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haddonfieldwhore · 8 months

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if we’ve got eachother - mjf

mjf x gender neutral! cole! reader

part one here • part two here

word count: 2.5k

warnings: not edited, bit of family drama, angst, language, nsfw themes/implied smut !

a week had gone by since adam found out about you and max, and you and your brother were effectively ignoring eachother completely. him and max had to be at least professional enough to do their segments together, but didn’t speak to eachother outside of work business. you hated that you had come between their friendship, but you also felt like adam was overreacting. there was a week long break coming up, and you knew adam was going him to see your parents; usually you would go with him, but this time you weren’t sure you really wanted to spend seven days in a house with him, along with your parents asking why you were fighting. your mom had actually been calling and texting you, asking if she could expect you home for the break, but you had ignored all of her messages.

“what are you thinking about?” max asked, snapping you out of your trance as he walked out of the bathroom, fresh out of the shower. his skin was still damp, nothing but a fluffy white towel around his waist as he used a smaller one to dry off his curly hair. max had been travelling with you rather than adam since things kind of exploded last week.

you raised an eyebrow, unable to stop yourself from staring at his chiseled abs, and the happy trail that started at his naval and disappeared under the towel.

“well now i’m thinking about something else…” you said, sitting up on the bed as max walked over to you, leaning down to kiss your lips.

“oh yeah? what’s that?” he smirked, and your hands reached for the towel that hung low on his hips. his hands cradled either side of your jaw as you let the towel fall to the floor, and he kissed you deeply. max pulled your shirt over your head, before wrapping a hand around your throat and pulling you up onto your knees, kissing you again. your hands tangled in his damp curls, and his tongue slipped past your lips to explore your mouth, that taste of mint toothpaste on his tongue.

you were interrupted by a knock at the door, and max sighed, kissing you one more time before he turned and started walking towards the door. you slid your shirt back on, making yourself look at least decent.

“i’ll get it,” you laughed pushing him around the corner out of view of the doorway, and throwing the towel at him. you were still smiling when you opened the door, but it disappeared completely at the sight of adam.

“y/n,” he began, greeted you with an awkward nod. you shifted your weight nervously back and forth on your feet.

“so you’re talking to me again?” you asked, and adam sighed.

“i … don’t know. i do need to ask you about next week though.”

“so mom sent you? that’s adorable,” you laughed, annoyed.

“can we set this aside- for one week; for her sake?” he asked, and you laughed in disbelief. of course you wanted to see your parents, but you were stubborn to your core.

“i don’t know adam. you’re the one who has an issue with me and max being together.” he sighed, running a hand through his long hair.

“i have an issue with the fact that you and my best friend betrayed me-“

“oh get over yourself. we didn’t get together just to spite you, adam. do you hear yourself? yes, we were wrong to hide it from you, i can admit that; but i wouldn’t take back what i did.”

“so you aren’t coming home?” he asked.

“i’ll think about it.”

“no you won’t. you’ve already decided; i know you.” adam spat. ��at least call mom and have the guts to tell her you’re choosing a guy over your family.”

“don’t talk to them like that,” max appeared behind you, his lower half dressed in a pair of shorts.

“max,” adam greeted awkwardly. “this is a family conversation.”

“oh- please continue,” max taunted, not leaving your side.

“actually i think we’re done here,” you said, closing the door on your brother. max turned you to face him, and you wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him into a hug.

“you okay?” he asked, kissing the top of your head. you nodded into his chest, before pulling back to kiss his lips softly.

“yeah. thank you for having my back, even though you don’t have to protect me from adam.”

“i know,” he said, kissing the top of your nose. “are you going home next week?” he asked, and you sighed flopping onto your stomach on the bed.

“i don’t think so. i don’t want to spend a week with someone who won’t talk to me,” you mumbled. max crawled onto the bed, hovering over top of you and placing kisses along your shoulder and up the side of your neck to your ear.

“come home with me instead,” he whispered, nipping at the shell of your ear. you couldn’t hold back the moan that left your lips as max pressed himself against your backside. max rolled over, pulling you with him until you straddled his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist and holding you close.

“you don’t think we’ll get sick of eachother if we spend a week together?” you teased, as max placed wet kissed on your neck, finding your sweet spot with ease.

“fuck no,” he laughed.

•••

you had in fact decided to spend the week off at max’s house with him, and the two of you had just arrived, pulling into the driveway in max’s blue camaro. when you entered the house, a fluffy white and tortoiseshell cat ran up to max, weaving in and out of his feet and meowing.

“hey piper,”max laughed, bending down to pick up the cat. “daddy’s home. did you miss me?” he bombarded the cat with kisses on her forehead, and you laughed.

“daddy?” you raised an eyebrow.

“shut up, you love it,” he smirked, and turned the cat towards you. “this is piper.” you extended a hand gently for the cat to sniff, and she let you pat her on the top of the head.

“hi piper,” you smiled. max placed her softly on the ground, and led you further into the house. it was minimally decorated, which made sense considering how many days of the year he would actually be home. there was a large cream coloured couch in the center of the living room, that had a wall of large windows.

“you’re gonna have two cuddle buddies now,” max was still talking to piper as you sat down on the soft couch, and the cat hopped up into your lap. “she likes you,” max smiled, and sat next to you in the couch, tucking you under his arm. piper walked back and worth across both of your laps, before laying down on the arm rest.

“she’s cute,” you beamed, and max kissed your lips softly.

“you’re cute.” you giggled as he kissed your forehead and then your lips again.

“did you hit your head or something? what’s got you in such a good mood?” you laughed, although you weren’t complaining; you could get used to the softer side of max.

“no,” he smirked, easily pushing you over to pin him underneath you on the couch. “why, how do you want me to be?” he stared down at you, his brown eyes darker than usual.

“i just didn’t know the devil could be such a softie, that’s all,” you explained playfully, knowing you were pushing his buttons.

“careful,” he warned, a hand wrapping gently but firmly around your throat as you stared up at him, your eyes wide with excitement. “you’re gonna get yourself in trouble. unless that’s what you’re trying to do?”

“you tell me, daddy.” you teased, and he groaned, his grip tightening around your neck before he relaxed.

“you are driving me crazy,” he rolled his eyes, leaning down to kiss you. your teeth pulled at his bottom lip as his hand moved from your neck to cradle the side of your face.

“i can’t believe i get you all to myself for a whole week,” you exhaled as max left a trail of kisses down the side of your neck, leaving soft love bites behind.

“i hope you don’t like walking-“ you interrupted him with another kiss, and you could feel him smirking against your lips. your phone began to ring in your bag, and you sighed heavily. “don’t answer that,” max whispered next to your ear, his hands trailing down your sides to pull you hips upward against his.

“what if it’s important?” you asked, letting out a moan as he rutted his hips against yours.

“it can wait,” he growled, and his fingers began undoing your pants.

“max…”

“tell me if you want me to stop,” his voice sent a shiver down your spine as he slid your pants down, biting down on the skin below your jaw.

“fuck- please max,” you begged, unable to think straight.

“please what, baby?” he asked as his hand disappeared into your underwear.

“don’t stop.” max smiled before kissing you roughly, as your phone stopped ringing.

•••

you were peacefully face down in max’s bed, the soft blankets the only thing covering your body as you lay there, waking up from a nap after max had given you a very… thorough.. tour of his house. your eyes fluttered open at the sound of max getting out of the shower, the bathroom door opening with a soft click, and you looked up to see him, only his lower half dressed as he walked over to you. max leaned down and gently kissed the side of your head, and you smiled, waking up fully and rolling over to sit up against the headboard.

“hey sleepyhead, late night?” max teased, and you looked over at the clock that read 11:23 am, meaning you had only been asleep for about an hour, having fallen asleep after you and max had spent the entire morning breaking in his new mattress so to speak.

“shut up, don’t tease me when it’s your fault,” you pouted, pulling the blanket up higher. max laughed, raising his hands in mock innocence, kissing you sweetly on the lips.

“i’m sorry baby. you feel okay?” he asked sincerely, and you nodded.

“yeah, i’m great,” you smiled. “are you okay?”

“yeah baby i’m okay,” he smiled, kissing your forehead and then your lips again. “by the way, your phone has been going off for like an hour.”

you sighed, and max handed you one of his tshirts to wear as you got out of bed. max smiled to himself at the way your legs wobbled slightly as you walked, but didn’t mention it, deciding he had teased you enough. you walked over to your suitcase and dressed the rest of your body in your underwear and some shorts, before digging you phone out of your bag and checking the many notifications you had missed. there was about 20 text messages from your mom, a few from adam, and about 12 missed calls between the two of them. the ones from your mom were asking where you were, with increasing concern; you gathered that adam hadn’t told her you weren’t coming. reading through the ones he had sent confirmed your suspicion. you sighed, but clicked on your moms contact and put the phone to your ear, listening to it ring until she answered.

“y/n! sweetie i’ve been calling you! did you get my texts? why aren’t you home for the break?” she asked, concern in her voice.

“relax mom,” you laughed. “i’m sorry, adam was supposed to let you know i wouldn’t be there this time. i’m sorry to worry you,” you lied, only feeling a little guilty about throwing your brother under the bus.

“oh - he said he thought you were coming. i’ll have to talk to him,” she said. “anyways, what’s keeping you away? is there a boy?” she asked in a playful tone, and you smiled, looking over at max who was on the other side of the room, scrolling through his phone, paying no attention.

“yeah, actually - there is.”

“that’s great honey! are you spending your vacation together?” she asked.

