the others were away or sleeping, therefore bringing you heartier meals at those times.

“Master Mattheo is very worried about Miss Birdie. Asks Gimball every day how she is,” Gimball rocked back and forth on his feet as you slowly ate the sandwich he had brought for you. “And what do you tell him?” you were curious how they were all perceiving you, how sad and helpless they thought you were. “Gimball tells Master she is strong at heart, but hurting in mind. Gimball tells Master that Miss Birdie just needs time.” You smiled at the elf, finishing the last bit of the sandwich and handing over the plate. Gimball bowed, giving you a small smile before disappearing with a crack. You laid back down against the pillows, trying to ease your mind now that your stomach was full. Trying to close your eyes without seeing his face the moment you tried to drift off to sleep. You were nearly there when you heard the shouting.

The voices sounded panicked, shouting at volumes so high you heard it through the doors. You rushed to get up, knotting the silk robe tight around your waist before heading for the top of the stairs. Below the shouts became clearer. “The table, the fucking bloody table, get him up there!” Your pulse quickened, feet rapidly descending down the stairs before you even knew what they were doing. “For Salazar’s sake, Malfoy, hurry, there’s no way he’s going to last this long, you’ve gotta move faster, mate!” Your feet hit the foyer floor, nearly sprinting towards the voices now. Before you could get a look at who was on the table a pair of arms enwrapped you, pulling you back towards the stairs.

“No, Princess. You can’t, not yet,” Mattheo’s voice was stern but you heard the concern laced within his tone. “Who is it? Who’s hurt?” you tried to push him off you but he just held you tighter. “We found him but I think he was expecting it, he had more people with him than we planned. He got away after he attacked us, ran away like a fucking coward.” You knew he meant Damiano. That they were close to catching him and doing what they wanted so badly to do to him. “Let me go, Mattheo. If he’s the one that did this let me help, I’m the one who could do it best.” Mattheo held on tighter, “S’too much, Birdie, you’ve been through enough already, Draco can handle it.”

You shook your head, “Tell me who it is, I can tell Draco needs my help. Tell me who it is. Right now, Mattheo, is it Enzo again?” You peered around his arm, stretching your neck to catch any glimpse of those surrounding the table. You saw Pansy’s black hair, Blaise holding the table by someone’s feet. Draco’s platinum hair flashed in your vision as he moved from one side of the table to the other. As he maneuvered around whoever was hurt there was a brief moment where carmel eyes locked with yours and then you knew. You knew who was hurt, who lay dying on the table as Draco struggled to help heal him.

You looked up, eyes locking with Mattheo’s, “Teddy? It’s Teddy?” Mattheo didn’t respond, giving you all the confirmation you needed. You started thrashing in his grasp, desperately begging him to let you help. You knew he was just trying to protect you, just worried after what Damiano had put you through, but what Mattheo failed to realize was that not helping was doing more damage. With a final push Mattheo let go, your body rushing towards Theo’s where it lay bloodied on the table. You took in the scene before you, Draco frantically trying to work on the large, deep gashes on Theo’s torso and legs, but constantly having to stop as Theo’s mouth, and presumably his lungs, kept filling with blood from Merlin knows what spell was cast on him.

Theo was in bad shape. You ran your hands along his neck, checking his pulse, your fingers slipping on the blood covering his skin any time you applied pressure. His left arm was clearly broken and whatever spell or spells that hit him left baseball size gashes all over his body, your hands ran along his skin, noting no dark magic attached to him. Turning off all emotion you started giving out orders, “Draco focus on his legs, one wound at a time, the same spells you used on me, okay?” He nodded, stepping aside and quickly getting to work. The sound of Theo beginning to gag again caught your attention, quickly waving your hand over his mouth to make the blood disappear. Enzo looked at you in shock. “Enzo if it happens again, take out your wand, wave it quickly and horizontally, sicco. You got it?” Enzo nodded, hand gripping his wand tightly in preparation.

You turned forward now, hands hovering over Theo’s torso. Just as you instructed Draco, you hovered over each gash, one by one starting at Theo’s chest. You moved down his torso, healing the wounds on his side and stomach just as Draco was finishing up his legs. You could tell Theo’s breathing was starting to even out again, finally able to take full breaths. “Hold his shoulders Enzo, this parts gonna hurt him.” Enzo did as instructed, watching as your hands hovered over Theo’s arm. With a flick of your wrists everyone heard the crack as his bones snapped back into place. “Fanculo tutti, Uccellina! A cosa diavola serviva!” Theo groaned out, pulling his arm to his chest and rolling to his side. You pointed a finger at him, “Don’t you take that bloody tone with me, Theodore or I’ll break your arm all over again!” Theo merely groaned, lying back on the table with his arm covering his eyes. Your breaths were heavy, pushing Theo's hair from his eyes and placing a kiss on his forehead, "Amo tuo fratello."

Walking away, Mattheo was quick to follow you. “Where are you going?” He was hot on your heels as you ascended the stairs. You stopped at the door, not to his room, but to yours. Turning towards him your face was blank as you spoke, “I’m going to wash my brother’s blood off my skin.” Speechless, Mattheo watched you walk into the room. He followed close behind, watching you walk into the bathroom. He stood by the door, observing as you undid your robe. That’s when he saw it, what you had been so ashamed of for the last week and a half, what you didn’t want him to see but was currently too lost in thought due to what just happened. The sun etched on your skin, just below your hip where you wouldn’t let him touch before.

Mattheo waited on your bed for you. You had expected him to leave, to walk out when you had been so cold to him, but there he was, waiting at the edge of your bed. You walked towards him, towel tied around your body and hair wet. He didn’t speak until you were stood between his knees. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your head tilted in confusion, only for your mind to be cleared when you felt Mattheo’s hand quickly slide under your towel to grip your hip, thumb pressing into the mark. His other hand gripped your chin, forcing you to make eye contact. “I’ll ask again, Princess. Why did you not tell me he did this to you?” You closed your eyes, tears threatening to spill. His grip on your face tightened, asking for your answer. “I was ashamed. I thought…I figured you wouldn’t want me once you knew.” Mattheo tsked his tongue, “Oh, Princess, we’ve been over this haven’t we? You think something like that would change things?”

A tear threatened to fall as he spoke again, “Tell me what you know to be true, Princess. Say it for me so I know you understand.” Your eyes met his, speaking on a shaky breath, “I’m yours.” Mattheo grinned slightly, “Again, like you believe it.” You spoke firmer now, “I’m yours.” Mattheo nodded, eyes flicking to your lips briefly, “One more time.” You watched as his tongue darted over his lips, your pulse quickening under his touch, “I’m yours, Mattheo.” You watched his mouth upturn into a smirk before you smashed your lips to his, taking him slightly by surprise. His hand grips the back of your neck as you climb onto his lap, deepening the kiss, turning it heated and passionate. As the kiss breaks you stare at one another, catching your breath. “I need you, Teo, please.” He was hesitant, not wanting to push your limits after all you'd been through, "You sure, Princess?" You nodded. Mattheo cupped your cheek, "I need words, pretty girl." You took a deep breath, "Yes, Mattheo, I'm sure."

At your words he lifted you up as if you weighed nothing, flipping you both around so you’re now lying down on the bed. He peppers kisses down your neck, the air in the room cool on your skin in his wake. His hands gently caress every inch of your skin, leaving a trail of fire in it’s wake. “Mattheo,” you moan, need evident in your voice. He chuckles, the sound sending shivers up your spine. His lips trail lower, making his way down your body until they reach your core. In one swift motion he flattens his tongue, giving a long, slow lick. Your back arches off the bed, body seeking more of him in such desperation, you can nearly feel him smirk between your thighs.

Mattheo takes his time, worshiping your body with his tongue like you were his salvation, his lips singing your praises against your skin. “Please, Teo,” you beg, desperate for more of him. A whimper leaves your throat as he gives you what you crave, two fingers thrusting into you as he sets a pace that has your thighs trembling. Your fingers tangle in his curls, gripping tight and pulling him impossibly closer. He moans against you, the vibrations taking you to a new height of pleasure, each thrust of his fingers bringing you closer to the edge. Then his fingers slow, his mouth on your neck now before connecting your lips once more. His fingers hit that spot deep inside causing a mewl to leave your lips.

You bury your face into his neck and make another noise. “S’okay,” Mattheo comforts, “ ‘ve got you, Princess. Al’right? M’right here, yeah? I’ve got you.” His thumb circles your bundle of nerves, figure eights causing your hips to buck as he whispers in your ear, “This all for me, Princess. Mine to play with. Mine to taste.” You whine, head nodding, “Yes, fuck, yes, Teo, all yours. Always yours. Forever.” Mattheo slowly pulled out his fingers, you whining at the feeling of loss inside you as you watched him suck his fingers clean before undoing his belt and freeing himself. He pushed your knees down, spreading you open and pinning your legs to the bed so you had nowhere else to go. Slowly he guided his cock to your cunt, watching as he eased into you, your walls swallowing him to the hilt.

“Bloody fucking hell, look at that, Princess, feels good doesn’t it?” He grinned devilishly at your slacked jaw, breath catching in your throat as he began rocking into you. Your nails dug into his ribs, scratching down his skin. He hissed at the pain, hips snapping into you harder. His fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, using them as leverage as he rammed his hips against yours. “Fuck, Teo, yes, please don’t stop,” you moaned, eyes fluttering closed as you grabbed onto him for dear life. “Uh, uh, Princess, eyes open, look at me,” he tutted, grabbing your jaw roughly, kissing you deeply and grinding his hips against yours, stimulating your clit perfectly. You gasped as you fell over the edge into your orgasm. Your walls fluttering around him had Mattheo following soon after. His lips trailed your neck lightly as he slowly pulled out, lying down on his back beside you.

He slid an arm under your waist, pulling you into him. Your head settled on his chest comfortably, Mattheo’s fingertips trailing up and down your back lightly. You laid like this for a moment, enveloped in all that was him and all that you two were together. Mattheo was surprised when you broke the silence, not by the sound of your voice but by your words. “When you find him, don't kill him right away.” He made a noise of confusion, causing you to lift your head, chin settling on his chest to look up at him. “When you find him, because I know you will, don’t kill him right away. I want you to call me, have Theo or Enzo get me and bring me there.” Mattheo’s brows furrowed, a mix of anger and confusion written on his features, “Why the bloody fuck would I do that?” You pressed your lips to Mattheo’s skin, feeling his heartbeat beneath your lips before looking at him once more.

“Because I want to watch him die.”

#protego series #mafia!slytherin boys #mafia!theo nott #mafia!pansy parkinson #mafia!draco malfoy #mafia!enzo berkshire #mafia!matheo riddle #mafia!blaise zabini #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle angst #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle smut

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boccher · 9 months

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widefield of the milky way core, 1hr total exposure time from a Bortle 2 dark site at 24mm focal length

The photo contains a bunch of my other photos within it. I think its neat to see the context of all the nebulae

A little ramble under the cut

The most common question astronomers get is "what does it look like to the naked eye?" Photos are usually much more detailed and colourful, since cameras can take long exposures while our eyes can't.

I was able to observe it from the Bortle 2 site with about 10 mins of dark adaptation (astronomers usually recommend at least 30 mins but I was busy at the time). I edited the photo to try to account for the level of details, colour, and stars that I was able to see with my eyes, here:

It was mostly colourless, but I think I was able to see a faint hint of golden brown colour right in the brightest part of the milky way core. The central bulge of the milky way extended just short of Antares (bright yellow star at the top), and I was just barely able to see the dark dust lanes extending to Antares. The Lagoon nebula was obviously visible as a small diffuse cloud, and the Omega nebula was also visible as a fuzzy looking "star" if you knew where to look.

Keep in mind though this is in the southern hemisphere, where the milky way core passes directly overhead. In the northern hemisphere, this region of the milky way is lower on the horizon, and is thus dimmed by the atmosphere. On the other hand, I didn't adapt my eyes to the darkness for very long, and I was in a Bortle 2 site (the darkest skies are rated Bortle 1), so even better views are definitely possible.

I think the biggest thing that photos can't capture is the sheer size of the milky way in the sky. It stretches across the entire sky from horizon to horizon, and at its thickest point it's wider than two outstretched hands at arms length. The sky is also dotted with stars covering your entire field of vision. As much as it's a cliché thing to say, you really do get a sense of yourself on earth floating through space. It's an insanely immersive experience

#astrophotography #space #astronomy #astrophotography oc #boccher photo tag

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lordeemailarchive · 7 months

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Pure Heroine turns 10

(27/09/2023) (PH 10 YEAR ANNIVERSARY DISPATCH)

Living in Ruins of a Palace within My Dreams

Photo by Simeon Patience

Hi,

Firstly, I wanna say thank you for your extremely supportive and kind messages after my last newsletter. I genuinely feel deeply cared for, less alone, and more sure that things will be okay after sending it! Albeit with a slight overshare hangover. I think a part of me knew that I had hit a wall, and that I needed to invite in the compassion and understand I’d been struggling to generate on my own, and then I’d have something to draw from and mirror. It feels like it’s working. I feel incredibly grateful that we have this relationship, that we can each give when the other needs it. Beautiful stuff x

Now, might U have noticed it’s 2013 mode round here????????? Yes that’s right, it’s a very special anniversary… Pure Heroine is... ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡TEN ˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚ YEARS ˚༘♡ ⋆｡˚ OLD ੈ✩‧₊˚ TODAY ! ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

You may (like me most of the time) hold the opinion that this album has been MYTHOLOGISED QUITE ENOUGH, but a milestone is a milestone, so I thought coming here and typing some shit to u about this time would be a fun thing for those who care.

2 xxxxtra special ltd time only commemorative designs by Hassan, who did the original of this bootleg tee 10 years ago❤️

It’s close to midnight, and I’ve just finished scrolling through my entire computer and phone archive from 2011-2013. Going on this memory lane ride has reminded me, for one thing, what a different time it was technologically. We were just starting to be able to see ourselves in real time, but we weren’t constantly connected. I had an iPod touch until halfway through 2013, which didn’t have a front camera or internet access, and my sister and I shared a MacBook, which is where we did our schoolwork and I wrote my lyrics. I took my first few years of selfies on Photo Booth…. Just let that… sink in!!!

Note the Royals Nat Geo pic in background— it’s happening...

When I was fourteen, my greatest work of art was my bedroom. A very cool, very classic teenage bedroom, Andie’s and Duckie’s from Pretty in Pink meets the Virgin Suicides— fairy lights, fabric on the ceiling, candles, stolen road signs (badman), paper lanterns, beer crate shelves, magazine pictures and club night posters and permanent marker on the walls. Bliss! I’d sit up there and vibe out, taking a lot of selfies. Creating a small-scale work of art using the self, and then examining the product from every angle, was the best method I had to express myself and exercise creativity at that time, and I now see it as an important PH incubation phase, whether I knew it or not. Something really amazing about a young person starting to see their own face and body for the first time, coming to a very secret understanding that they are beautiful.

I started to smoke weed, which gave me a deeper understanding of sensory pleasure, and allowed me to start to see my world as a possible work of art. I’d go on long walks around the neighbourhood, and began to mythologise the stuff around me (big empty floodlit rugby fields/bus rides/dark streets/boredom/isolation) into the motifs that would become Pure Heroine. I wore a lot of like, navy lipsticks from the 2 dollar shop. God, this aesthetic, It’s just TOO MUCH.

At some point in here, I met Joel, and another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. When you’re a teenager, you’re particularly sensitive to adults being condescending to you, not respecting the specific and finely tuned skills you have because of the ones you don’t. I was always on the look out for it, and from the first day meeting Joel, I knew that he would never give me that feeling. Which I’m sure wasn’t easy — my wallet at the time was the foot of a pair of tights that I cut off and knotted at the top — but somehow from the very beginning he made me feel like my ideas had value, like we were peers, in the most sensitive and age-appropriate way.

My view for thousands of hours making this album

We got on a call earlier this week and broke down the complete history of making the album. We both agreed that making Pure Heroine was deeply exciting and intimate and free, and still one of our most treasured experiences. I’ve linked it here.The second half of 2013 is when I really met the world, went to America and Australia and Europe for the first time. I found an incredible (for some reason Christmas themed) disposable camera image of my stage outfits all over the floor of my hotel room, which really sums up how ad hoc everything was at the beginning — a jetlagged sixteen year old, late for lobby call and frantically stuffing thousands of dollars of borrowed clothes into a suitcase.

In this stage, it felt like I pulled everything off by the skin of my teeth. Every week was the most exciting week of my whole life, I was so tired and still didn’t have a winter coat and took everyone clamouring for a piece of me completely for granted. I had zero cultural context, had no idea if an interview or TV show was huge or small, and so breezed through it all truly not giving a fuck. I am not a naturally nonchalant person, it was literally just too much to care about, I could hardly get up in the morning, so I just said absolutely whatever I felt like, all kinds of wild shit, if someone did something corny I’d say so, I was ruthless in that way that only teens are. Then through that year we went on our first tours, met you guys for the first time, hours and hours of hugs after the show, my favourite part so far and where it started to feel real for me. James took a lot of beautiful film photos through that time, and I’m really grateful he did.

Ten years goes really fast. One minute you’re wearing a leather collar with a giant crystal hanging off it to a Chanel party, and the next you’re blonde. A lot of stuff isn’t good after ten years. But I am still totally touched by this sweet record. I have deep respect for the vision of the little one making it.

Going back through all of this has reminded me of something that feels important to point out, whether you make art or not: everything starts out as a bunch of bullshit in a laptop. Pure Heroine was a handful of Photo Booth selfies and emotional Word documents and Tumblr posts (and a gorgeous over-decorated bedroom) before it was even one song. I had no reason, on paper, to believe that I was capable of anything. But if you can trust that the first impulse you had to create came from a place of deep wisdom, develop a few principles for your decision-making, and absorb a lot of stuff you find inspiring, you’ll have something special on your hands. Pure Heroine exists because I had the tiniest inkling of what I’ve now come to see as one of my guiding principles: that each of us have a handful of songs inside us that are ours, and only ours, to sing. Your specific interests and upbringing and physiology and experiences exist only in you; you are sitting on a gold mine that no one can rob. Whatever that means to you, whatever that statement you were born to make is, I invite you to take a big breath and make it.

All my love for another ten years of all this, and more, and more—

Ella XXXXXXXXXX

(source: received this email)

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20th-century-bitch · 11 months

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House of Leaves: The Distinction

I posted this on r/houseofleaves a few months ago but seeing as Reddit is the shit hitting the fan right now I’m going to post it here.

Hi everyone. I found it interesting that throughout the book, a distinction between the house (the physical, literal house on Ash Tree Lane) and the house (The endless black hallways) is never established, or, at the very least, that establishment is implied, and then broken.

Navidson’s lack of construction knowledge and hubris leave him as somewhat of an unreliable character in the first few chapters. That is until one of my favorite sections, 1/4”. Just to recap, Navidson discovers that the house is now 1/4” larger on the inside than the outside. This is foreshadowing that the Black Hallways are not just contained to beyond the doorway. Tom, with his years of experience and tools (as well as Reston) discover that the house is, in fact, 5/16” larger than the inside. This is a funny moment of subversion as well as terrifyingly concrete evidence of strange activity.

And then, there’s the door. The door covers the second hallway’s entrance, locked behind four color-coded keys. This door served no purpose other than peace of mind. To me, Tom and Navidson saw it as a way to keep “whatever may be inside” out, but Karen hoped it would keep Navidson from going inside. At this point, the reader may believe the inhabitants are safe from “whatever may be inside.” But they aren’t.

The hallways are like a tumor or a parasite. The inhabitants think they cut it off, but they haven’t. The entire house is the black hallways: it is either “pretending” to be normal, tied to perception of its size, learning how to be larger, or something entirety different. Honestly I could write entire essays on some explanations for why the house starts out seemingly docile (the tunnel from the parent’s room to the children’s) and then by the end starts literally consuming the characters. Anyway, the house starts off shut out behind this door. But it is revealed that it is metastatic. No distinction is made because there is no distinction. The entire house is the hallways. Rooms and walls stretch, floors fall into oblivion, things are “eaten.”

One possible explanation could be that it is Karen and Tom who harm the house. It is only after these two characters are gone that it starts to actually hurt Navidson. Karen’s fear is almost crippling, yes, but she uses various methods to make the house more home-like, and the house rebels against this by dematerializing her feng shui. And by the end, she is the one who truly “beat” the house. Tom, on the other hand, hurt the house by being himself. He was scared and used humor and love to fight back against it. Almost making the house mortal, calling it “Mr. Monster.” It’s unknown if these things even harmed the house at all, but it apparently did somewhat “quell” it. That’s really besides the point, but I just wanted to comment on something of note.

Evidence shows that the Hallways have existed for a very long time and seemingly do not need a “residence” to exist, due to stairs (ftairs!) appearing. The House on Ash Tree Lane is just a vessel for the facsimile inside. It can literally stretch space within itself, but its effect ends outside the walls.

Another thing to note: the blue coloring of house is related to this. Not only is every single mention of the word, English or not, colored inside, but it’s blue colored on the cover and back as well. When you close the book, the house is still there. It’s not contained within the pages, the House has completely engulfed the book. Like how the darkness engulfed the entire house on Ash Tree Lane.

#house of leaves #house of leaves theory #houseofleaves

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sisterspooky1013 · 6 months

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Gaslight, Chapter 22/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Ellicott City, MD

Don’t know how you do what you do, I’m so in love with you. It just keeps getting better.

I wanna spend the rest of my life with you by my side, forever and ever.

Every little thing that you do, baby I’m amazed by you.

She snaps off the radio, then pulls Tiffany’s scarf off her head and tosses it onto the passenger seat. What is she supposed to do now? Where is she supposed to go? Her instincts tell her to run, but what about the children? She is the reason they’re involved in this in the first place, and guilt sinks heavily from her heart to her belly as she imagines what might happen to them now that the jig is up. Will they be discarded like trash? Will they be leveraged against her, used as pawns in an even more disturbing way? She wants to protect them, but to this point it’s her very proximity to them that has put them at risk. Though it goes against every maternal instinct in her body, she comes to the conclusion that the best thing she can do for them right now is to get as far away from them as possible.

Eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, she digs around in her purse for her cell phone, finally pulling it free and flipping it open with her thumb. Her hands are still trembling, but she manages to dial. Lunch hour traffic means she hits every red light possible, and she can’t stop looking at the vehicles and sidewalks around her, waiting for another black suit to appear.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she mumbles to herself, checking the rearview mirror obsessively.

“Dana?”

“Cal,” she says, relieved to hear his voice. “I’m on my way home, and I’m going to need to go away for a little while,” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“I’m already at home,” he says in a small, fearful voice.

“What? Why?” she asks, checking her blindspot before she switches lanes.

“I couldn’t—I just couldn’t,” he says tightly, and she realizes that he’s crying.

“Cal, I’ll be home in ten minutes, okay? Wait for me, and don’t open the door for anyone,” she says, finding confidence she didn’t realize she had within her. “Is your car in the garage?”

“Yeah,” he says in a near whisper.

“I need you to move it to the driveway so I can park in the garage, can you do that?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, move the car, and then go inside and lock the door. I’ll be home soon.”

Twelve minutes later, she pulls into their driveway and jumps out to open the garage before parking Tiffany’s car inside it. When she enters the house, she finds it stonily silent and still.

“Cal?” she calls out, half expecting the smoking man from the hospital to appear instead.

“Over here.”

She follows the sound of his voice to the stairwell where he is sitting mid-flight, his head in his hands. She approaches slowly, sitting on the step just below him and laying her hand on top of his knee.

“Hey,” she says softly, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“I’m all fucked up, mija,” he whimpers, followed by a wet sniff. “I’m just—I don’t know what to do.”

She moves one step up, wedging herself between his body and the bannister, and wraps her arm around his shoulders. He leans into her, and she rubs her palm up and down over his upper arm comfortingly.

“What happened?” she asks.

He sniffs and swipes his hand across his nose, composing himself.