“yeah, i’m actually with him at his house for a few days,” you explained. you knew she didn’t watch the show every week, but still hoped she didn’t ask too many questions about max. his reputation, at least in regards to the character he portrayed, wasn’t the best and would definitely concern your mother; nevermind the fact that him and adam were friends. thankfully, she didn’t ask for too many details.

“well i’m sad we won’t be seeing you, but i hope you’re having fun sweetie! be safe, and if something happens and you need to come home you’re always welcome.” you felt a pang in your heart, missing home and your family.

“thanks mom. i love you, and i promise next time i have time off i’ll be there.”

“i love you too, honey. me and your dad will see you then. maybe you can bring this boy of yours next time.” you smiled, glancing over at max again who looked up at your and sent you a wink, and you laughed softly.

“we’ll see mom. i’ll talk to you later okay?”

“bye sweetie,” she replied before you hung up. you considered calling adam as well, but decided you didn’t want to speak to him, sending him a text instead.

‘talked to mom. she’s happy for me.’

you put your phone back in your bag without waiting for a reply, and walked (still with some difficulty) over to max, who looked up at you from the chair he was sitting in.

“all good? your family’s not gonna send the cops here to arrest me for kidnapping you?” he asked, and you sat down in his lap, and his arms wrapped around your waist immediately.

“no i think you’re safe for now. unless adam calls them,” you joked. “my mom wants me to bring you home, so i think she’s on our side. i didn’t exactly tell her who you are though.”

“what can i say, moms love me.” you slapped his chest gently as you both laughed. “she’s doesn’t need to know all the little details just yet.”

“agreed. i just hope adam calms down about it. i hate that i’ve come in between you guys.”

“i know baby. he’ll get over it,” max said, kissing your cheek.

“i hope so,” you sighed. “enough about my family drama. what’s the plan for today?”

“hmmm i think we can do whatever we want,” max said, kissing your neck softly.

“i like the sound of that. i need to shower first though,” you giggled as his kissed tickled your skin. max let go of you, allowing you to stand up and walk to the bathroom. you turned the water on, before peeking back out into the bedroom.

“you coming?” you smirked, and max threw his phone aside and hurried over to join you, and you smiled. things may not be perfect, but you were happier than you had been in a long time, and as long as you and max had eachother, you knew you would be fine.

🏷️ taglist: @frodhoebagginit

#mjf #mjf x reader #mjf aew #mjf fanfiction #mjf imagine #maxwell jacob friedman #maxwell jacob friedman x reader #aew #wrestling fic #wrestling imagine #wrestling imagines #wrestling #aew fic

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eroguron0nsense · 5 months

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The Nagi Nagi no Mi and Trauma Defence Mechanisms

Not sure if anyone else has written on this but I've always found it interesting that they gave Corazon the power of silence to use as a defence against Doffy in both literal and metaphorical terms. Of course, it's a fairly practical thing for a covert operative like Cora to have in that it helps him conceal his presence, but it also protects him from Doffy and lets him fly under the radar because he's continually underestimated by the family because of his supposed trauma-induced aphasia and general clumsiness; it's assumed that he's good at fulfilling his assigned role, but that he's ultimately not a threat and he's only there in spite of his muteness because he's Doffy's younger brother. Even the children, who are under the impression that he hates kids, continually underestimate him and laugh at his antics, oblivious to his attempts to protect as many children as possible from his brother and the family's abuse.

On another note though, that avoidance and solitude might be interpreted as a perfect way to avoid the attention or ire of a terrible family member who is more than willing to hurt you for crossing them; even before he presumably ate the Nagi Nagi no Mi, he never gets any speaking lines in childhood save for begging Doffy not to kill their father. His silence maintains his nonthreatening, unobtrusive facade in front of Doffy, and even when he breaks that facade to protect another potential victim of Doffy's manipulation and violence, he quite literally uses his powers to protect Law from his brother at the moment of his death and allow him to escape undetected. His silence, which leads to his underestimation, is ultimately necessary to defeat the man who hurt him time and again, who robbed him of their father and left him for dead, who was eager to sacrifice him on the altar of his ambition.

We can see that Doffy is a pretty violent and sadistic child, who's internalized this horrifying entitlement and abuser logic by virtue of being raised in Mariejois, and his parents, while well-intentioned, do little to nothing to counter this conditioning or even intervene when he starts throwing tantrums in public where he calls for public executions and enslavement of regular townspeople. We know that he was more than willing to sacrifice Cora for the Ope Ope no Mi. We can also see that Doffy, for all his ostensible pride in his "family", cares nothing for them beyond how he can manipulate them to his own ends and only defends them publicly as extensions of himself. If that's how Doffy feels comfortable behaving in public, it's highly likely (even though its never stated) that he harmed or otherwise made Cora hate and fear him at home even before shit went south, with little to no real intervention from their parents. And I just like that, rather than cowardice, they made Cora's voluntary silence–his defence mechanism against his abusive brother– into something that he uses for the sake of undermining and ultimately defeating Doffy, and for the sake of protecting another child from his lifelong abuser.

#one piece #dressrossa #donquixote doflamingo #donquixote rosinante #donquixote family #corazon one piece #rosinante corazon #donquixote corazon #rosinante donquixote #doffy #doffy one piece #doflamingo one piece #trafalgar law #trafalgardwaterlaw #op doflamingo #op spoilers #dressrossa arc #donquixote rocinante #Also how did I forget Law awakening it in Wano frfr

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kassandras-one-braincell · 1 year

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Abby Anderson x Reader - Agnosticism

Summary: Abby finds sanctuary in your body, and endeavours to worship you in kind. [explicit]

Warnings: religious imagery (written by an atheist), vaginal fingering, atheistic POV. Reader is AFAB but no gender has been assigned or mentioned.

Word count: 994 (sorry, thought I'd ease myself back into writing)

AO3 link here.

Minors, men and ageless blogs DNI. You will be blocked immediately upon interaction.

Angels aren’t real.

They can’t be; their existence would imply that somebody emerged from the ‘god’ debate victorious, and in this shithole of a world, Abby refuses to believe that. The notion of a higher power brings her no comfort – the opposite, in fact. So, for the sake of her sanity, angels simply cannot be real.

But you just might alter her perspective.

She finds it remarkable, really. What remains of mankind is doomed to suffocate in a pathogenic wasteland, to whither away amongst the overgrown concrete while nature reclaims the carcasses. And then there’s you: the aether glowing through an otherwise black sky. Something to live for, to fight for, when all else is damned.

Sanctuary is desperately sought out in this life, and Abby is fortunate to have found hers. She delights in your company, revitalised by the very air you breathe. Compassion comes so naturally to you – she is hardly deserving of it by ethical standards, yet you offer it freely and warmly to her anyhow.

Abby may not believe in God, capital ‘G’ or otherwise, but the love she holds for you is religious.

Religion, of course, is incomplete without worship. Abby often pays homage to the temple of your body, be this through a roadmap of kisses, murmured prayer in the form of sweet nothings and laughter, or prurient indulgence.

Tonight, as pale moonlight creeps through the moth-holes in the drawn curtains of her lodgings, she partakes in the latter. Although, her worship is not submissive. She honours the gift of your trust and vulnerability by embracing the control you relinquish to her.

Eyes parallel to your navel, Abby lounges on her side next to you, lazily pumping two fingers in and out of your velvet heat while you writhe on your back. Mesmerised, she revels in the sight of your quivering tummy and the glistening of her digits as she withdraws them from your warmth. Languidly, she sheathes them again, smirking as she feels you pulsate around them.

She pleasures you methodically, for every movement of her fingers inside you evokes a different sound from your pretty mouth. You whimper at the emptiness as she retracts them, just for that split second where you’re left without stimulation, before she presses a circle against your clit with her thumb, ripping a ragged moan from your lips. There’s a soft gasp as she buries them to the hilt once more. A mewl as she crooks them ever so slightly, grinding her fingertips against the spot inside of you that has you grasping at the bedsheets. All the while your breathing grows heavier, hotter, your thighs trembling around her hand.

In these moments, Abby transcends herself, her ascension spurred on by your darling panting of her name as the precipice of your orgasm draws near. She adores your blissed-out, absentminded pleas for nothing in particular. She revels in your dependency on her to make you feel good. Her pride swells with the knowledge that right now, she consumes your every thought and feeling. The power of it all makes her feel like a deity herself.

Blasphemy, right? But you love it. Surrendering yourself to her feels divine in its own right, and Abby is all the more reverent of you in spite of it.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” she chuckles lowly, glancing up at your face, smiling at the unfocused look in your beautiful eyes, and the teeth gently sinking into your bottom lip. She continues to fuck you deep and slow with her fingers, maintaining an unhurried pace. As her thumb sweeps against your nerves, your eyes flicker down to her, all glossy and doe-like. Angelic. Her smile widens as she asks, “Do you think I can get you there, just like this?”

Your plump, dewy lips widen, a response on the tip of your tongue. As you form the beginning of a breathless syllable, Abby decides to rub against your sweet spot, just to hear the sound hitch in your throat. “F-fuck, Abby,” you stammer, eyes fluttering shut. Abby hums in contentment. The faint ache in her wrist is appeased by a surge of electricity at your endearing inability to keep your eyes open.

“Answer me,” she softly commands. The question was rhetorical, and she isn’t looking for a particular answer; she wants to gauge just how capable of coherent speech you are.

Swallowing a whine, you breathe out three beautifully simple words, hips stuttering with the precious syllables: “I want to.”

There’s a time for teasing. This is no such time; you are utterly enraptured, strewn so perfectly against the sheets, and right now, Abby desires nothing more than to satisfy your every whim. To deny you would be her fall from grace.

Instinctively, she leans forward to kiss your abdomen, pressing her lips against the subtle, pyretic skin with featherlight delicacy. Her tempo never changes, but she can’t help but yield to her need to see – feel – you fall apart. Thus she never unsheathes herself past the second knuckle, massaging you intimately from within while her thumb replicates every deep circle against your clit.

Her affections are rewarded with a melody of guttural and pitchy moans. Crescendo nigh, Abby murmurs saccharine guidance against your skin. “Let me get you there, baby.” Her lips ghost one, two butterfly kisses over your tummy, almost purring at the gentle twitch the gesture elicits. “You feel how deep I am, don’t you?” A sweet cry echoes into the night. Wetness trickles down the valley between her two fingers. “That’s right, let it happen—”

“I want to. Fuck, baby, I wanna– I need it—”

Bless you. You don’t need to beg, not right now. Abby couldn’t leave her angel wanting for anything.

She glances up adoringly at your face, basking in the heavenly sight of your quivering lip and knitted brow. At the tantalising clenching of your heat around her fingers, she utters the closing words to her prayer.

“Let go.”

#abby tlou #abby x reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson

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grendelsmilf · 3 months

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i don't want to act like corporations won't make homophobic decisions in their quest to further their financial interests. of course they will, because no capitalist would get anywhere without making the strategic decision to pander to the most powerful members of society, and we obviously live in a patriarchy that violently imposes a dogma of heteronormativity as a crucial method in its system of control. so there is, of course, an incentive to systematically erase any [gender] nonconformity from their product if it's no longer lucrative to present themselves as (pseudo)progressive in this way for whatever reason. so in the case of corporate tv executives, the idea that a show could theoretically get cancelled for being too unapologetically gay isn't ridiculous or far-fetched. in fact, the strategy to produce one or two seasons of a niche show with overtly lgbt characters and then cancel it once it's no longer turning a significant profit is pretty sound. especially if that show happens to be a piece of genre fiction, and especially if that show is bad. that way, the show can garner enough of a fanbase (the intersection of, say, sci fi fans and lesbians in your low budget lesbian sci fi series) that it gets promoted without the company itself having to expend their budget on marketing (which they can instead dedicate to more surefire mainstream hits), and gets viewed just enough to turn a profit. it's an experiment that can then get toted by the company as evidence of their progressive inclinations, without actually having to commit to any sort of reputation as a champion of lgbt rights. the fact that these shows are often qualitatively poor means that they can retroactively justify their premature cancellations by pointing to the low quality rather than the content. it's an insidious strategy.

of course, it's not necessarily true. lgbt media does actually happen to be profitable these days, especially when it's presented as either as a) salacious and shocking or b) heartwarming and wholesome. the fact that most of the shows that people have kicked up a fuss over are just undeniably not good and too niche to be lucrative makes the argument that these cancellations are all motivated by pure, unadulterated homophobia and nothing else (such as viewer retention rates and other fiscal concerns) seem somewhat silly. the desire for more authentic, compelling lgbt exploration in our media should not take the form of clamoring to renew mediocre (or just straight-up-bad) shows ad infinitum, but rather to acknowledge that there will never be true artistic depth rendering our community with love and authenticity to be found in corporately produced mainstream art. the issue isn't that these faceless executives are all individually spiteful homophobes, but rather that they operate under a structure that demands that these systemic injustices continue to be exploited for the sake of accruing capital. i'm not saying that homophobia isn't a real concern, but it's entirely incidental to the primary issue which is profit motive under capitalism. but you guys could also just stand to watch slightly better tv.

#sorry i just saw a rly cringe screenshot (about the flag show) and then started thinking about first kill again... and countless other shows #like i will never forgive hbo/max/whatever for they did to infinity train #but in that instance we all recognize that the issue is capitalism. so it's okay and valid and true #the irony of course being that the flag show and first kill are also both wildly racist #so their cancellations are in a way kind of progressive victories in and of themselves. lol #o

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weekend-whip · 7 months

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I'm curious (and bored) so do you think there's any truth to what Harumi says to Lloyd in "Darkness Within", that darkness is stronger than light? Because Darkness always persists, it never stays down, and it can never be eradicated, but neither can light...

"That's always been the problem, you know," Harumi hums, taking great joy in spinning Lloyd around from where he dangles from the ceiling in Vengestone. He attempts to snap at her with his glinting fangs every time her hand drifts close, but she pulls away just a second too quick each time, reading him easily. "This foolish belief in the concept of Balance, as Balance...always results in nothing but strife. It's nothing but a farce. You can't tell me that the natural state of the world is to always be in conflict."

She sighs as she continues to twirl and rock Lloyd like a pendulum, watching impatiently as the rest of the Council scrambles to prepare for the ritual. The insignia of an Ouroboros sits prettily upon the floor, swirling around the chamber's central crystal. She scowls just at the sight of it, while Lloyd attempts to argue for argument's sake.

"But that's...just how life is. Every ending will lead to a new beginning," he insists, even as Harumi rolls her eyes. "For every Destruction, there is a new Creation. For every ounce of Order, there will be an ounce of Chaos. For every shred of darkness, there will be light to blot it out, and vice versa. Everything...will always have an opposite. Everything will always have a counter-balance. One thing was never meant to consume everything else."

"Easy for you to say," Harumi shoots back. She cut a glare over her shoulder, unimpressed with his words. The subtle glow of all the crystals in the chamber reflects in her eyes, giving them the illusion of being magenta in a trick of the light. "Must be real easy to preach about everything having a balance where you are representative of the one thing that doesn't."

Her response knocks the winds out of Lloyd, and had he been standing he might've stumbled back, just a bit. She huffs in amusement, tossing her hair over her shoulder and blowing her bangs out of her face.

"If only the world was more like you, huh? How nice it must be, to be able to exist uncontested. To be like energy itself, never waxing or waning, never coming or going, taking whatever shape you like as you like, simply left just to be...of course you wouldn't understand the struggles the rest of us face, always having to claw our way to happiness and it never being a guarantee."

Lloyd wilts, unable to directly counter her point, regardless of it being an outlandish claim. Harumi stands at full height now, beginning to pace with her arms folded behind her back.

"We all strive for our versions of peace, but what do you do when your peace is the opposite of someone else's? If ice must melt as fire persists; if fire must be extinguished for ice to be at peace...How do you determine which is correct? Under your logic, this contradiction is simply the natural way of things; this is the "Balance" you claim to govern us all...but what peace is there in an inescapable cycle of suffering for all?!"

Harumi shakes her head. Her expression darkens as she casts it at the floor.

"No, true peace can only be achieved when one side overtakes all. When the constant, pointless fighting ends, when conflict itself is eradicated, when the Ouroboros no longer has to choke on its own tail, when the cycle of so-called Balance is finally broken at long last, and when all that remains is only the vacuum of a glorious oblivion...you will look into the depths of that void and finally realize...that Darkness is and always was stronger than Light, for there is no light that waits for any of us in the end."

Harumi raises her hands towards the sky, her sinister grin spreading and splitting her face in two.

"...then, and only then, will there be peace in the dark."

"Unless my light is brighter," Lloyd mumbles automatically, in spite of himself.

...And then every fiber in his body seizes.

Her words reverberate in his mind as he replays them over and over, their familiarity sending a chill straight down the length of his spine. His mouth goes dry; his hands shake despite their currently restrained state. He shudders as he forces himself to look back up at Harumi, who hasn't moved an inch since concluding her point.

"...wait, you...those words..." He doesn't even want to finish his sentence, but the very idea of what he's thinking has nearly made him break out into a cold sweat. He heaves, struggling to breathe, as he refuses to take his eyes off the girl before him. "That...that almost sounds like...the philosophy of The Overlord..."

"...Hmm hmm hmm—"

Her pitched giggling breaks through the resounding silence, piercing Lloyd's heart with nothing but fear. Harumi puts a hand to her chin, her smile turning cloy as she locks eyes with him. Something dangerous lurks in her now fully crystalline magenta eyes, and Lloyd has never dreaded a color so much.

"—I wonder if there's a reason for that?"

#man crystalized could've been so cool #anyway while i don't think harumi was wholly correct she did have a reasonable point to her beliefs #(if those were even *her* beliefs to begin with ooooo not me pitching my overlord-possessing-harumi propaganda oooo)#ninjago #ninjago crystalized #princess harumi #lloyd garmadon #fic tag #my stuff

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raayllum · 5 months

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Moving forward, what do you think is going to be Claudia's motivating Drive?

Viren, at least, was always able to tell himself that he was working for the sake of the Greater Good, but that's not something Claudia has ever cared all that much about-- her first, last, and only real concern has always been her Family. With that pillar removed (not that I think Viren is about to disappear completely, but he's definitely not going to be directly involved with her in quite the same way), what does she have left to fight for?

I mean, obviously Revenge can be a powerful driving motivator-- the whole series kicked off with revenge-induced assassinations, so we know that's not exactly nothing, and I can definitely see it being something pushing Claudia further down her current path.

But (IMHO) the story has also been moving somewhat further away from Cycles of Revenge, and I just can't see that being a strong enough motivator for Claudia when counterbalanced against everything our Heroes are fighting for. (Especially with Soren still holding out hope for her and being a weak chink in her armor.)

What's the piece I'm missing?

In a lot of ways, perpetuating the Cycle has always, indeed, been about seeking Revenge for the loss of loved ones.

Rayla: When I first came here, I was on a quest for revenge. But the minute I saw that egg, everything changed. Now, this is a journey of redemption. / I became so obsessed with revenge that I risked losing the best thing I ever had: you. Ezran: I'm sorry about what happened to your father, and what happened to mine. But we don't have to avenge them. We don't have to strike back. We can't choose peace. Callum: Then it's a cycle. You hurt me, someone will get revenge against the elves. It won't end.