“Everything is off,” he explains. “Nothing feels right. I couldn’t remember the PIN for my debit card to get gas, and then I got to work and I sat down at my desk and—it’s like it fell out of my head, Dana. Like it’s just gone.”

“What is?”

He sits up and looks at her. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, his bottom lip quivering.

“Everything,” he says gravely. “I don’t know how to code. I can’t even fucking understand the code I wrote yesterday.”

“Oh,” she says, understanding.

“What’s happening to me?” he asks, and the pain in his voice makes her heart ache.

“I can only tell you what I was told, and I can’t be sure that what I was told is entirely accurate,” she says, her hand resting on his back.

“Just tell me, please,” he begs.

She looks away, running her tongue across her bottom lip as she decides how to explain it. She suddenly understands how challenging it was for Alex to relay the same information to her.

“I’m not your wife,” she says evenly. “You’re not my husband. Abby and Peter aren’t our children. This whole thing,” she says, gesturing to the house around them, “is a lie. A farce. Whoever did this to us…they went to very great lengths to make us believe that this life is ours.”

She pauses and turns to look at him, finding a somewhat vacant expression on his face. She can empathize, and knows that the questions are too numerous to even begin asking them. She has to keep talking.

“The chip in your neck contained memories. Memories of how we met, Abby and Peter’s births, your training in software engineering. Every single detail since 1992. And whatever they did to us, and whatever was in that medication, helped ensure that we wouldn’t remember what really happened. So that we’d believe it, the lie. And by removing your chip, I also removed those memories. That’s why you can’t remember how to code.”

“Or that pancakes are waffles,” he says absently.

“Right,” she confirms.

He stares off into the middle distance for a moment, allowing this new information to sink in.

“They’re not ours?” he asks, turning to look at her with a kind of disbelieving hurt on his face.

She shakes her head gently, her lips pressed together sympathetically.

“Not biologically, no. But they don’t know that. They still have their chips, and as long as they do, all they know is us,” she tells him, and he nods, looking away again.

“I don’t think I’m a good guy, Dana,” he says after a moment, and she narrows her eyes at him.

“What do you mean?”

He drops his head, staring at the carpeted step between his feet.

“They were cleaning the windows in the office and the smell of it—kind of like ammonia, maybe? It did something to me,” he says hesitantly.

“What did it do?”

“It made me remember something,” he says very quietly. He lifts his hands, forming loose fists. He moves them closer to his face and she realizes that he’s miming smoking from a pipe. “It wasn’t pot,” he says shamefully.

She sighs and moves into the space between his knees, kneeling on the step just below him. She grabs his hands, holding them in her own and looking him straight in the eye.

“Listen to me,” she says sternly. “I don’t know who you were or what you did before they did this to you, but it doesn’t matter. To me, you are Cal. You’re a good man, and a wonderful husband and father.” She feels her throat constrict and she swallows against it. She needs to be strong for him. “Whoever did this is looking for me, Cal. They came to the hospital, and it’s only a matter of time before they show up here. I’m not safe here.”

His eyes widen and his mouth falls open, but she stops him before his mind wanders too far.

“This isn’t about you,” she explains. “This is about me, and a man I used to work with. You and the kids were used to distract me, to make me believe the lie. I don’t have any reason to think they’ll harm you, unless they think they can use you to get to me.”

“What do we do?” he asks.

“I have to leave. I’m not going to tell you where I plan to go because you can’t be forced to provide information that you don’t have. I need you to take care of the kids, okay? You can call my mom for help if you need to. She has no idea any of this is happening, so just tell her that I had a work emergency or something. If anyone asks, say that you’re taking the medication, and do not tell anyone that I removed your chip, okay? Can you do that?”

He nods, but it’s lacking confidence.

“Will we see you again?” he asks hoarsely, and her chin puckers.

“I hope so,” she whispers, and he opens his arms, pulling her into a hug.

She hastily packs a bag with a few changes of clothes and basic toiletries, plus the Sam Cooke CD and the rest of the Numerol. She wishes she could take Cal’s chip for evidence or eventual analysis, but if Alex was right that it can be used to track her movements, it would be unsafe to do so. She remembers finding $800 cash stuffed into a cookie tin during her initial investigation of the house, and she takes that too. She loads her bag into Tiffany’s car and then turns back to Cal, who is standing in the doorway between the house and garage.

“Where did you get the car?” he asks, and she smiles thinly. “Never mind,” he says with a sigh, realizing that it’s the least of their worries.

They stand there for a moment, looking at one another. There’s so much she doesn’t know about him, so much he doesn’t know about himself, but he is still the person she trusts most in the world right now. The only person she trusts, really. She wishes that she didn’t have to do this alone. She suspects that he wishes the same.

“I’ll be in touch when I can,” she says, and he nods. “Give the kids big hugs and kisses for me, okay?”

His face crumples and he looks at the floor. She turns to get in the car, but then changes her mind and walks the handful of steps to where he is standing. She grabs his hand and he lifts his head, absolute agony in his eyes.

“You’re going to be okay,” she assures him, and his jaw jerks to the side.

“What about you?” he asks, his shoulder jumping.

“I hope to be,” she says, forgoing empty promises.

She pushes up onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to his cheek. Before her resolve can crumble any further, she climbs into the car and starts the ignition. Cal walks slowly alongside the driver’s side window as she backs out of the garage, and then follows her down the driveway. Before she turns the corner she takes one final glimpse in the rear view mirror at his tall, trim frame silhouetted against the backdrop of a suburban neighborhood.

It was a beautiful lie they created for her, and part of her is sad to leave it behind. But she chooses to look forward in hopes that she might be able to find her past, and the missing piece that she’s been mourning since the moment she woke up in the hospital.

He. Him.

Mulder.

She heads south, flipping the radio back on so she doesn’t feel so lonely. Her chest aches in the persistent, heavy way that only loss brings, and she hates just how familiar the sensation has become to her.

She’s worried about Cal, about the kids, about herself. She wonders if Mulder has any idea what’s happening, or if he is blissfully ignorant. She starts to think about the most effective way she can explain it to him, if she has the chance. And if she does explain it, and he doesn’t believe her, then what? Or, even worse, what if he does believe her but chooses his new life, his wife, over whatever they had and lost?

Scar tissue that I wish you saw,

Sarcastic mister know-it-all.

Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, ‘cause

With the birds I’ll share

She feels slightly lightheaded suddenly, and she blinks rapidly and shakes her head back and forth to clear it away.

With the birds I’ll share this lonely view.

She flips on the turn signal and pulls off to the side of the road, her heart racing. She feels like she might be having a panic attack.

Push me up against the wall,

Young Kentucky girl in a push-up bra.

I’m fallin’ all over myself

To lick your heart and taste your health, ‘cause

It slams into her like a punch to the gut, making her head ache above her left ear. She can physically feel the synapses reaching out, connecting, pulling it up from the depths. Memories, unearthed like buried treasure.

“What are you saying?” he asks, flashing his eyes between her and the road with a haughty little smirk on his mouth.

“The song,” she answers, pointing to the radio.

“Sing it for me,” he requests, and her cheeks burn.

“I know I’m a terrible singer, Mulder, you don’t have to rub it in,” she grumbles, turning towards the window.

“I’m not making commentary on your vocal stylings, Scully, just tell me what the lyrics say,” he insists.

“With the blood that’s shed, it’s a lonely view,” she says flatly, and he chuffs a laugh. “What?”

“That is definitely not how the song goes,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s ‘with the birds I’ll share this lonely view’.”

She pauses, listening to the final chorus of the song.

“Hm,” she says.

“Hm?” he repeats. “Hm, you’re totally right, Mulder? Hm, those lyrics make a lot more sense?” he teases, reaching across the console to poke her arm with his index finger.

She turns her head sharply and gives him her very best irritated glare.

“Gloating is extremely unattractive,” she informs him, and he laughs.

“Does this mean you’re not coming over tonight?” he asks cheekily. “‘Cause I had plans for you, Scully.” He looks at her until she meets his eye, then adds, “Big plans.”

She rolls her eyes and looks out the passenger side window.

“Shut up, Mulder.”

She grips the steering wheel so tightly that her fingers go numb, her chest heaving and her heart pounding. Slowly, slowly, she returns to earth, to the shoulder of US-29-S, to the driver’s seat of Tiffany’s Escalade. As soon as the panic subsides, the tears come, running in torrents down her cheeks and keeping her stationary, unfit to operate heavy machinery in her current state. She wants more, so much more. She wants it all. She wants him.

Eventually, she feels ready to return to the road. She finds a seedy motel just outside the city that she’s confident won’t ask for ID, and lays clean-smelling towels over the top of the questionable-looking sheets before she curls up on the bed and begs for the respite of sleep. It’s early, but she’s exhausted, and feels like she needs the freshness of a new day in order to think clearly.

Tomorrow, she will return to the city she left behind against her will and try to find the torn edges of her stolen life. Tonight, she will pray that he meets her in her dreams, at least until the day she can return to his arms.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles #thexfiles

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laneaconite · 2 months

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To my Lovely Onlookers: an Introduction!

For higher resolution images, look here

Hello, my name is Lane! I've been known to call myself a jack of all trades, but my heart's been set on authorship since the tender age of two.

Now, while my lifespan development textbooks like to call that premature identity foreclosure, I call it a dream. I'm creating this blog to archive my past and future works. What can initially be expected is a lot of poetry as well as some short prose pieces. The goal has always been to eventually work up to brick-length novels, but lately all I've got is poems pouring out of my ears. I'm composing them in my sleep. A lot of what I've written so far is about chronic pain, sapphism, transitional experiences, childhood, and trauma. Not every poem or prose piece is meant to be taken as a literal reflection of something that happened to me, but a lot of what I've written over the last few years have been in order to process my experiences. I find that I communicate best in rhetorical devices than in ordinary speech. This is extra funny (an inside joke to myself) because I spent the first fourteen years of my life as a self-declared poetry hater, despite my life long declaration of wanting to write. There were several things that caused me to reevaluate this stance, the primary three being: 1) If I didn't graduate high school I was never getting out of that horribly isolated, middle of nowhere town. 2) Writing was the only thing I knew I could be passionate about both in a personally fulfilling way, but also in a work way. Now, the only way I could successfully do that would be by forcing myself to engage with the entire other half of it I'd convinced myself I hated out of inadequate education. 3) Reading Maya Angelou's book, Poems (1981). We were given a large analysis project of one poet's whole collected works (or the closest edition we could find) and I chose Angelou because I remembered an excerpt from I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings (1969) being read aloud to my 7th grade class. It was her rhythm, rhetorical depth, and her humor that reformed my entire approach to the genre. I can't thank her enough.

"So," one might be asking, "Where does The Peach With Teeth fit into this, though?" And ohohohoh! The Peach With Teeth is several things. Primarily, I spent five months painstakingly embroidering it to be the cover of a hand-bound poetry chapbook. At this point, however, I'm thinking more of a compendium for the amount of poems I have, and for how many I'll write before I learn how to book bind. So, in that meantime the Peach is the cover of this blog.

The Peach is also a poem that I wrote in September of 2022, which is included below. That peach was deprived of teeth, tongue, and uvula, but had a more grounded horror within.

The Peach

I rinse the fuzz off, gently In the sink. The skin is a sunset of yellow, Magenta, pink. The first bite is honey sweet, The flesh slippery, My teeth peel away the skin I eat.

A bitter taste begins in my periphery And I see brown spreading around, Like a core. The tender sweet flesh peels away From its darkened sore.

Disgust rises in my body but I persist I eat the dripping good parts, I eat until the bad parts come too And they come veined with blue The pit itself, peeled back Is dusted with mold.

The poem is both a literal thing that happened—I did eat a moldy peach even though I saw an off patch on its skin and I could have stopped—also a metaphor. It's about seeing the signs that this won't end well, but needing another bite of sweetness to satiate that ache. It's about overconfidence and ignoring one's instincts. After a long while of hunger, the bitterness gets easier to ignore. That Peach and the Peach With Teeth, and many other Peaches can be expected to appear in my work. It's not my fault, I swear: my family had a peach tree in the backyard growing up. And if you, my darling reader, haven't tasted a sun-warmed peach right off the branch in late summer: I'm so sorry. The ones in the grocery store just don't compare when they're picked early to be shipped across country and thusly chemically ripened. They never get so thoroughly sweet through injected ethylene as by sunlight. It's only the skin that turns pink and softens, with the inside remaining hard, crisp, off-yellow. That these peaches are the only kind I can eat now, meaning I don't eat peaches, are part of what informed the teeth. Finally, the Peach With Teeth and her cousin The Peach poem have to be acknowledged for their sensual, even sexual, elements. 7/10 friends who I have shown The Peach With Teeth to have said "that looks like a vulva." Now, this was utterly unintentional, but when all your pretty queer friends say it enough times, you start to give up examine the metaphor closer. It's been said often that peaches and this girl right here 🍑 are used as euphemisms for the vulva/vagina. Now, when people are reduced to just their genitals, that's objectification. Not to say that the euphemism always is, as I can imagine some sappy sapphic love note tucked to sleep on a shelf somewhere. When I designed my embroidery pattern, I chose teeth for a core because of the utter contrast between the soft sweet flesh and the hard bone-bite of a chipped tooth. I was imagining it biting back and drawing blood. This is where my accident, the final image reading far more sensually than originally planned, synthesizes the ideas that have been rolling around in my head this whole time. It's about visceral misperception, of leaning to close to the lantern's gentle glow only for the grinning monster holding it to bite your head clean off. It becomes a euphemism flipped on its head: no more soft, sweet, hairless, harmless peaches. What we've got are teeth and tongues, a jaw unhinged but ready to snap right down at any time. Now, of course, to many of my 7/10 friends, this is still sexy.

#writing #poetry #introduction #blog intro #lane speaks #fun fact the teeth are based on xrays & dental photos of my own teeth #& for embroidery pals I used 1 strand dmc thread for all but the tongue. that was 2 strands #embroidery

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djarrex · 2 years

Text

Coalescent | Part Two

miniseries ML | part one | part two | part three | read on ao3

Part Two: Ambivalence

Rex must navigate through the uncharted as the unexpected begins to unfold.

Happy Miniseries Monday! Here’s a nice beefy turning point part two for you all :’) ty @rowansparrow for beta-reading!

EXPLICIT | 18+ ONLY | pining. jealousy. sexting. m masturbation. shenanigans. angst. sweet moments. about 9.4k words.

Shore leave comes and goes. Days, nights, weeks are spent in the vast expanse of space and unfamiliar terrain. Then shore leave comes again, just as it’ll go again. But for now, Rex takes it and holds it close, knowing that his feet only have a limited time on the Coruscanti ground before he’s once again somewhere in the Outer Rim – flying through the brilliant blues and whites of hyperspace. The only other place Rex truly feels safe other than on Kamino or when protected in the lanes of hyperspace onboard a Jedi cruiser is on Coruscant – and just being planetside within the bustling capital city grants him a breath of relief, even if only for a short while.

As usual, much is needed to be taken care of before Rex can bask in the time off. Having just docked about an hour ago, the captain’s presence was already requested at the Senate Complex for debriefing – Generals Skywalker and Kenobi expecting him.

While en route to the Senate, plans changed, as they often do. Rex’s mantle of Anakin Sykwalker’s second-in-command means that, more often than not, some adaptations are needed to be made, and quickly. Over the years he’s grown accustomed to the lack-of-planning and improvisation, which is really what the entire five-oh-first is known for – notoriously so.

It could be worse. In Cody’s eyes, though, it can’t get much worse.

And when General Skywalker had commed his captain with the request to meet him inside the Senate building before the debriefing, Rex had little doubt that he would be standing guard outside of Senator Amidala’s office.

Better than at my barracks.

“I’ll just be a few minutes. Keep an eye out for me, will you, Rex?”

Yeah, yeah.

“Of course, sir.”

He doesn’t actually mind it so much; it’s just that it’s never only a few minutes. It’s been several at this point, but that was to be expected. The average is fifteen.

Trying not to lean against the wall, Rex holds his helmet between his arm and side with his other hand on his hip, eyes constantly scanning the corridor from left to right. He feels awkward, as he always does when standing guard for his general’s ‘meetings’ with the senator from Naboo, and is trying not to shuffle back and forth – trying to stand as straight and composed as he can, which is something he never has a problem doing in other, less awkward situations.

Another minute or so goes by when the sound of approaching footsteps rounds the corner to the left. Rex’s head snaps in that direction, his eyes doing little to hide their widening at the recognition of the person who is walking towards him.

She’s caught with surprise upon seeing him – that smile – and with her hand that’s enclosed around a cup of caf, she raises it in greeting. The other hand holds a cup of caf as well, keeping it close to her chest.

Caf.

Two cups.

“Rex, how are you? It’s been a little while.” Her steps quicken as she approaches, stopping mere feet from where he’s not letting himself lean on the wall behind him. He greets her and tries not to glance down at the cups in her hands – tries not to think about who they’re for as the wisps of steam swirl above the dark liquid.

“I’m fine. Just got back.”

“What are you doing here?” she asks, gesturing to their surroundings with her occupied hands but still sporting the same, elated smile.

“I, uh– ” he looks around, rubbing at the back of his head and straightening his shoulders when he feels his slight hunch in stance. “Waiting for the General.”

She nods and peeks around his pauldron, catching a glimpse of the nameplate on the wall just beside the controls.

“Senator Amidala’s office,” she notes with admiration. “I hear she’s lovely – a true voice of the Republic.”

“That she is,” Rex agrees. “One of the few who care for us clones.”

She frowns – brows pinching in discontent. “I’m sure that can’t be true.”

Changing the subject, Rex decides to finally acknowledge the cups of caf she’s carrying. He nods at them. “Needed double the boost, I take it?”

Even though Rex knows who they’re for – unfortunately had to hear all about it the last time he was out with the boys – he brings it up anyway. Anything to keep him engaged as he waits for the General.

“You could say that,” she chuckles, shaking her head. “I’m actually delivering the boost to someone who needs it far more than I do.”

If anyone were to need an energy boost, it’s Commander Fox.

“That’s very nice of you,” Rex says genuinely.

She smiles – tilting her chin down as if suddenly bashful. “Well, I better get the caf to its destination before it gets cold.” Her chin gestures towards the right, where she’d been heading before stopping to chit chat with Rex.

Rex bows his head respectfully, not taking his eyes off her as she walks away – a crush-ridden di’kut. As she disappears around the corner, he can’t help but think about the caf’s unnamed destination – her destination. There’s no doubt in his mind that she’s heading to a certain Corrie Commander’s office, especially since she turned the corner that leads to the corridor of which it’s located.

She never did mention Fox’s name, though. In the back of his mind he theorizes that perhaps she’s trying to spare him in a sense – doesn’t want to flaunt her trysts with Fox in front of him. Although it’s unnecessary, Rex feels oddly comforted by it – but perplexed at the same time.

Another several minutes go by when she rounds the corner again, hands now empty and folded behind her back. As she approaches, he notices the slightest swell in her lips, appearing to be flusher than they were just a little bit ago.

The implication not only has him having to swallow down the disappointment and jealousy burning in his throat, but the indecent image that flashes in his mind makes him shift his weight between feet, furtively adjusting the slight discomfort pulsating at his groin.

“Oh! You’re still here,” she observes, deftly and subtly straightening out her top.

He nods, bringing up his arm and checking the time displayed on his communicator. “Indeed I am.”

“I would have brought you caf too, If I’d known you’d be here.” She gestures to the side with her thumb. “I’d be happy to bring you some now. I’m still on break.”

He hums, grinning and shaking his head in dismissal. “I do appreciate that, but there’s no need.”

A moment of silence falls between them – her shoe dragging across the floor.

“If you'd like, we could grab some later?” Rex’s heart skips a beat and she then hastily adds: “I mean, only if you’re able to.”

He doesn’t need to think about it.

“I would like that.”

“Okay,” she says giddily. “You wanna meet out front, after I get off? 1800.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be there.”

When she disappears around the corner Rex finally lets out the breath he’d unknowingly been holding in. His heart still racing, he checks the time and creates a schedule in his head that should fit the remaining things he needs to do today before he’d be returning to meet her. Still stationed outside the senator’s office and with only a few hours until then, he continuously checks the time every thirty seconds or so, until finally the door slides open – Rex straightening his stance just as General Skywalker steps out, the door quickly shutting behind him.

His dark robes only slightly disturbed, Anakin raises a brow – looks around the corridor then back at Rex.

“Who were you talking to out here?”

“Huh?” Rex blinks at him. “Oh, uh, no one, sir.”

“Rex,” Anakin teasingly drawls.

Shouldn't be any harm in sharing. There’s nothing to hide.

“She’s a medical assistant that works several stories below, sir. At the Medcenter.”

“Oh?” Both brows are raised now, folding his arms across his chest and smirking. “And you know her how?”

The memory of Rex’s first sight of her comes just as quickly as it goes, making his heart flutter and groin tingle. He hopes his internal frenzy goes unnoticed by the Jedi.

“Met her while the boys and I were out one night, about a month ago.” Rex holds back a little quirk threatening to upturn his lips. “I’ve run into her a few times since then.”

Only slightly taller, Anakin leans towards him. “You wanna tell me about her?”

Rex clears his throat, mentally clambering for a change in subject – and probably not too subtly. “With all due respect, General, shouldn’t we get to the debriefing? General Kenobi is already over there.”

Anakin grins. “Okay, Rex.” He brushes by him, waving at a relieved Rex to follow. “C’mon – wouldn’t want to keep Obi-Wan waiting.”

Sitting on a bench on the grounds in front of the Senate, Rex pulls out his pocket comm and checks the time. 1730.

He sighs. He’s a little early.

The sun has started to lower, casting a warm glow on the towering statues and waving flags that line the grand walkway to the entrance of the mushroom shaped building. Before Rex’s eyes the skylanes above begin to become denser – the speed of traffic slowing. He keeps himself busy by watching the speeders above, imagining what it would be like to be able to go wherever he pleased – to just drive – not being bound to duty. He wonders what people truly do, if they’re not fighting for the Republic or working to keep the cogs of democracy moving. Such thoughts have plagued his mind before and he figured that it’s best to push them aside, not granting them room to linger dangerously in his mind for too long.

Maintaining his posture seated on the bench, Rex fiddles with the buttons of his deep blue shirt – incessantly straightens the material by tugging on the hem. His shoes seem too shiny – his pants a little tight. The entire outfit feels entirely wrong even though he knows he looks presentable. It feels wrong and undeserving – to be donned in something normal. Before leaving the barracks, Rex had looked at himself in the polished slab of durasteel that they use as a mirror, checking to see if the clothing fit him correctly probably more times than needed. It was a strange sight – being dressed in something other than what normally marks him as a clone soldier.

He had to admit though – then and even now, as he contemplates every decision he’s made today that’s led him to this point – he looks good.

The outfit is one that General Skywalker was able to get for him. Of course he’s thankful for the pants, button down, and shoes; it was all obviously more casual than wearing his armor or feeling naked and vulnerable in just his undersuit – it's just that it was a bit embarrassing to ask for it all.

For pretty much the entirety of the debriefing Rex had contemplated what he was going to wear and how he was going to acquire it. He’d then realized that there would be no other way to look presentable unless he reached out to the one person he knew would assist – even knowing that he’d never hear the end of it.

So after stepping out of the wrapped-up debriefing, Rex had pulled his general aside, pitching his voice low.

“Sir. Can I, uh, ask for a favor?”

“Anything, Rex.” Anakin crossed his arms, rubbing at his chin the way General Kenobi so often does. “Let me guess… does it have something to do with that medical assistant you were speaking to earlier?”

“You could say that.” Rex scrubbed a hand down his face, quickly looking around to ensure no one could hear him. Even so, he lowered his voice. “Sir… I need something to wear.”

Anakin was grinning – a hand placed on Rex’s shoulder. “Say no more.”

Still sitting on the bench he can still hear General Skywalker’s “Make good choices, Captain!” that he’d called out to him as he was leaving with the bag containing the loaned outfit – heated face and trying not to peek to see who may have been around.