This is also one of the key things that, at first, set Soren and Claudia apart from the bulk of the main cast. At first, Harrow and Viren weren't seeking revenge (the Magma Titan) but then they both succumbed to it (killing Thunder) and it continued to snowball from there. In spite of losing their families, Callum, Rayla, and Ezran chose to shed the cycles of revenge their parents (Harrow and Runaan) had partaken in to try and break it instead.

Conversely, Soren and particularly Claudia have been largely removed from the Cycle of Revenge... until 3x09 and firmly in 5x09. Soren and Claudia lost a family member, but their mother is alive and chose to leave. While they've experienced forms of loss, they've never had to literally grieve a death. Although Soren has complicated feelings about his dad, he's ultimately more relieved than anything else regarding his dad's death ("Dad is dead, Claudia. You don't have to do what he wants anymore"—4x07) and angry/despairing when it's reversed (yelling no in show / Soren snarled. “Why couldn’t you just stay dead?”—TDP Reflections: Strangers).

Aaravos dangled Viren over Claudia's nose like a carrot dangling from a stick, and she followed. He didn't offer her revenge, but a way to save her father. But the same trick won't work twice on her. Claudia isn't going to try to bring Viren back again — it'd be a repeat and wouldn't progress her character any further — but she also can't walk away from Aaravos, because she's our sole primary antagonist outside the mirror and still might have a role in freeing him. And if she walks away from Aaravos, she's also going to be walking out of the plot, and we can't have that. Thus, I think power — and subsequent revenge — is about the only thing Aaravos would have left to offer her.

It gives her an incentive to 1) go after the prison and/or 2) generally do Aaravos' bidding, and if she couldn't defeat the trio without his help the first time, allying herself with him is the biggest way she can level up as a threat in terms of just like, power scaling.

There are also still a few bits of information that Aaravos knows but Claudia doesn't (that Rayla was responsible for Viren's death, and that Viren lied in 3x03; although for the latter, that's more something she couldn't or wasn't willing to accept) that could spur her further into well, going wonderfully apeshit.

Revenge is more of a fine motivator for her in 4x09 (tricking Rayla, although Terry gets her to turn around) and in S5 with the dragon (smirking and smiling about having the upper hand, making it scared of her) and in her altercations with the trio.

So yeah, my vote is on revenge — for better or definitely worse!

Obligatory fanon s6 fic plug in because of Claudia's revenge arc getting underway

#tdp claudia #s6 speculation #predictions #the cycle #ljf613 #idkf i expressed this as eloquently as i wanted to but hopefully it's coherent #thanks for asking #requests #tdp meta #tdp #the dragon prince #claudia #like claudia does have a mean streak to her #it's not massive (she's mostly smug or indifferent when it comes to that shit) but #the 'you made me suffer or worry so now i'm getting even'? yeah definitely there

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ilikeyoshi · 2 months

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i HHHAAAAAAATE the emphasis ppl put on "empathy" as a sign of Good Personness, because that's not what empathy IS. empathy is your body's ability to feel what you PERCEIVE others to be feeling. it's not even ACCURATE.

ALL empathy does is causes your body to experience emotions and feelings based on your perception of others' emotions and feelings. it makes you sad when others ARE, or ARE PERCEIVED to be sad. great example: i get sad about my friends' minecraft pets getting lost or dying, EVEN WHEN MY FRIENDS DONT MIND THAT MUCH. because I PERCEIVE that to be something that would make someone sad, so i GET SAD. THATS IT.

empathy DOES NOT make me compassionate. if anything, empathy makes compassion HARDER for me. when my empathy makes me feel something intense, sometimes i then get angry or upset about Having Feelings Foisted On Me, and i sometimes incorrectly blame my friends for HAVING FEELINGS or GOING THROUGH SOMETHING DIFFICULT. it is selfish, misguided, and DIRECTLY NEGATIVELY IMPACTS MY ABILITY TO BE COMPASSIONATE, SYMPATHETIC AND SUPPORTIVE. it is a NIGHTMARE to navigate.

conversely!!! my LOW EMPATHY FRIENDS don't have this problem! compassion is A CHOICE TO BE KIND. sympathy is A CHOICE TO UNDERSTAND. these things are not impacted by empathy AT ALL. hyperempathy is like autoimmune diseases to me; it is an OVERACTIVE BODILY RESPONSE, just to other emotions (and perceived emotions) instead of threatening cells (and perceived threats).

probably, a balanced amount of empathy (and DEFINITELY low empathy) does not produce the problems i mentioned. but it does not MAKE you kind. it does not MAKE you understand. it just makes your body feel shit, often INACCURATELY!!!!! THAT'S IT!!!!!!!!!

feelings and emotions have NOTHING to do with morality. burn this idea out of your mind, because it is incorrect and believing it is making your life harder. what happens when you feel something bad? what happens when your feelings want your friends to shut up, or go away, or get over it? what happens when your feelings make you mad at someone for hurting? what happens when your feelings make you hate someone for existing?

feelings are natural, they happen to everyone regardless of empathy, and they are MORALLESS. it is your ACTIONS that determine your morality. it is your DECISIONS that determine your morality.

all that shit i just asked are feelings ive had, usually as a DIRECT result of hyperempathy. and in a world that totes empathy as A Sign Of A Good Person, it's taken A LOT of work to realize i'm not EVIL for feeling things. just because my FEELINGS want my friends to shut up doesnt mean I want them to; feelings are extremely vague and nonspecific. usually "wanting friends to shut up" is an incorrect interpretation, and what my feelings REALLY want is a break from the conversation. maybe i'm too overwhelmed to continue dealing with heavy emotions, which is much more likely to happen to me BECAUSE of empathy. and the longer i try to do it anyway, the more likely i am to really hurt myself AND my friendship. because when we give in and listen to our emotions uncritically, bad things can happen. "taking the ACTION of telling my friends to shut up" can happen. and you know what got me in that situation? empathy.

when you conflate empathy with compassion and sympathy, you are making an incorrect, HARMFUL statement that hurts people with low AND HIGH empathy. you are wrong. you need to kill this idea in yourself, for your sake and everyone else's. your feelings do not make you a good or bad person. what you DO with, or in spite of those feelings DOES.

#yoshi talks

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janeofcakes · 1 year

Text

The Final Solution

Here it is, friends. The one shot of which I spoke, the first of the two snippets I shared in the WIP Tag Game. I was inspired by a Tumblr post a few weeks ago, or maybe days, who knows? Everything oozes together into one sloppy puddle these days. I hope you enjoy.💜

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The tarmac around them was barren, bleak and lifeless. There was a line of planes some distance away from them. All had sunny destinations that were perfect for family vacations and weekend get-aways, but that was another world. The private plane they stood close to had an all-together different target, one that held nothing but pain and death.

“John, there’s something I should say,” Sherlock’s words were quiet and full of regret. He looked down at the cold, gray concrete beneath his feet and took a deep breath. He could get through this. He had to say this. He had to tell John how he felt, how he’d always felt.

He raised his eyes to meet John’s again and his breath caught in his throat. The doctor’s face was a mixture of discomfort, sorrow and agony. He knew. John knew what all of this meant. In spite of all Sherlock had just said, all of the questions he answered vaguely, John knew that Sherlock was being sent to his death. This was an assignment he would not complete and Captain John Watson had no delusions that Sherlock would still be alive when it all came to an end. The detective silently berated himself. He should have known that John was not so naive as to not comprehend the gravity of the situation, no matter how easily Mycroft thought it was to pull the wool over the doctor’s eyes.

“I’ve meant to say always and never have,” Sherlock continued, biting back a shuddering gasp that nearly overtook his words.

John must have heard it in his voice because his face twisted in anguish, but he quickly schooled it with the purse of his lips and squinting his eyes. Those deep blue eyes that told so much were fixed on Sherlock like a vice that would never loosen its grip. Anger born by helplessness shone through them, thrusting like spears into Sherlock’s mind, but it wasn’t alone. Unbearable grief filled John’s eyes into glassy orbs of thick water, slowly sloshing this way and that. His inherent rage held it like a dam made of the strongest stone. Anyone else who saw him would simply see the fury, but Sherlock could see it all and it slid into his heart with the cruel whisper of a sword.

“Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again,” Sherlock said hesitantly, his voice kept steady by sheer force of will, “I might as well say it now.”

Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly and bit his lip. His eyes slipped closed and he could hear John’s feet shuffling, his body full of nervous energy and tension. Sherlock shared the sentiment. He was on a great precipice, torn between the desire to confess his true feelings this one last chance he would ever have or carrying it to his grave. Both were exceedingly selfish. He believed John would want to know what he had come to mean to him, but it would make their parting all the more painful. John was Sherlock’s life, his conductor of light, his soul. He loved John with his very being. Why he had never found the courage to tell John was beyond his own comprehension. Sherlock knew what dangers they faced in their line of work. Any day could be his last, or John’s, but somehow it seemed as though there would always be more time. That wasn’t the whole of it though. Sherlock was scared of losing John and confessing his love was the surest way to push John “I’m not gay” Watson away.

Telling John would also mean throwing his whole life on its end. John was with Mary. He chose Mary. Sherlock told him he should forgive Mary for the sake of the child and for John himself. He loved Mary. Yes, she had lied. Nothing about her life was as she made it out to be. She was an assassin for hire, blackmailed by the most sinister of villains. She had shot Sherlock, but she made John happy and they had only just married. Sherlock could hardly tell his newlywed best friend that he loved him when said marriage was just beginning and there was a baby on the way. No. Sherlock couldn’t do that to John, not when things were finally starting to take form. No. John would have the life he had always wanted; a job, a wife and child, and Sherlock would disappear. It was better that way. Better for John, and Sherlock would always put the doctor’s happiness above his own.