He checks the time again. 1745.

He’d be lying if he said he isn’t nervous. He’s intimidated. Intimidated – Captain Rex. It’s a feeling he definitely is not used to and it’s making his foot tap anxiously against the duracrete. She’s involved with someone else – to what extent, he doesn’t quite understand – but signals have been shot off in Rex’s direction for him to either catch or get hit with. It’s clear yet it’s not. She seems interested yet she’s blowing Fox in his office and she has been sidestepping the signs that show involvement with the commander whenever Rex is present.

What am I doing…

“Rex?”

Her voice pulls him out of his funk and he’s quickly standing and turning to greet her – everything on his mind jettisoned into the vast expanse of space. Her brows raise upon seeing him, mouth falling open and eyes widening as she looks him up and down.

He shuffles awkwardly, suddenly very self-conscious and regretting every single–

“Wow,” she exclaims. “You sure clean up nice.”

“Oh, uh–.” He rubs at the back of his head, curving his pressed lips into a smile. “Thank you.”

She smirks, glancing down at her shoe as she drags the toe of it against the ground. A quirk of hers. “So, where are you taking me, Rex?”

It takes mere seconds for him to scramble. “Oh! I thought you– aren’t we going for caf?”

“I’m just messing with you,” she chuckles, brushing his elbow with her fingers. “C’mon. I know a place.”

They end up at a small, hole-in-the-wall shop, smelling of roasted beans and berries. The walls are painted a darker color, almost black, and are accented with lanterns strung in a zig-zag pattern from one end to the other. Hand paintings cover one of the far walls, of various flora and fauna that Rex can’t place. The chandelier that hangs from the ceiling in the center is made with old bean cans, holes drilled into the dented and bent-up canisters that allow the light to shine through.

It’s cozy – welcoming.

Only one other couple is present, two Twi’leks, who are seated by the entrance. Rex noticed them upon walking in, and they shot him a curious glance, more than likely recognizing him as a clone trooper even in his current attire. He pays them no mind, instead following behind his companion as she leads him to the counter, looking over her shoulder and grinning at him.

Approaching the counter to order, he’s totally lost. It seems like a million items are written on the large board, little drawings and symbols detailed beside each one. He half-listens as she orders but decides he’ll have the same. She pays without a second thought – already counting the credits in her hand and passing them to the barista before Rex heard the total. He does happen to have some credits with him – ones he’d saved for a rainy day.

Too late.

“How’d you come across this place?” Rex asks as they take a small booth in the back, steaming hot mugs in their hands. The top layer is thick and the opposite color of the caf he’s used to and he’s almost hesitant to try it. But it smells delicious and fills his nostrils with a smell that’s fitting to the setting and current company.

“Found it my first week here,” she starts to explain after taking the first sip from her mug, crinkling her nose from the temperature. “It’s cozy and welcoming – made me feel right at home when things were scary and new.”

“I like it,” Rex says. “It’s quaint.”

“That’s why I like it, too. Not many people know about it.” She takes a sip – foam clinging to her lip. “Now don’t go telling the others about it,” she teases.

Rex chuckles, gesturing to his own lips as she licks along hers. “Don’t worry. The last thing a place like this needs is a Fives coming in and dancing up on the tables.”

She snorts – nearly spits out her sip.

They drink their caf, Rex surprisingly starting to enjoy the foamy, creamy beverage rather than simply tolerating it. With every sip a light tickle clings to his upper lip and he sneakily licks it away before bringing the mug down.

“I’m overdressed,” Rex points out.

“Now what makes you say that?” she pokes, gesturing to the beverages in their hands and the surrounding atmosphere. “You’re fine, trust me. Do you wear ‘normal’ clothes often?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, how does it feel?”

“Weird,” he replies, and they both break out in laughter.

“You do look handsome, though. Never thought I’d see you without your armor.”

Unsure of how to respond other than to offer her a grateful smile, a natural break in conversation then fills some time as they continue to drink their caf. Rex looks around the shop, at every little detail, appreciating the dedication the owner had put into a place like this. He never really had considered that caf could come from somewhere other than ground-up and sealed in ration packaging, let alone served in a plethora of creative ways.

They finish their drinks at the same time, taking the last sips and pushing the mugs towards the center of the small table.

I could drink another one of those.

“So…” She drums her fingers against the edge of the table. “How long until you ship out again?”

Rex closes his eyes in thought, replaying what details he can remember that had been discussed earlier about the next mission that he may or may not have heard while a teensy bit distracted. “Tomorrow evening, now. 2200 hours.”

Her lips purse together. “For how long?”

“Not sure. We’re heading back out to the Outer Rim, so it could be anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months.”

She nods and looks off towards the mural on the back wall, swishing her lips side to side – pondering.

“This might be a weird question,” she starts, fingers threading together. “But would it be at all possible to… contact you, while you’re away?”

Rex considers her question, pulling out his pocket communicator and giving it a look. “It would be, I suppose. On a private frequency.” She bites her lip and it hits him. “Oh– you… you want to…?”

She laughs. “Yeah, I mean, if you’d be up for that. I enjoy talking to you, Rex.”

He beams then bites his lip to keep it together – to maintain his eager enthusiasm. “Yes, yeah, I can give you my frequency.”

Several days have gone by since Rex’s little outing with her. In the small breaks between the mission-mindset soldier and the battle strategizing captain, he would remember how nice it felt to have been able to sit across from her like that, conversing casually while in a cozy, relaxed setting. During a few of the more difficult and mentally strenuous moments of this mission, Rex would even go so far as to imagine himself there again – clutching a mug of magical, abnormal caf and gazing into her warm eyes.

Every of the last several nights, alternating between a bunk and a tent depending on where his battalion had ended up, Rex has patiently waited for her to make contact. He’d given her his private frequency – something that only a handful of people have – something that he’d only trust a handful of people with. She seemed grateful and excited to have a way to contact him while he was away, but even so, Rex finds himself losing hope that she’ll make contact.

Then while settling down for the evening, unpacking his personal belongings and getting as organized as he can for his own peace of mind, a message comes through and is displayed on the screen of his ‘pad, sent by an unknown, unsaved frequency.

345-GCJ-90-X-5: Just randomly thought about you wearing that button down in the middle of a battle while holding a mug of caf. It’s quite humorous.

The unique greeting makes him smile like a damn fool, and before typing out his reply he changes and saves the contact name into something more endearing – inputs the first name that comes to mind.

Rex: That is nowhere near regulation.

Cyar’ika: Glad you can take a joke.

Rex: At least I’d fit in because of its color.

Cyar’ika: Because your armor is painted blue. Funny.

More days then go by – weeks. It's gotten easier to talk to her – not having to feel the inadvertent intimidation of her eyes looking into his. They fall into an almost natural rhythm, messaging one another around the same time every few days, and Rex for the most part is able to reply in the evenings once settled in for the night. Their conversations are mostly brief, a simple back and forth consisting of sharable updates from his mission and small anecdotes from her work.

It starts to feel like he’s known her forever.

About three weeks in, Rex can feel that this mission should be wrapping up soon. Separatist forces have fallen back and the civilians have since been successfully relocated to a safe, unthreatened sector of the planet. His duties have lightened now that the threat isn’t severe, rewarding Rex with a little extra downtime between strategizing and working on reports. Knowing he is able to just relax for the night fuels his desire to converse – to keep it going with questions and honest answers.

They’ve been going back and forth for about a half an hour. She tells him what she ate for dinner because he asked. When she asks the same, his answer isn't as exciting. She asks him how his day was. He asks her the same. Mundane questions soon branch into genuine inquisitions. Rex grows bolder with the questions he’s wanted to ask for a while now – the ease of conversation casting a light on his curiosity – leading him to where they are in the exchange now.

Rex: Can I ask you about your husband?

Cyar’ika: Sure.

Rex: How did he die?

Cyar’ika: It was an infection.

Cyar’ika: A lot of people from our village had suddenly and inexplicably gotten ill and my husband threw everything into trying to treat them.

Rex: He was a medic?

Cyar’ika: Yes.

Cyar’ika: A caring, dedicated one at that. Inspired me to follow in his footsteps.

Rex: Sounds like he was a good man.

Cyar’ika: He really was.

He stares at the screen, contemplating his next message. Several moments go by as his curiosity strengthens.

Rex: What caused the infection?

Cyar’ika: Contaminated water supply. We didn’t realize what it was until a lot of lives were lost, including his.

Rex: I’m so sorry.

Rex leans back against the pillow and stares up at the peak of the tent. He wishes he could be there for her as she recounts the loss – hold her and offer his sincere expressions in place of the words that he has trouble finding. Bringing the ‘pad up to his face, he sees another message has popped up.

Cyar’ika: I still don’t understand it. He didn’t come home for days and wasn’t even experiencing symptoms as the others were, so when he didn’t wake up on the fourth morning, it was completely unexpected.

This is one of those moments where Rex is worried that what he wants to say will be taken the wrong way, because all that comes to his mind is the connection of what dots she’s given him. For a man bound to his duty – his life tied to every aspect of it – Rex unwittingly puts himself in her late husband’s shoes.

Rex: Maybe he knew he was sick and hid it from you.

The response is quick.

Cyar’ika: What do you mean?

And Rex knows if he truly had been in the medic’s shoes, with a wife at home who would no doubt worry about him if she would have known that he really was experiencing all the symptoms as the other victims – he too would’ve kept it under wraps so that he could continue doing his duty.

Rex: Sounds to me like he was putting his duty above all else, but mainly, he didn’t want to worry you.

A minute goes by without a reply. A sick feeling swirls in his gut.

Rex: Apologies. I’m overstepping.

Cyar’ika: No, it’s okay.

A small wash of relief.

Cyar’ika: I’m getting tired.

Cyar'ika: Be careful out there, Rex.

Silently scolding himself with his head in his hands, Rex processes what he’d just done. The conversation didn’t have to end like that – but because of him, it did. Respecting her implicit request, he sends her one last message.

Rex: Always. Good night.

A day goes by. Night comes again. After having cleaned off in the nearby river, Rex is back in his tent, now unclasping the pieces of his armor and stacking them in a neat pile. Retrieving his ‘pad from his private things, he sees a message on the screen that came in only fifteen minutes ago.

Cyar’ika: Rex?

Rex: I’m here. Everything okay?

She doesn't respond right away, and Rex takes the opportunity to change into a fresh undersuit. Climbing into the little bed on the floor, he waits only a moment longer until her reply pops up.

Cyar’ika: This is going to sound strange.

Rex: Try me.

Cyar’ika: I’ve been thinking about what happened to my husband.

He goes to type when another message appears.

Cyar’ika: I just need someone to talk to right now.

Rex: I’m here. Back at camp for the night.

Cyar’ika: I’ve thought a lot about what you said the other day.

His fingers hover over the characters, dancing in the air as he decides how to respond.

Rex: I’m sorry for overstepping. It was not my place.

Cyar’ika: Don’t apologize, Rex. It gave me a lot to consider.

Rex: What do you mean?

Cyar’ika: How could I have been so blind?

Rex: Don’t do that to yourself. You weren’t blind.

Cyar’ika: He told me not to visit him while he was working and I never fought him about not coming home. I didn’t even notice that he was dying. I should have known something was wrong.

Rex: It’s not your fault.

Rex: He didn’t want you to know.

Cyar’ika: He knew he was dying and didn’t want me to know that?

Rex: What he wanted was to protect you, cyar’ika.

He leaves it at that, and it stays unanswered for a good couple of minutes. It isn’t until Rex gets the next message that he realizes he’d let the name slip through the fumble of his fingers.

Cyar’ika: ‘Cyar’ika’? What is that?

That's what she is to him now – perhaps since their first genuine interaction. That’s what Rex hears in his head when she comes to mind. The nickname rings and bleeds into him – eclipses the name she was born with.

Rex: It’s a term of endearment.

Cyar’ika: I see. I’ve never heard that before.

It’s clear to Rex that if she’s never heard it before, then it’s not something that has come from Fox’s mouth when addressing her. It’s foreign and new to her and Rex knowing that he’s the first person to introduce it to her, even though threaded within a voiceless conversation, gives him a boost of what he could only describe as hope.

Cyar’ika: Can I ask you something?

Rex: Shoot.

Cyar’ika: How do you know that my husband was protecting me? He lied to me.

The mood changes back. He has an opportunity to lie to her here – to say something with the sole purpose of either making her feel better or to lead the subject into something else – but he won’t.

Rex: It’s the same thing I would have done, cyar’ika.

Cyar’ika: You would lie to me, Rex?

Rex: If it meant protecting you while I did my duty, then yes.

Men bound to duty. Men with pieces of their hearts pledged to another. Men who’d do anything to protect those they care about.

Men like her late husband – and Rex.

Cyar’ika: You would protect me?

Rex: Of course.

Cyar’ika: So, I’d be safe with you?

Rex: You would. You are.

Cyar’ika: Can I ask you something else? Something personal?

Rex: Go ahead, cyar’ika.

Cyar’ika: When was the last time you’ve been with a woman, Rex?

The question strikes him as odd at first, but after revisiting the previous several messages, he recognizes them as a lead into this very subject. She’s getting a feel for him – dipping her toe into something he so very badly wants to give her without the need to dance around it.

Rex thinks back to his last encounter with another – the last time he was intimate with a woman. It’s probably been close to a year, and even then, after it had just happened, it was nothing to linger on. He’d just gotten back from a devastating mission and the sex was quick, sloppy, and over too soon. What it was – it was release. A way to expel his frustration with himself because of the how the mission had fucked him.

After that – after feeling dirty and shameful for the way he’d handled himself so poorly in response to his own self-doubt – Rex learned to deal with his shit in different, less harmful ways.

Rex: It’s been a while. Haven’t gotten out much.

Anxiously, he adds:

Rex: Maybe I’m just waiting for the right one to come along.

Cyar’ika: Is that right? What does ‘the right one’ mean for Captain Rex?

Cyar’ika: Someone like me?

Cyar’ika: I’m just messing with you…

He can practically hear her laugh – the sparkle in her eyes. It makes him grin.

Rex: You’re not too far off.

Cyar’ika: I need to ask you something else. Be honest with me, okay?

Cyar’ika: Do you think about me?

His heart is pounding.

Rex: Yes.

Less than a minute goes by.

Cyar’ika: Have you thought about me in other ways?

Osik. Of course he has – more times than he’d like to admit but does he flat out say it? His fingers try, delete, and retry a few different responses, finally landing on something simple. Rex has gone this far and there’s no reason to tread lightly around the full, unadulterated truth now. His heart is practically drumming out of his chest as he sends the message and quickly tosses the ‘pad from his hands.

Rex: I have.

Several long seconds later, he picks it back up.

Cyar’ika: I've also thought about you.

Something new sparks in Rex – makes his heart beat heavily but with a different meaning.

Rex: Tell me what you’ve thought about.

Cyar’ika: I’ve imagined what you look like underneath all that armor. The closest I’ve gotten to knowing was when we went out for caf that one night.

Cyar’ika: You looked damn good that night, Rex.

He smiles and chuckles to himself. He did look good. The outfit had begun to feel more like him as he became more comfortable in it – with her putting him at ease.

Rex: I’ve imagined the same thing. Thought about your body a lot, especially after seeing you dance.

Cyar’ika: Oh, I’d be happy to treat you to a private dance, Captain. Would you like that?

Taking a deep breath through his nose, he chews his lip. The first moment he laid eyes on her was when she was dancing – Rex putting himself into her partner’s place behind her and holding her close.

Rex: I would.

Rex starts to type out how he’d like more than just a dance, but quickly deletes the characters to make room for a different reply just as her next messages pop up.

Cyar’ika: What if I said that I’m thinking about you right now?

Cyar’ika: I’m just laying here. I wish you were next to me.

A new type of tenacity kindles within him. Desire-fueled intrigue pools in his belly – takes the reins.

Rex: Oh yeah? What would happen if I were next to you right now?

Cyar’ika: Well, you’d see that I’m hardly wearing anything. I just took a shower before I messaged you.

Rex: I’m sure that’s quite a sight. It’s a shame I’m across the galaxy, mesh’la.

Cyar’ika: Would you like to see?

Before Rex can send his rapidly typed and eager affirmation, an attachment comes through.

Cyar’ika: -attachment: image-

Rex opens the attachment, and his jaw nearly falls from his skull. From the angle of the image, she took the holo going down her body from where her face is, and she’s laying on her back, surrounded by disturbed sheets but torso not at all covered. Right in the bottom center of the image are her laced-covered breasts, and moving upwards is a matching pair of lace underwear seen before the sheet is draped along her thighs – the hand not holding the device draped over her stomach just below her bra. He’s never seen so much skin on her and it’s taking every ounce of control to not do something about what lies in front of him on the screen.

He then realizes it’s been over a minute of him ogling over her body.

Rex: Wow. Gorgeous, cyar’ika. I wish I were next to you, too.

Oh, how badly he does.

Cyar’ika: Rex?

Rex: Hm?

Cyar’ika: What would you do to me if you were here with me right now?

With that question in mind, Rex reopens the attachment. His eyes take in every single detail as shown in the image, unsure of where he’d start. It’s all so perfect. He’d want to be everywhere at once. Take his time. Map her out.

Rex: Mesh’la, I wouldn’t even know where to start.

His message goes unanswered for a while, so long that Rex begins to think she’s fallen asleep. Fifteen minutes go by of him being unable to rip his eyes away from the image as he fights the urge to reach his hand into his briefs when a message finally appears.

Cyar’ika: -attachment: image-

He opens it.

And this one sends a wave of pricking arousal through his entire body, making his cock twitch and chest tighten.

This one includes her face – ties it all together. She’s looking into the device the same way she looked at Rex in his dream – the sultry smile and warm, lustful eyes. The device must have been propped up somewhere because it’s a whole body shot. She’s kneeling on the bed, hands looking to be in the middle of running down her torso, fingers stopped just at the band of her lacy underwear, threatening to tug them down in the slightest.

Cyar’ika: I'm thinking about you right now, Rex.

He’s playing with fire – stoking it. The hole has been dug to the planet’s core and Rex is looking out of it from the very bottom. He’s stuck thousands upon thousands of feet below with no chance of escape.

In truth, he doesn’t want to escape.

Rex: Tell me what you’re thinking about. Everything.

He’s lost in it. Completely drowning and not willing to come up for breath.

Cyar’ika: Your hands all over me. Touching me. Feeling me.

Cyar’ika: Your lips, too. I bet they’re soft and warm and know exactly what to do.

Cyar’ika: And your arms. You’re so strong I bet you could handle me in ways that I can only imagine.

Rex shuts his eyes, picturing himself doing the very things she has described in rapid succession. His mind takes him right to her – caressing her skin – trailing appreciative kisses down her body – holding her close. Deep, measured breaths have his chest caving and expanding with restraint. He's throbbing in his briefs but he won’t touch himself – not like this with her on the other line. It doesn’t feel right. Not when he can’t give her something in return.

He types and sends a product of amativeness – fingers moving quicker than he can think.

Rex: Next time I’m there, you’ll see.

He looks over what he just sent – satisfied. With it though, Rex is flooded with ideas on how he’ll make good on his promise. In moments he’s practicing self-restraint – not wanting to send her anything that he’d regret when in a more sober state.

Right now, the hunger within him is screaming for a way out. It’s practically clawing its way into the way his limbs threaten to act on their own accord. What remains of Rex’s composure is thrown into one last message.

Rex: I need to get some sleep. Good night, mesh’la.

What he needs is relief.

Cyar’ika: I’ll be waiting for you, Rex. Sweet dreams x

Throwing the ‘pad to the side, he chews his lip, shutting his eyes and trying to push the images away. Instead of fading, newer and obscene scenarios begin to blossom behind his shut eyelids. The allure creates an intoxicating pull, dragging Rex’s mind into the darkest depths of desire. Impossible to escape the carnal crevice, he subconsciously burrows deeper, allowing the imagined sensations to wash over him.

Now that he’s ended the conversation, he’s free. Rex shakes his head against his pillow but doesn’t do anything to stop his hand from sliding down his abdomen – fingers tapping against the waistband of his bottoms. He’s never felt her bare skin on his, but right here and now, he imagines how her hand would feel gliding through the band on his briefs – brushing against the maintained hairs – wrapping around his cock. As he conjures the scenario, his hand acts it out, handling himself the way he’d want her to.

Don’t tease me, mesh’la.

Rex frees himself from his briefs, already achingly hard and throbbing in his hand – precum glistening at the tip. Releasing himself, he spits on his palm, then grabs his cock once again and stimulates it with a few, slow, experimental strokes. His entire body shudders at the blend of mental images coinciding with the touch and he bites back a groan of relief – too long since he’s had the opportunity to work one out – too long since these sensations have overtaken him.

With the fictional image playing out before him, Rex pumps himself with his spit-slicked hand, providing extra attention and friction to the underside where he’s most sensitive. Wearing the same lacing garments as in the images from tonight, he sees her tilting her head at him with mischievous eyes upon taking notice of how he sighs and gasps as she finds that spot.

Just like that, pretty girl…

Beads of sweat form along his brow – scrunched in focus. Her little hums of praise echo in his ears and he works his hand quicker, fisting himself from base to tip, offering a squeeze to the latter every several strokes. Warmth floods his clenching abdomen – a tingling shooting to his toes. A seductive smile remains on her face as her eyes peer up and lock with his, whispering for him to let go – to let go for her.

I’m gonna–

He’s outside of his body. A wash of euphoria – the swell and burst. Thighs twitching and heart rate elevated, Rex cums into the hand cupped over the head of his cock.

It doesn’t end quickly – hips bucking into his hand for a solid minute – breathing held in an attempt to control it. Rex shivers at the overstimulation as he works out every last bit with little squeezes and short, rapid strokes to the head. A brief cloud of shame descends upon him but lifts in a matter of moments when he realizes that she, too, may have just done the same thing.

“I’m thinking about you right now, Rex”

Without needing to look back on their conversation he’s able to scroll through her messages from memory, sighing heavily at just how intense their chat had become in the matter of minutes. She thinks about him – in those ways. Rex has never been in a situation quite like this before and as he tucks himself back into his briefs, he starts to think about the intentions – the possible future. She wants him – and just as sure the galaxy is immeasurable, he wants her.

Smiling to himself, a layer of tension lifts from his body, accompanied by any remaining irresolution and hesitance. They want each other. It’s mutual – that much has been revealed.

Scheduled to be back on Coruscant within the next few days, Rex decides he’s going to do something about it.

Rex has not been able to get her out of his mind, and as soon as he’d confirmed the docking schedule and debriefing itinerary while en route to Coruscant, he reached out to her.

Rex: I’ll be back tonight. The boys are wanting to go out. I hope you can be there.

Cyar’ika: I’ll be there. See you soon x

This time, Rex didn’t pass up the invite when earlier in the day his men had brought up going out for drinks later.

He’s practically strutting into 79’s, feet lighter with a form of swagger that comes from the promise of seeing her again in this new light. He’d decided earlier that he’d forgo the top half of his armor – the cuirass, vambraces, rerebraces, and everything else in between. A fresh, clean undersuit clings to his abdomen, chest, and arms and yes, it was intentional – a perceptible prelude for what should happen later.

Rex is going to sit with her – offer her gentle brushes and glances – make it known throughout the entirety of their time here that later he’s going to slowly break her apart piece by piece and study every aspect of her before putting her back together again. She’s waiting for him, more than likely seated with the others in their booth. His heart is pounding. He’s eager and excited but also can’t help the touch of nerves that come with something Rex has never dealt with before. This is all so new to him but he wouldn’t want to learn it any other way with any other person.

Making his way through clusters of officers and shinies, Rex’s sight of the boys in blue becomes set. He can’t help the dorky grin that stretches his lips when he sees her, sitting beside Fives at the end of the booth with a glass of something colorful on the table in front of her. He steps a little quicker, still having to weave through other clones gathered together by similar colors painted in various designs on their armor. She turns and smiles upon noticing him and his heart is racing but then everything stops. A splash of red enters the wave of blue in the same moment.