“Sherlock is really a girl’s name,” Sherlock muttered at a loss for anything else. He tried to keep his lips from curling into a knowing smirk with mixed results.

One look at his face and John turned his head away, a huff of strangled laughter bursting from his lips. He put his hands on his hips and stared resolutely at the concrete beneath his feet, trying to collect himself. Sherlock had seen this before. A war waged within John and he was doing his utmost to keep it at bay. No one side could triumph over the other or chaos would consume John’s mind and the emotions he tried so hard to hide would flow out of the banks of restraint.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not,” John said through clenched teeth when he looked at Sherlock again. He let out a quick, fake laugh, but said no more.

Sherlock took a deep breath and blinked once slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. With nothing left to do, he raised his right hand and held it out to John. Blue eyes full of confusion looked at it and then melted into sorrow as they reached Sherlock’s face. John immediately took the offered hand and squeezed it tightly in one final handshake. Sherlock saw the first time they touched hands in the lab at Bart’s in his mind’s eye. That first touch of fingers when John handed his mobile over was the impetus for Sherlock’s love. He could see that John was struggling with sorrow and self-loathing that day, and he had instantly wanted to make it better. He wanted to make John more again, into the man he once was. That small spark had grown into a love so large that Sherlock had to make whole wings in his mind palace for John and time spent with him. His very heart, which he had been reliably informed did not exist, increased in size and scope to accommodate the level of feeling he had for John.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock whispered when the scrape of John’s shoes on the tarmac brought him back to the present. He retrieved his hand from John and took a step back. John’s hand slowly lowered to his side as he watched Sherlock move. His mouth said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes and every one crushed Sherlock’s breaking heart.

Nodding at John one last time, Sherlock turned his back and began walking toward the door of the plane. He stared straight ahead, closing off his heart as he went. He mustn’t let the emotion overtake him. He would not let John witness his collapse, lest it add to the sorrow the doctor already felt. There would be time to allow the breakdown once he was alone on the plane. Alone. It was what he used to want and he guarded it closely. ‘Alone protects me.’ The words were so hollow now and not at all what he desired. John had changed his very way of thinking and he honestly wasn’t sure he could go back.

Imaging a small ball of ice in his heart, Sherlock willed it to grow until it could encapsulate the whole organ. If he succeeded, he could make it to the plane and into the air before his emotions betrayed him. He could feel the inevitable prick of tears in his eyes and fought to keep it at bay. He hadn’t even taken that many steps, the feeling of John’s body heat still warm on his back, and Sherlock furrowed his brow at that. There was more than enough distance between them, even with the few steps Sherlock had taken. John’s warmth should already be a distant memory. The detective’s shoulders sagged slightly. It felt like he had walked miles.

This thought fled his mind as quickly as it came when warm fingers wrapped around his left elbow, closing against a palm that was suddenly pressed against his arm. The hand tugged Sherlock around and he was facing John again. His John.

The doctor’s arms were around Sherlock, his face buried in the taller man’s shoulder before the detective could say a word. John drew him in snugly, pressing the whole length of his body against Sherlock tightly. A wet gasp sounded near Sherlock’s ear as the force of John’s bone-crushing embrace increased. Thoroughly startled, Sherlock’s own arms were suspended as far out to the sides as allowed by John’s grasp, his fingers spread in shock. His lips were parted in surprise and he was lost for words, solely unprepared for this reaction.

“Don’t…don’t go,” John begged into Sherlock’s shoulder. His voice was heavy with emotion and tears. “I don’t want you to go.”

Sherlock’s icy heart shattered with such force that he gasped aloud and blinked his eyes wide. His long arms wrapped around John almost of their own volition. He tilted his head to rest a cheek against the side of John’s head, the scent of his soft hair drifting into his nostrils as a tear ran down the other cheek. Sherlock fought with the emotions that threatened to overtake him, breathing deeply and slowly in an effort to maintain control as he hugged the stuffing out of his blogger.

“Fuck me,” Mary Morstan muttered from where she and Mycroft Holmes stood at a distance observing the scene.

Mycroft, ever the pragmatist, reached into his breast pocket and removed a thin bundle of pages folded into thirds. He passed the document to Mary without looking at her. Confused, she hesitantly took it, opened it slowly and scanned through the words of the first page. Once she had ascertained its contents, she looked up at Mycroft sharply, her chin jutting out in fury.

“I will give you one chance to walk away,” the elder Holmes said, his eyes still on his brother and the man he loved. “You will not return under any circumstances or contact either of them again.”

Mycroft paused for a long moment, allowing his words to hang in the air, heavy with intent. Mary didn’t move a muscle, her glare seering into his skin. Finally, the tall man turned his head slowly to stare at her with piercing ice-blue daggers.

“If you do not,” Mycroft’s tone was definitive and whispered with a dangerous promise, “I will drop you where you stand.”

Some distance away and well out of earshot, Sherlock shook his head and released his grasp, taking hold of John’s biceps instead and pushing him away. John stared up at him, face full of concern, as Sherlock stepped well back from his friend. He held out his right hand, palm facing John, to prevent any advance. Sherlock’s mind was reeling. He couldn’t organize the thoughts that spun this way and that, not while John was touching him.

“Stop,” Sherlock managed, taking a half step back and bracing himself when it looked as though John would reach for him. “I have to go. This is how it must be.”

“Bullshit,” John muttered furiously, taking in Sherlock’s wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “Your brother can fix anything he wants.”

“This is different,” Sherlock’s voice was unsteady, despite his best efforts.

“When you were gone,” John began, his voice shaking with emotion. He obviously didn’t want to spend any more time on such a useless argument as what Mycroft can and cannot do, “all I wanted was for you to stop being dead. And then, when you came back, I just…rejected you.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say or do. He couldn’t seem to move his body. He was torn between wanting to hear every word and wanting to get as far away from John as possible. Still, he found himself looking at John inquisitively, silently urging him to go on.

“I never asked you where you were or what happened to you or why…” John trailed off as he gazed at Sherlock meaningfully. His expression made it clear that he did, in fact, know exactly why Sherlock had leapt off Bart’s and why he made John watch. Damn Mycroft, meddling in Sherlock’s life without consideration for how his actions affect others.

“You were injured. Badly,” John said flatly. He reached a hand to touch Sherlock’s shoulder, but the detective flinched back and John stopped a few inches from contact. Sherlock would never be able to go if John touched him again. The doctor’s hand hovered in the air as he continued: “I tackled you to the ground and hit you. Your back was covered with wounds.”

“You couldn’t have known, John,” Sherlock said. It was nothing John didn’t know already and obviously did not ease his guilt, but needed to be said. For the first time in his life, Sherlock understood the meaning behind useless placations. He needed John to know that however he felt about it, Sherlock did not blame him for his reaction to the return. It hurt Sherlock, of course. It still did, but he did not blame John in the slightest. John was shaking his head, ready to place the blame where he thought it belonged, but Sherlock would not allow it.

“I made a game of it,” the detective admitted with shame. “My conceit made me think you had done nothing while I was gone. I let myself believe you were lost without me and had just waited for my return like it was inevitable, but it wasn’t. Not in your mind. I was dead to you, and then I just waltzed back in with a fake mustache and a bad accent in a public place, no less. I set myself up for exactly what happened.”

John looked at him with soft, trembling eyes, unable to speak. The hurt was plain on his face and Sherlock’s heart wept for the man before him. God, how he wanted to fold his arms around him and take all the pain away. The pain he put in John’s heart with his carelessness.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock’s voice was low and reverent. He dipped his head to glance down and then met John’s eyes again, his face contrite and sad. “I’m so sorry. You gave me something precious and I…abused it.”

“You abused it?” John huffed a humorless laugh. His hands were at his sides again, his left clenching in and out of a fist. “I’ve done nothing but abuse you since you came back. Even when I was glad to have you back, I held your very presence against you as if I could never forgive it. Like things would never be the same between us.”

“Can you forgive me?” Sherlock asked slowly and against his better judgment.

He knew full well if John said yes he would never be able to get on that plane and he honestly wasn’t sure where that left him. John was right about Mycroft. His pompous brother could get Sherlock out of this mess with Magnussen. It would be difficult, since the British government wasn’t at all happy with the circumstance, and considering its public nature, but Mycroft could still do it. If he did though, what would it really mean for the future? John was married and would soon be a father. Things would never be the way they were. Was living that way better than the alternative?

“Yes,” John said definitively, surprising Sherlock with an answer to his unasked question. He met his blogger’s sincere face with wide eyes and parted lips. “I can only hope you’ll forgive me when I hurt you in so many ways. I was wrong and selfish and…”

“I do, John,” Sherlock interrupted him quickly. “Please believe that.”

John studied him for a long moment and nodded once with the barest dip of his chin.

“I do,” John said solemnly and this time he did reach for Sherlock, but not his shoulder as before. His left hand came to rest warmly on Sherlock’s cheek, cupping it as if it would break. Sherlock couldn’t help but lean into the touch and John’s lips parted ever so slightly to suck in a quiet gasp before closing again.

Suddenly, Sherlock had to say more. John had to know it all. He absolutely had to know the depth of Sherlock’s feeling for him, that he was home. I love you. I love you . Instead of simply saying that, however, his mind went back to the beginning.

“That day at Bart’s,” Sherlock began, already wanting to kick himself, “I saw you for what you had once been. A soldier and doctor, confident and pleased with the life you had chosen.”