Fox comes from out of left field, a hand settling on her shoulder and her eyes leave Rex to instead greet the commander. Rex’s smile fades.

“Rex!”

Blinking himself back into a good mood, Rex forces his smile to return when seeing Fives waving at him, calling him over to join them.

Fox just happened to get there before me. It’s fine.

Fox has taken the seat beside her. Rex instead slides in beside Jesse across from them. From the inside center of the booth, Kix and Hardcase greet the captain, sliding him a full glass of beer as he settles in.

Taking a slow, long sip, Rex looks at her. For the first time in a month – after all their wall-crumbling talking and sharing – he’s in front of her. A month of at first braving the situations to falling into the comforting rhythm as the weeks went on. A month of longing to see her – and here she is.

She’s here – squeezed beside Fox.

It’s fine. I’ll get my chance.

Except as the minutes go on, soon bleeding into close to an hour killed sitting there drinking, talking, and laughing – the same thing every time – Rex gets the sense that no, he won’t be getting his chance tonight. Something doesn’t feel right. She and Fox are speaking as if they’re one in the same person. They’re addressing the others like they’re glued at the hip and fuck, the way they’re seated that close to each other, squeezed in after three other members of the Guard have joined, they really do appear to be glued at the hip.

Feeling slightly irritable now, and not wanting to showcase that to her or the others, Rex keeps his mouth shut. Sips his beer. Lets the alcohol lift the bad mood from his bones. Listens to everyone else. Tries not to glance at her.

He hides his hurt in a way that shows it, if anything.

The guys start to discuss dancing – the music tracks becoming bouncier and fluid. Jesse then leans in towards the left, acknowledging Fox with a smirk. “You going to be dancing tonight, sir?”

Kix snorts. “That wasn’t dancing,” he sing-songs, elbowing a snickering Hardcase.

“This one really knows how to move,” Fox says appreciatively, stretching his arm and draping it over her shoulder.

That wounds Rex.

Her eyes flash with something Rex can’t place, and looking away just as quickly as Rex had glanced, Fives speaks his name. Try as he might to push his complete focus to Fives, Rex then catches a glimpse of how Fox has now leaned closer to her, lips almost brushing her ear – saying something to her for only her to hear.

It stings.

“Want another round?” Fives asks with a mild look of concern carried in the weight of his expression. Rex only half hears the ARC, instead inadvertently focusing on the two sitting too fucking close to each other. Her lips press into a line in what Rex reads as an attempt to hide a cheeky grin in response to his words. She looks to be leaned into Fox’s side and when did the music get this fucking loud.

“Maybe later,” she dismisses whatever Fox has said to her, quickly turning her attention back to Rex as she notices that he’s looking.

All the flashing and thumping is making his head spin and an unpleasant simmer is rising in his throat – muddles the sting of alcohol. The lights, suddenly blinding, puncture straight into his skull. Rex looks to Fives, rubbing the back of his neck to call attention to the signs of a budding headache.

“I’m gonna get some air.”

Rex’s head does hurt. His heart aches now, too. Something has lodged itself between his ribs – pierces him with every step. He feels her eyes on him as he’s sliding out and it burns him all over – reaches behind his own eyes.

He doesn’t recall leaving the group until the cool air hits him as he practically pushes a cluster of inebriated officers out of the way of the doors. Making a beeline to the edge of the platform, the hum of music follows him out, dulling as he steps further and further away until it’s only a distant vibration.

Rex braces himself against the railing. Every single message that they’d exchanged while he was away comes back to him, the words flying across the dark screen of his shut eyelids. It was naive of him to think that she wouldn’t still be hanging out with Fox – fucking him – while spending many evenings talking to Rex and easing his walls down little by little throughout the duration of his deployment. Once they’d collapsed, after the ground had halted its quaking and the dust had settled, he let her in. It was easy and effortless at that point and all Rex wanted to do was let himself be consumed by her. From the emotional, more personal conversations to the mundane ones, hells, even to the sexual one – Rex found himself at the very bottom of the hole. He dug it himself but the labor wasn’t nearly as strenuous with her facilitation.

The music from inside seeps into the air as the doors open then close again.

“Rex, what’s going on?” her voice calls. He hears her footfalls quicken as she half-jogs to his position. Of course she followed him out. He was almost anticipating it – but still turns his head over his shoulder and towards her unprepared and blanketed by the weight of regret.

“Nothing. Just needed some air.”

She crosses her arms. “You’re a flimsy liar.”

He shakes his head, dropping it between his extended arms.

“I guess I was expecting things to be different,” he explains quietly, talking down into the open air below. “After what happened between us while I was away.”

Her lips form into a line and her eyes flicker to the entrance as the door opens for a couple entering, the music filling the vast platform air for brief moments until the door shuts again.

“Things are different with us now. We both came here with the intention to pick up where we left off.”

“That’s why I came here,” Rex corrects, setting his chin into his open palm, elbows now resting on the railing. “I came here to–” He cuts himself off, but resumes after a breath. “To be the one.”

“Is this about Fox?” She frowns. “Rex, Fox offered to pick me up and bring me. It was my understanding that he was one of the ones you’d mentioned wanting to go out tonight?”

“It’s not about who you came with,” he sighs. “It’s how close the two of you are.” He points in the direction of the club. “And tonight, you two were very close.”

Rex feels the burn of tears building but blinks them away, once again turning his face away from her sight.

“I can’t be here right now,” he mutters, standing up straight with his back kept to her. “Take care, mesh’la.”

As he starts to walk away, getting no more than a few steps, she softly asks: “Why are you being jealous?”

Her words lack venom but sting him all the same. His heart drops into his stomach – hurt seeping deep into his marrow. When he does turn back to her it’s obvious on his face – the unshed tears – the defeated body language. Seeing this depicted has her instantly knitting her brows and frowning with remorse.

“I’m sorry. That was unfair of me. Listen, Fox and I… I mean we– we’re not– it’s not like that, believe me.” She approaches him, tentatively reaching for his arm. “With you, it’s diff– ”

“You don’t know what you want.” He cuts her off and steps back, shaking his head. “I don’t think you even realize what you’re doing.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. Rex continues – words flying out of him before he can think.

“Just because we’re clones doesn’t mean that we don’t have feelings,” he snaps. “We’re people. We have hearts. We get hurt when we’re used and we’re not fucking expendable.”

“I…” Her voice breaks, hands falling to her sides. “I’m sorry, Rex.”

“I’m sorry, too.” He shakes his head, turning his back to her once again. He continues, voice lowering as he speaks more to himself than to her. “For letting myself get this far.”

Rex has nothing left to say – needing some time to gather his thoughts away from everything and everyone and this place.

Without another word or spared glance, he leaves her there on the platform.

Rex didn’t sleep well last night.

That was to be expected though; the first nights back on Coruscant are always odd, especially when transitioning from sleeping on the ground on the same planet as the enemy to being back in his own barracks fortified by the full force of the Republic. With each deployment and subsequent leave, the bunk seems to somehow always feel more uncomfortable than before. In addition to that, the hurt Rex felt last night wounded him far worse than the blaster shot to his chest had. He couldn’t get any of it from his mind – the conversations, the proximity, the laughter shared between them. Every little detail replayed in his head on repeat for hours until finally, thankfully, the exhaustion claimed him.

And he could be plagued with the thoughts of her and everything this morning, but Rex instead channels his focus into carefully disassembling his DC-17s one at a time, separating each piece for inspection and cleaning. He hasn’t yet stepped foot outside his barracks but he knows it’s still pretty early – the sun not yet casting its full light on this sector of the planet. He’s hungry and tired and exhausted from pushing back the hurt – from wrapping thick blankets of blame around himself while condemning every single decision he’s made as of late.

When stressed or feeling defeated, he works with the only two things that are always on his person or in his hands on the field of battle. Rex knows his blasters in and out – knows every bolt, spring, and lever like the back of his hand. The pistols ground him – remind Rex that the difference between life and death can be the thinnest of lines and the teensiest of moments. He brings each piece up to his face – examines them closely. Careful, ungloved, expert fingers twist, unfasten, and pull apart the smallest of bits. Nothing goes without inspection.

“Mornin’, sir.”

So absorbed in the pieces in front of him, Rex doesn’t budge when Fives enters the barracks, carrying his helmet at his side and approaching the captain with a concerned smile he doesn’t look up to see.

“Fives.” Rex addresses him briefly, not stopping what he’s doing to even shoot him a glance. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, went out there, you know,” Fives tells him, successfully grabbing his attention with last night having just been brought up. Rex’s chest tightens all over again – hands pausing and eyes shutting. “Wanted to check on you, but you must’ve just left." Fives sighs. "She was crying.”

Setting the piece he’s holding on the table, Rex runs his fingers across his head – through the prick of buzzed hairs. He feels terrible for leaving her alone like that and for letting it even get to that point – but he has only himself to blame. This could have all been avoided if only he'd left it alone – climbed out of the hole while he still could. It wasn’t possible to, though. Rex realizes that – knew it from the beginning.

Sucked into the memory now, it’s hard for him not to wonder what happened after he left her there – if she went back to the only other person she could.

The answer may gut him but he needs to ask.

Did she go home with Fox?

"Did she stay for much longer?"

“I walked her home shortly after I found her.”

…Walked her home…

Something heavy falls into Rex's stomach – eyes flashing with a dull flame. His face screws into one of anger and pain and Fives' own eyes widen at the reaction – his comment taken completely the wrong way.

“Osi’kyr, no, not like that!" Nearly dumbfounded and with an amused scoff, he shakes his head and backhands Rex's shoulder. "Rex, I made sure she got home safe.”

The flame is smothered. Rex softens, picking up a blaster piece and running an oiled cloth along it meticulously.

“Sorry, for–” He cuts himself off. “Thank you for doing that.”

Nodding, Fives circles around the small table and takes a seat across from him, hands folding on the tabletop.

“She, uh, asked me for a favor. To tell you something.” Fives raises his brows, giving Rex a chance to shoot him down before he continues. “Asked me if I could tell you that she'd like a chance to explain everything, before you’re off-world again.”

Rex doesn’t meet his eyes, instead occupying himself with cleaning his blasters – the oil residue a familiar and comforting aroma. He doesn’t respond, only nods subtly with every one of Fives’ words, taking it all in but having nothing to add – unsure of how to feel.

"Rex.” Fives leans forward, extending his arm and laying a hand on Rex’s wrist, making him pause. Glancing up at him, Rex meets his eyes that read pure sincerity. “I think you should hear her out."

@rowansparrow @thefact0rygirl @book-of-baba-fett @pinkiemme @maulslittlemeowmeow @literallydontlook @misogirl828 @fett-djarin @imaginativefanatic @bitwhizzle @rexandechosandwich @rain-on-kamino @whore4rex @spaceydragons @moonstrider9904 @gotomarvelgal @writingbylee @jesjestraverse @sparklypizzahologram @nyravioppri

#coalescent #coalescent miniseries #djarrex writes #miniseries mondays #captain rex x reader #commander fox x reader #captain rex x f!reader #commander fox x f!reader

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sasquapossum · 4 months

Text

Had a bit of a weather adventure this morning. For those who don't know, the place where I live (eastern Massachusetts in the US) has just gone through a pretty severe set of storms, with both high winds and rains that are heavy even by my Aotearoa-childhood standards. Here's what it brought us.

First, I woke up to the lights flickering. Not surprising at all. This is the "nice" part of town in most ways (e.g. the schools on this side have all been rebuilt in the last 20 years while the ones on the other side are literally rotting away) but the power here is far less stable. Maybe those two facts are even related. 3000sf six-bedroom houses sure do suck a lot of juice, especially when new construction must be all electric (no gas or oil) and there are plenty of those all around us.

Second, I noticed that some of our trash cans had blown across the street. Two streets, actually, since we're on a corner. So I put on my swimming gear and went out to corral them in the little "well" leading to the downstairs door. Also picked up a few large branches and put them on the brush pile. No whole trees, though. The Beech Leaf Disease decimation has taken care of that, I guess.