John tilted his head curiously and let his hand slide from Sherlock’s face. The detective’s cheek felt instantly cold from the loss of warmth, but John did not simply pull away. He let his hand drift down to rest on Sherlock’s chest, directly over his heart. Sherlock hoped he couldn’t feel it beating wildly, but was sure he could.

“From that day, I’ve wanted to make you happy. I know I didn’t always do the best job,” Sherlock cringed apologetically. “Aside from fixing the psychosomatic limp and entertaining you with cases, I wasn’t terribly good at it.”

“I was happy, Sherlock,” John said quietly, but sincerely. “Very.”

“Still, I was inconsiderate and harsh and certainly did not take your feelings into account on many occasions. Most occasions,” Sherlock pressed on quickly, his tone changing to a more timid one by the end. He inhaled deeply before he went on: “I severely underestimated how my… absence would affect you. Had I known…”

“Don’t say you would’ve done it differently,” John’s voice was harsh and Sherlock only just stopped himself from recoiling. “We both know that’s not true.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed after a long pause, “I wouldn’t have.”

They stood staring at one another, John’s hand still on Sherlock’s chest. The warmth from that point of contact radiated through Sherlock’s body. It was what he had longed for as he looked down at John from the roof of Bart’s that day. What he had wanted every day and night while he chased Moriaty’s factions all over the world. He hadn’t said those three words on the mobile before he jumped because they would’ve done more harm than good and now, here he was on another precipice, ready to jump.

“But I would have put more thought into my return,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “I would have understood and regretted what you had experienced for two years. I would have said…”

“But you couldn’t,” John interrupted forcefully. “Mary was there and I was about to propose. It… It wouldn’t have gone any better.”

John cleared his throat and lifted his hand from Sherlock’s chest. The taller man blinked twice in rapid succession. His hands shot up to clasp John’s before it could retreat completely. John knew what he wanted to say. Had he always known? John stared at him in surprise, but did not pull his hand away.

“Since my return, I have done my utmost to see that you are happy. That your life is happy in every way,” Sherlock’s voice was clear and decisive, like a deduction. The most important of his life. It hadn’t been easy. So much of what he had done hurt him terribly, but he convinced himself he deserved it for hurting John so much and for so long.

He knew now he hadn’t deserved it. Not really. John had spent every day telling him that in his own way. Sherlock had seen that, but had not observed. Looking at John now, as he was about to leave him once again, and for good this time, Sherlock could finally observe.

“I planned your wedding,” Sherlock said bitterly. It wasn’t what he had meant to say and he wasn’t even sure where it had come from. He had wanted to voice it for a long time and could not stop himself from finishing the thought, the accusation, “and had to watch you marry someone else.”

He closed his mouth with a snap and dropped John’s hand as though he had been burned. His friend was shocked, his face slack. Sherlock had said it. Not the words, but he had told John he loved him. He had watched John become someone else’s husband, all the while wishing he was the other groom instead of the best man. He saved the life of John’s former commander, saying ‘We wouldn’t do that to John Watson’. Wouldn’t ruin his wedding day with such a trifle as ‘I love you. Marry me’. No. Sherlock had wanted John to be happy, he still did, so he sacrificed his own.

Now, with his words, Sherlock could see connections lighting up in John’s mind. The switch had truly been flicked on, and lightbulbs and fairy lights were springing to life to sparkle and shine. John’s eyes were wide, his brows raised to his hairline. He was probably trying to work out how his life had become so unhinged. Newly married to a woman who was pregnant with his child and his best friend in love with him, John “Not Gay” Watson. What would he even say to Sherlock? What could he, besides the obvious?

Sherlock stepped back abruptly. He knew John didn’t want him. He didn’t need, didn’t want to hear the words. The heart-crushing words that had danced through Sherlock’s mind for years now. The ones that would destroy him utterly if said aloud. I don’t love you, Sherlock.

The detective’s eyes flashed dangerously in panic when John made to speak, reaching for him as he did so. Sherlock jerked away from his hands, backing up and nearly stumbling over his own feet.

“Sherlock,” John began, but his friend was too quick for him.

“No!” Sherlock nearly shouted. His arms jutted out in John’s direction to hold him at bay. “I can’t hear you say it. Don’t say anything. Just let me go.”

Sherlock turned quickly towards the airplane, his body ready to sprint and run up the stairs. He was dimly aware of John’s protestations and tried to shrug off the hand that grasped his left elbow. He shook and pulled when it would not relent and finally turned to face his friend once more. Sherlock’s eyes were blazing, his expression thunderous. He jerked his arm once more, but John’s ironclad hold did not budge. Sherlock lurched forward and planted himself firmly in John’s personal space. He glowered down at the man in one of his most intimidating stances.

“Let. Go,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled the threat in a deep tone. His eyes were narrowed into razor-sharp slits that would have burned through anyone else’s skin in seconds.

John. John Watson simply stood in front of Sherlock, taking the full impact of his ire without flinching. In contrast with Sherlock’s sharp angles and fierce stare, John’s face was calm and soft. His features seemed lighter, as though the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. His blue eyes were deeper and darker than usual, welcoming Sherlock in to swim in their comfort and safety. The corners of John’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, flirting with a smile. Sherlock’s brows darted up, furious at the very thought that John would mock him for his feelings.

“I love you,” John’s words cut through the dizzying haze of anger. The sound of Sherlock’s rapid breathing and the murderous flow of blood in his ears suddenly vanished. The hint of a smile had vanished and John looked very serious. “I love you, Sherlock. I love you.”

Sherlock’s whole demeanor changed in a split-second and the wide expanse of his shoulders eased until he was more his own height, rather than the deadly looming and decidedly taller-looking one. His mind ground to a halt and he blinked in confusion. He stared at John for what felt like hours while his slowed brain struggled to resume its usual pace.

“I think I always have,” John said plainly and then scrunched up his brow, pressing his lips into a thin line. “No. No, that’s not right. I know I always have.”

Sherlock straightened his neck, angled his shoulders down and tucked his chin, observing John with a furrowed brow. He looked at him with troubled confusion, unable to piece together all he was hearing. Sherlock tilted his head to the left and straightened his neck again, trying to size up the man before him. The iron grip on his arm was more relaxed now, but Sherlock had no desire to pull away. He blinked once slowly and opened his mouth, but John seemed unwilling to let him speak.

“I’m an idiot,” John began solemnly, “but I’m not stupid. I felt the spark the moment we touched. When we burst through the door of 221, breathless from running our asses off that first time, do you know what I wanted to do?”

The silence hung heavily between them, hot and charged. Sherlock did not answer. He did not move or even blink. He felt as though his very life was suspended, its safe release dependent upon John’s words. He watched John’s darkening eyes as he stepped closer to Sherlock.

“I wanted to push you up against the wall,” John’s voice was low and intimate, “and snog you senseless.”

Here, John paused again. His breath quickening, eyes dilating. Sherlock blinked in astonishment.

“I wanted to bodily drag you up the stairs and stay in your bed until you came apart at the seams,” John’s throaty tone fluttered into Sherlock’s ears like a melody. He closed his eyes to fully absorb the words and absolutely not imagine the scenario John had described.

“Why didn’t you?” Sherlock’s own voice was a full octave deeper when he opened his eyes to look at John.

“You had just finished telling me you were married to your work, i.e. not interested. Get lost, Watson,” John quipped, the words taking on his typical tone.

A sigh passed through Sherlock’s lips and his shoulders drooped slightly.

“What an idiot I was,” the detective mused, then furrowed his brow again. “You never brought it up again. Why?”

“I was scared,” John shrugged lamely. “I’d spent so much time telling everyone I wasn’t gay. I knew you believed me. I didn’t think you’d even take me seriously if I did try again, or told you I was bi. I was a coward.

No, I was,“ John went on quickly when Sherlock started to protest. “My parents were furious when Harry came out at 15. They threw her out of the house, completely disowned her and spent every god forsaken minute telling me just how wrong it was to be gay. By the time I was done with medical school and had joined up, I didn’t care anymore what they thought, but their prejudice was so deeply ingrained in me that hiding that side of myself came so naturally. It had become my normal.

When I met you,” John’s voice went a little unsteady and he stopped to gather himself. “Once I knew I was in love with you, I knew I couldn’t hide it and I couldn’t ask you to hide it. I know I didn’t have to, but it took a long time to get my illogical and biased upbringing the fuck out of my head.”

John stopped and studied Sherlock’s face. The detective wished he knew what John saw there because the doctor’s shoulder sagged and his eyes filled with sadness. He let go of Sherlock’s arm to rest his hand on the taller man’s chest again. John seemed to relish the feel of Sherlock’s heartbeat.

“I was going to say something, you know,” John told him quietly. “I’d finally worked myself up to it. Knew I’d be ready if you said you really didn’t feel things that way, though I was sure that whole sociopath lark was bollocks by then. I was going to tell you just before you…”

John’s voice cracked and gave out and he looked down at his feet. Sherlock’s heart broke. He raised his arms and lightly placed his hands on John’s biceps. The doctor did not need holding up, but Sherlock felt the need to do so regardless. When John looked up at him again, there was defiance in his eyes and the line of his jaw was hard.

“I used to think he knew somehow,” John bit out as if the words were rotten, “at least for a while. I thought he’d done it on purpose because he knew how I felt and wanted you all for himself. Didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t stop me from wishing I’d killed him. He’d taken that away from me too. I was so angry, Sherlock, and so alone.”

Soon, John’s hands were on Sherlock’s biceps as well and their bodies were close again. Sherlock never wanted to be any further from John than this again. John loved him. John loved him. John “Not Gay” Watson loved him. He felt as though all of his Christmases had come at once. Never had he thought this day, this fantasy, would become a reality.

“And when you came back I…” John’s expression morphed into one of horror. Sherlock was ready to quell his guilt once again, but realized all too quickly that was not what put John in his current state. “Oh, shit. Mary.”

John dropped his hands and twisted out of Sherlock’s grasp so he could look to where his wife and Sherlock’s brother stood watching them say their goodbyes. Regretfully, Sherlock turned his head toward them. Only Mycroft looked smugly back at him, the picture of stuffy nonchalance. Sherlock furrowed his brow, assessing his brother as John stomped over to the man.

“Where is she?” John demanded. “She’ll kill him now that she knows.”

“ Now that she knows?” Mycroft repeated snidely. He fixed John with a condescending gaze and leaned on his umbrella. “You must have known she at least suspected before today, Dr. Watson.”

“I swear to god, Mycroft, if you don’t tell me where she is I will do some really unpleasant things with that bloody brolly,” John threatened, very close to the elder Holmes now.

Part of Sherlock didn’t mind watching John and his brother trade insults. He always loved seeing John outwit the insufferable git, but deducing Mycroft had brought to light something far more important.

“She’s gone,” Sherlock said loudly so they would both hear.

John instantly turned on his heel and stared at the detective incredulously. Mycroft lifted his chin and looked down his nose at the younger in self-satisfaction. Sherlock walked over to where they stood. He glared at his brother and then looked at John with a softer expression.

“What do you mean she’s gone? Where is she?” John asked, his voice full of tension.

“He’s sent her away, John,” Sherlock told him carefully. He did not want to say any more than that because he honestly wasn’t sure exactly what his brother had done with her. John stared at Sherlock for a moment, letting the words sink in, before turning abruptly back to Mycroft.

“What have you done?” John asked sharply. He looked on the verge of a good shout and Sherlock was trying to decide whether or not to let him. John did not need the added stress of whatever Mycroft’s response would be, but releasing his anger might help to calm him. It could go either way and was a difficult line to tread when it came to John.

Before either John or Sherlock took action, Mycroft smoothly reached inside the breast pocket of his coat and extracted a small bundle of folded pages. He offered it to John, who glanced at it and then fixed hard eyes back on the taller man.

“What’s this?” John asked gruffly.

“Annulment documents,” Mycroft answered haughtily. “All they require is your signature.”

John took the bundle hesitantly, unfolded the pages and began to read. He took two or three steps back as he scanned the words carefully, turning slightly away from the Holmeses in the process. Burning with anger at his brother’s interference, Sherlock squared his shoulders and took a step toward the elder.

“What the fuck, Mycroft,” he demanded and was gratified by the momentary flash of surprise on the older man’s face. Mycroft had known Sherlock his entire life, obviously, but even he could count the times he had heard the detective use that particular word on one hand. “Why can’t you just leave it be, you insufferable ass?”

Mycroft raised an imperious brow in response. His haughty attitude made Sherlock’s blood boil. He was certain that his brother had nearly pushed John away from Sherlock several times throughout their friendship with his intrusions into their lives, some very intentional. Sherlock moved closer to his brother as he spoke in a low, dangerous tone.

“Your obtrusion into my life is tiresome to say the least,” Sherlock began, his demeanor a deadly calm, “but you have no business nosing into John’s.”

“Now, Sherlock,” Mycroft tilted his head up to look down his nose at his brother, “I have no intention of interfering in Dr. Watson’s affairs, I assure you.”

“Bullshit,” Sherlock snapped, borrowing from John’s vernacular. He was toe to toe with Mycroft now, their faces close. “John does not want to leave his wife or child. He has responsibilities and is a man of great principle.”

“Done,” John’s voice sounded decisively from over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock spun to face his friend, who had stepped closer to him and his brother again. The detective gaped and moved away from both men, his eyes locked on John. The doctor held out the unfolded papers in offer to Mycroft, who nodded slightly as he took them. Sherlock could see both John and Mary’s signatures on the top sheet as they passed from one hand to another. He looked back into John’s face, not giving a toss that his brother bore witness to his shock and confusion.

“I trust you’ll get these to the proper authority,” John commented tersely, adopting a military stance as he spoke to the elder Holmes.

“I will, indeed,” Mycroft replied superciliously. “It will be official within the hour.”

John chewed on his upper lip for a moment before pressing his lips together in a thin line and inhaling pensively. He met Mycroft’s gaze, his own eyes hard like that of a captain, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Good,” John clipped. “Thank you.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted minutely and he raised his chin slightly in approval.

“Mary Morstan will not enter your life again,” he told John in a decisive tone before turning to Sherlock and saying, “Your name is clear. My car will return you to Baker Street immediately.”

With a tap of his umbrella, Mycroft turned his back on them and walked to the two sleek, black cars parked not far away from where they stood. John watched him a moment and then turned his eyes to Sherlock. His whole demeanor changed in an instant the moment he saw the detective’s stunned expression. His features softened and his shoulders lost that crisp, military edge. He took a step toward his friend, reaching out his palms cautiously as though assuring a skittish animal.

“Sherlock?” John asked in a quiet, uncertain voice.

“Why?” Sherlock broke in, the word catching in his throat. He swallowed audibly and tried again. “Why would you do that? Your life, your marriage…”

“Was a sham,” John finished for him. “It was all a lie. She lied from the moment I met her. I don’t even know who she is.”

“But you love her,” Sherlock protested, his voice full of confusion and hurt. John was a man of principle and high standards. He would never shirk that responsibility. Sherlock didn’t understand. He felt as though he was looking at a stranger.

“I hate her,” John said sadly and Sherlock blinked in disbelief. John took a small step closer, giving Sherlock every opportunity to move away, but he did not. The detective had to know everything. He needed to understand.

“She shot you, Sherlock,” John said so much more with his eyes than words could ever express. Anger and terror swirled in their oceanic depths, but also sorrow and fondness. There was an unspoken sentiment hovering around them all, winding in and out of the other emotions. Sherlock felt his own bemusement and uncertainty fading away.

“She killed you, Sherlock,” John whispered, feeling the impact of every word like a bullet. “I don’t know what brought you back, but I will thank my lucky stars for the rest of my life.”

John did touch him now. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s biceps gently and gave them a squeeze. His brows were high on his forehead as he searched Sherlock’s silvery eyes for any sign of comprehension. When John parted his lips to speak again, his expression and tone hardened:

“And I could never forgive her for it. You’re my life. You mean everything to me, Sherlock. I’m not me without you.”

Sherlock struggled to process John’s words. It was a lot to take in, even for his brain. He had admitted more than once that he was not an expert at emotions and sentimentality, but so much had changed since he had met John. His perspective had certainly altered dramatically during his two years of hunting Moriarty’s network. Still, it was difficult to wrap his head around the sentiments of others and John had always been an enigma. Some parts of him were so easy to read and others never failed to surprise the detective. It was one of the many reasons Sherlock loved him with such intensity.

As pieces of the puzzle that was John Watson clicked into place, his words making more sense as the seconds ticked by, Sherlock began to feel his confusion lift. The tense muscles in his body began to ease and his hands ached to touch John. Something still ate at Sherlock’s mind, however. One niggling, enormous, hateful thing.

“What about the baby,” it wasn’t a question. It was a blockade to all Sherlock wanted, all he hoped, however vainly, that John wanted to. He watched as John’s shoulders sagged and his brow wrinkled in a kind of anguish. The doctor did not take his eyes off of his detective as he let out a low, deep sigh.

“It’s not mine,” was the simple answer.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. He had known this, of course, but that John had also was incomprehensible. His mind scrambled for an explanation, something that would explain John’s possession of this knowledge. He could only see one and the realization burned in his veins with the fury of an uncontrollable blaze.

“How?” Sherlock stammered and then growled, “Mycroft.”

“No, it wasn’t him. He didn’t say a thing,” John said quickly. He squeezed Sherlock’s arms again, knowing it would ground the detective.

Sherlock tried to slow his own breathing, looking into John’s eyes as he forced himself to concentrate on calming himself. Without intending to, he glanced toward the black cars a short distance away, knowing his brother sat inside one of them.

“No. No,” John snapped in a stern voice that regained Sherlock’s attention. “Look at me. Keep your eyes focused on me.”

His own words from so long ago stung and Sherlock flinched, only just resisting the urge to pull away. He knew John had not meant to cause harm, but must have realized what he had done because his eyes widened and then fixed on Sherlock more intently. John moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek gently. It was warm and welcoming and more comforting than the detective could express.

“I knew,” John told him. He raised his brows as he looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, his own full of honesty and resolve. “I knew as soon as you told us at the wedding.”

Sherlock blinked and his brow creased, disbelief overtaking him once again. He thought back to that night, the moment after he told them both about the baby. They were both shocked, and rightly so, then happiness. Sherlock studied their faces right at the moment between the two emotions in his mind’s eye and saw it. How could he have missed it before when it was so obvious? Nervousness and then resolution danced across Mary’s features before she smiled happily. John’s had been pensive and then resigned. After he congratulated them, John had put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and thanked him. He had looked up at the detective with an uncertain smile that did not reach his eyes. It almost looked pained more than joyful. At the time, Sherlock thought it was because of how their friendship would change. No more midnight cases or taking risks, perhaps no cases at all. Now Sherlock saw it for what it was: John was trying to hide the fact that he knew his wife was carrying a child that was not his own.

“John, I’m so sorry,” was not what Sherlock had meant to say, but is what came out of his mouth.

“Don’t apologize,” John gave a shallow shake of his head. “I know you had no idea at that moment. I’m sure you figured it out as time went on, but…”

“I wanted you to be happy,” Sherlock interrupted quickly, hoping he could keep John’s inevitable fury at bay. “I thought you were happy.”