Then I went shopping. It's not cold (more about that later) so I seriously considered going out in sandals, swim shorts, and an all-synthetic "rash guard" shirt. Should have. Or at least worn some of the waterproof pants I have for hiking. As I made my way from the first store to the second, I found a shopping cart blocking one lane of the road, so I got out and put it on the grass. Then I went in to that second store, noting as I did that the sky had turned distinctly darker than just a few minutes before.

As I finished up at store number two, I saw a bunch of people standing by the exit refusing to go out. Yeah, well, whatever, I went past them and immediately got drenched. Like within twenty seconds, all the way through my jeans, due to the combination of torrential rain and some serious wind. This was neither unexpected nor particularly unwelcome BTW. I'm notoriously unbothered by rain, but it was definitely noteworthy.

I couldn't even see store number three, which was only about a hundred yards away, but I got there and did my business and started to head out. Normally I'd turn left to go home, but that was obviously a no-go because traffic was severely backed up by what I assumed must be one of the historic puddles that were everywhere. So I went right, got on the highway, and got home fine.

Finally, when I got home, I saw that the entire area where the two streets join was completely flooded - side to side, multiple inches deep. One of my neighbors was out there, trying to unclog the drains before all that water descended across another neighbor's lawn into their basement. I quickly joined him, quickly abandoning the rake I'd been using to reach in and heave out handfuls of leaves and muck. At that point a six inch wide whirlpool appeared, with a giant sucking sound as it emptied a swimming pool's worth of water in about a minute. Truly impressive, and a relief to all concerned.

So that was my morning. And one more thought: imagine if it had been colder, and this had all come down as snow. We'd be talking multiple feet, like the famous Blizzard of '78, for sure.

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conradscrime · 2 years

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The Canonical Five: Mary Ann Nichols

August 17, 2022

I’ve been not posting as much lately but I wanted to come back with a bang and do Jack the Ripper, one of my favourite true crime cases of all time. However, instead of just doing a post on the entire case I figured I’d do a deep dive into each of the victims.

I know Jack the Ripper most likely had more victims than just these five women, however the Canonical Five has become extremely infamous in this case and each woman deserves their own post in my opinion.

Here we go.

Mary Ann, also known as “Polly” to friends and family, was born Mary Ann Walker on August 26, 1845 in Dean Street, Soho, London. She was the second child of Edward and Caroline Walker.

At 18 years old Mary Ann married a man named William Nichols on January 16, 1864 at Saint Bride’s Parish Church in the City of London. The couple first lived at 30-31 Bouverie Street, but eventually moved In with Mary Ann’s father at 131 Trafalgar Street.

The couple had five children together: Edward John (born in 1866), Percy George (born in 1868), Alice Esther (born in 1870), Eliza Sarah (born in 1877) and Henry Alfred (born in 1879).

Shortly after their fifth child Henry was born, Mary Ann and William moved into their own home at 6 D-Block Peabody Buildings on September 6, 1880, paying a weekly rent. However, this did not last for long and the couple separated with William taking four of their children to live near Old Kent Road.

Mary Ann’s father accused William of leaving Mary Ann due to an affair he supposedly had with the nurse who had been there when their son Henry was born, though William claimed that him and Mary Ann had kept their marriage going for at least three years after this alleged affair. William insisted that the reason for their separation was due to Mary Ann’s heavy drinking and he had only started an affair after Mary Ann had left him. William had told authorities later on that Mary Ann had left him and began practicing sex work.

In 1881, Mary Ann was residing at Lambeth Workhouse, though she left this workhouse on May 31st. She did eventually return to the workhouse on April 24, 1882. She did move back with her father for a period of time in 1883 before moving out again following a quarrel.

Back in these days you legally had to support your wife, despite them being separated, William Nichols would pay Mary Ann a weekly allowance of five shillings until the spring of 1882, when he found out she was working as a sex worker. William stopped making these payments due to this, and explained to the authorities that his wife had deserted him and his family, living with another man and involved in sex work.

William was not required to pay his wife if she was earning money through sex work, so Mary Ann no longer was receiving anything from her husband.

The money Mary Ann did make from sex work was often spent on alcohol.

In April 1888, Mary Ann began working as a domestic servant to Mr and Mrs Cowdry in Wandsworth. However, this did not last long and she left after only working there for 3 months, stealing clothes with her when she left. She lived in a common lodging-house for a period of time before moving to 56 Flower and Dean Street in Whitechapel on August 24, 1888.

Around 11pm on August 30, 1888, Mary Ann was seen walking along Whitechapel Road. She visited the Frying Pan public house in Brick Lane, Spitalfields, leaving at 12:30am on August 31.

By 1:20am, she had returned to her lodging-house, and within the hour she was seen by the deputy lodging house keeper who asked her to pay for her bed for the night there. Mary Ann replied she had no money and she was ordered to leave. She said she would earn money and be back to get her bed.

The last time Mary Ann Nichols was seen alive was by a woman named Emily Holland, where she was seen walking alone down Osborn Street around 2:30am. She was notably drunk according to Emily and at one point was slumped against the wall of a grocery shop.

Emily had tried to get Mary Ann to go back to her lodging-house, but Mary Ann refused telling her she had already earned her money for the bed three times over but had spent it each time. The two parted with Mary Ann walking towards Whitechapel Road.

At 3:40am, a man named Charles Allen Cross found what he believed to be a tarpaulin lying on the ground in front of a gated stable entrance in Buck’s Row, Whitechapel as he was walking to his workplace. Inspecting closer, Cross discovered that it was actually the body of a woman who was laying on her back with her eyes open, her legs straight, and her skirt raised above her knees. Her left hand was touching the gate of the stable entrance.

Another man on his way to work, Robert Paul, saw Cross standing in the road looking at the body and both men examined the body together. Cross had touched the woman’s face which was still warm, then her hands which were cold. Cross thought the woman was dead, but Paul thought she might just be unconscious. The men pulled her skirt down and went to find a policeman. Constable Jonas Mizen was sent to examine the body while the men went on their way to work.

Before Mizen got there, another policeman, John Neil had come across the body and was using a lantern to examine. While he was doing this he got the attention of Constable John Thain who was passing the entrance to Buck’s Row, which Neil shouted, “Here’s a woman with her throat cut. Run at once for Dr Llewellyn.”

Neil found no blood trails with his lantern, and also examined the road but found no marks of wheels.

Surgeon Dr Llewellyn arrived at Buck’s Row at 4am and found two deep knife wounds on the woman’s throat, determining her deceased. The doctor determined she had only been dead for 30 minutes upon discovery, as her body and legs were still warm. He ordered Neil to take the body to the mortuary where he could then further examine her.

Police questioned all the tenants of Buck’s Row, including those who lived on the property closest to where the woman’s body had been discovered. Several residents claimed to be awake at that time but no one heard or saw anything. All police who had been patrolling around the area at that time also claimed to have seen nothing suspicious.

It was discovered that both sides of the woman’s face had been bruised by either a first or the pressure of a thumb before the throat wounds had been inflicted. One of the wounds measured 8 inches in length, and the other one measured to be 4 inches. Both reached back to her vertebral column and were inflicted from left to right.

The woman’s genitals had been stabbed twice, her abdomen mutilated with one deep, jagged wound 2 or 3 inches from the left side. Several incisions had been inflicted across the abdomen, causing her bowels to protrude through. Three or four similar cuts ran down the right side of her body. The knife used was estimated to be at least 6-8 inches long, possibly a cork-cutter or shoemaker’s knife.

Each wound had been violent and in a downward thrusting manner. The doctor believed that whoever did this had some kind of anatomical knowledge. None of the woman’s organs were missing.

Dr Llewellyn estimated that this would have taken the murderer 4-5 minutes to complete. He also believed the woman had been facing her attacker when he held his hand across her mouth before cutting her throat. She would have died instantly and all of her injuries were made by the murderer after she died. The doctor believed this because there was little blood.

The woman had no identification on her at the time of her death, and the only possessions she had was a white pocket handkerchief, a comb, and a piece of mirror. Her petticoats were marked “Lambeth Workhouse P.R.” so they believed that is where she resided. The matron of the workhouse could not identify the body, a workhouse inmate named Mary Ann Monk positively identified the woman as being Mary Ann Nichols at 7:30pm on August 31. Emily Holland had also positively identified her earlier that day.

On September 1, 1888, William Nichols corroborated this discovery as being his estranged wife, stating “I forgive you, as you are, for what you have been to me.”

The first day of the inquest heard testimony from three witnesses. The first was Mary Ann’s father, who claimed his daughter had been separated from William Nichols for about 7 or 8 years. He also said he had not seen his daughter since Easter and she had no known enemies.

Constable John Neil also testified, claiming the actual location of the murder was dimly lit, the closest light being a street lamp shining at the end of the row. Neil also said that Whitechapel Road was pretty busy even at the time of the discovery, so it’s possible that Mary Ann’s killer could have escaped in that direction.

Dr Llewellyn also testified, stating that Mary Ann had 5 missing teeth, a slight laceration on her tongue, a bruise running along the lower part of her jaw on the right side of her face. This could have been caused by a blow from a fist or pressure from a thumb. He further described her injuries and stated that no blood was found on the body or clothes. The injuries may have been done by a left-handed person and all of Mary Ann’s injuries had been done by the same instrument.

A man named Harry Tomkins testified that he had not left his place of work after 1am on August 31 and him and his colleagues did not hear anything suspicious. Tomkins said his workplace was very quiet, but said he was too far away from the crime scene to have been able to hear any cries for help.

Inspector Joseph Helson testified that Mary Ann had not been carried to the location where her body was found, she had been killed there.

William Nichols testified again and claimed to have not seen his wife in three years and that she had left him of her own accord because of her drinking. He stated he had no knowledge of his wife’s whereabouts in the years before her death.

It was determined that if Mary Ann’s murderer was walking around with blood on them after the attack, it would not have looked strange as this was Whitechapel in 1888 and many slaughterhouses were around. It wasn’t strange to see someone with blood on them during this period of time.

By the time the inquest was completed, another murder of similar nature had occurred, with a woman named Annie Chapman being murdered on September 8, 1888. Many consider her to be the second canonical five murder, and she also was found with similar bruising on her face and horrific injuries.

Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman had a lot of similarities, both involved in sex work, being estranged from their husbands, and being around the same age. Annie Chapman’s murder will be discussed in further detail in the second instalment of this series.

A 20 minute deliberation took place, and the jury came back concluding that Mary Ann Nichols had been murdered perhaps by someone she didn’t know.

Mary Ann’s murder had occurred within 300 yards of two previous murders of two other women named Emma Smith and Martha Tabram. All of the murders had occurred within a 5 month period, but they were clearly different. What led many to believe they were committed by the same person was the geographical location, and some do believe that Emma Smith and Martha Tabram are Ripper victims, however many do not.

A reporter named Ernest Parke suggested in the August 31 edition of The Star, that these murders were committed by a single killer. Many others began to adopt this theory as well. In the week after the inquest closed on Mary Ann Nichols, two more women were murdered in similar fashion, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes.

Any suspicions of a serial killer soon became confirmed as all of the women had been killed by a similar modus operandi, and eventually in October of 1888, the killer named himself Jack the Ripper.

Before any of this however, there was a rumour going around that a local Jewish man named John Pizer known as “Leather Apron” who made footwear from leather may have murdered the women. He was known to carry a knife and did not like sex workers.

There was no direct evidence against him but he was arrested on September 10, 1888. A search of his home was conducted where they found 5 long-bladed knives, however Pizer was soon released after confirmation of his alibis. He later received compensation from at least one newspaper who had named him a murderer.

Mary Ann Nichols was buried on September 6, 1888, with her father, estranged husband and three of her children in attendance. She was buried in the City of London Cemetery. Her coffin had a brass plaque with the inscription, “Mary Ann Nichols, aged 42; died August 31, 1888.”

Mary Ann Nichols is considered the first victim of the canonical five and many consider her the first Jack the Ripper victim. In the next part, the murder of Annie Chapman will be covered.

#unsolved #UNSOLVED MYSTERIES #unsolved case #unsolved murder #unsolved true crime #true crime #Crime #london #jack #the #ripper #victim

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