He watched John carefully. He wanted to wince against the onslaught, but the doctor surprised him again.

“I know,” John admitted in a soft tone. “I wasn’t. Honestly, I can’t even say I was up until that moment. I was happy with Mary when it was just her. She got me through something I’m not sure I would have on my own and I’m glad for that. I am, but it all changed when you came back. I just wouldn’t admit it to myself. I was so angry, but I still knew I didn’t want to spend my life with her anymore.”

John paused for a moment to inhale deeply, steeling himself for what he wanted to say next. For the second time that day, Sherlock became very aware of the fact that John Watson was cupping his cheek for longer than was custom and made no move to stop.

“I was always so careful because of it,” the doctor said with some shame in his voice. “I felt like I still had to marry her. I’d only just asked, after all. It seemed… like my duty to follow through, but I knew I didn’t want to bring a child into the mix. Two or three weeks before the wedding, she kept surprising me. She seemed to want to catch me off guard so I’d forget to use protection or something, but I didn’t think about it at the time. I had no reason to suspect her of anything. It all fell into place the moment you told us at the reception.”

John glanced at his own hand on Sherlock’s cheek in the silence that followed. He cleared his throat a little uncomfortably and let his hand slide back down to Sherlock’s bicep. Looking at his friend’s face, John bit his lip and loosened his fingers, allowing his arms to slowly fall back to his own sides. Sherlock’s arms felt cool with the lack of them. He looked into John’s haunting eyes and wanted to ask every one of the questions that skipped through his brain. He knew it would overwhelm his friend, but he found he could not stop himself no matter how much restraint he employed. His lips parted, ready for the words to fall from within, but John stopped him.

“I love you,” John said delicately, but surely. In his mind, their lives had led them here and this was the only possible conclusion. Yet, he seemed only hopeful, rather than sure, that Sherlock would reach the same one. “I’ve never wanted to be with anyone like I want to be with you for…for the rest of my life.”

His last words were a whisper, a prayer, a song drifting into the air and around their shoulders. Sherlock let them wash over his face and invade his senses. He drank them in and absorbed them instantly, deep into his body, into his soul. With his eyes locked on John’s, he swooped in and pressed his lips to John’s, even as the man began to speak hesitantly:

“That’s the bones of it, really.”

First it was a soft press of lips, warmth spreading from one man to the other and back again. They parted briefly, not but a millimeter between them, and kissed again. This time it was slow, sweet and chaste, and it spoke volumes. Every shared experience and feeling passing between them. All the unspoken words from months and years ago suddenly laid bare, both men aware of it all at last. All of the pain and hurt finally behind them as they shared a breath, the very essence of life.

Sherlock tilted his head and slotted their lips together, dimly aware of John’s hands coming to rest on either side of his face. His own arms moved until his palms were pressed against the crests of John’s hips. He wrapped his hands around the sturdy frame and settled on the small of John’s back. Their lips fit together perfectly, like a puzzle with a missing piece that was finally found. John parted his own to allow a soft sigh to escape from deep in his throat. He flicked the tip of his tongue across Sherlock’s lush, lower lip before closing his mouth again.

Feeling a sudden rush of heat, Sherlock deepened the kiss, raising his right hand to cup the back of John’s head. He skipped his own tongue along John’s mouth in a gentle question, the corners turning up at the answering part of lips. Their tongues slid together slowly, exploring and discovering, tasting. A low moan traveled from Sherlock’s mouth into John’s and he could feel a smile on the doctor’s lips.

When they parted a moment later and Sherlock pulled back to look at his blogger, the sight nearly knocked him off his feet. John was beautiful; soft and grinning, his eyes bright and excited. He was happier than Sherlock had seen in some time, since before the fall, and he knew the look was mirrored on his own face. Sherlock’s smile grew as he felt the light touch of fingertips playing with the curls that hung just around the nape of his neck. It was both teasing and luxurious at the same time, and he longed to feel his hair smoothed between full-length fingers.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock breathed. “Come home with me.”

“I’d love to,” John answered with a gentle kiss. He took the detective’s hand in his own and tugged playfully. “Come on.”

Anthea stood still as a statue as she watched the second black car drive along the airport’s winding path off the tarmac, 221B its final destination. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned on her heel and walked to the back passenger door of the car that remained. She opened it efficiently and sat, tapping the glass that separated front from back. She took her blackberry from the pocket of her suit jacket as the car began to move. Typing out a message, she waited for her companion to speak.

Mycroft Holmes shifted next to her, still holding his umbrella in one relaxed hand. He turned his gaze away from the window to look straight ahead. Her own eyes still dipped down to look at her phone as she typed.

“Morstan has been neutralized?” he inquired in the steady tone of one who already knew the answer.

“Yes,” Anthea replied as casually as people talk about the weather. “She will not be found or missed. Your brother’s future with Dr. Watson is secure.”

Mycroft leaned back in his seat just a fraction more and let out a long sigh of relaxation. The barest of smiles flickered across Anthea’s face. His demeanor was all the commendation of a job well done she needed. She tapped send and replaced the blackberry into her pocket. They sat in silence as the car drove on, away from Heathrow and into London proper.

---------

Sometimes Mycroft isn’t so bad. Hope it wasn’t complete rubbish. 🤣 I’m off to work on my other WIP now and hoping I’ll be able to share it sooner rather than later. Love, Jane

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #john watson #johnlock fanfiction #Johnlock fanfic #tarmac scene #sherlock fix-it

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jujywrites · 11 months

Note

jealous kiss + victorian au

it's finally fucking DONE ohmy dfghfgjghj *collapses*

Prompt from this here list. HBD bestie~

AO3

FF.net

or keep reading

***

Spite

Whistling carelessly, Neil nods to Rob in the hallway as he passes by, then goes into their shared room. He sits down at his desk, retrieves a pen and paper, the whistling shifting to a hum.

Behind him, the door slams shut.

Oh, yes. Rob wanted to talk to him about something. Neil turns to sit on his chair backwards and says, "You seem a little testy."

Rob stands near the doorway, arms crossed, face impassive. "Would you care to explain who the hell you think you are?"

Funny how a cold voice makes someone seem (even) bigger. If Neil were a lesser person, he'd be intimidated. As it is, he just gets up and crosses his arms too. "I dunno, Bob. I wouldn't want to knock down your predetermined idea of who I am."

"For god's sake, drop your insufferable know-it-all attitude for one goddamn second." Rob, glaring now, steps forward— well, stomps, actually. "What are you doing with Eva and Roxanne?!"

Neil's genuinely confused. "What am I—" What is Rob talking about? Maybe... "Our free time overlapped today, so we took a walk together. That's not a crime now, is it? Roxie and Eva are birds of a feather nowadays, or haven't you noticed?"

"It's not simply today! Roxie has this look when she speaks to me about you, has for a week now. You're sweet on Eva all the damn time— don't start with me," Rob says when Neil tries to get a word in, "you two aren't nearly as subtle as you think you are— but then you send Roxie, I mean Roxanne, flowers? What the devil are you trying to pull, Watts?"

"Oh," Neil says. Then a smug slow grin as he realizes. "Oh. You aren't on your usual holier-than-thou tear. You're legitimately angry at me about this. Well," he scoffs and shrugs, arms raised, "it's not my fault you aren't clever enough to understand the intricacies of our relationship. Ironic, given you've been observing all three of us for as long as you have. Some might call that creepy."

He would have continued to pontificate except, in a viper-quick movement, Rob swoops forward and gets him pinned to the wall, arm barring his escape. Neil is abruptly and fully winded, a wheeze scraping from his throat.

"I'm not clever?" Staring Neil down point blank, Rob's fury is obvious. "Anyone with eyes can see you're leading them both on. You'll get your ego boost and then leave broken hearts in your wake."

Neil has a reply to that, but with Rob's arm pressing against his throat, he can't get words out. It's not like that.

"And when that happens, you... we'll all..." Rob shakes his head and holds Neil's gaze again. "You know as well as I do how often all our paths cross, so don't make me out to be some kind of stalker," Rob growls, pressing harder. "You little weasel."

Lava surges through Neil's veins. He blinks and he's on the floor, on top of Robert, sending blocked and unblocked punches to his face. "Son of a bitch. Say that to me again!!"

(Eva and Roxanne care for him, and each other, and he cares for them, how could Rob possibly think—)

How they got here flashes through Neil's mind in milliseconds during the euphoria of a landed hit, during the shock of Rob surging up and tackling him to the floor:

Hurt became anger became painful fury; he broke free of Rob's hold in a rush of strength and flatout bull-rushed him, Rob's surprise turning him into an easily moved object.

Hello, unstoppable force. Neil just stares, breathing hard. Anger is cooling into something else, something he can't name and isn't sure he wants.

Robert seems just as conflicted. There's nothing to read on his face and the fire in his eyes has dimmed, yet Neil feels the turmoil, can almost touch it like a length of rope between them.

But that isn't what he's touching. His hands are against Rob's shoulders with no tension to push him away, only resting. He feels vulnerable in a bottomless way. Only speaking can pull him back from the unnameable brink.

His words, his trusty weapons, have deserted him.

Rob leans closer, and Neil falls into the gap he closes between their lips.

He's both drowning and overwhelmed by oxygen, and he groans, hands twisting into Rob's jacket, his mouth opening to Rob's tongue.

This isn't supposed to happen. It's supposed to be wrong. But Neil's always been selective about rules.

That's his last coherent thought before movement and touch overtake him. Firstly, he can breathe again. "Oh, god—!"

Because Rob broke the kiss to put one hand on Neil's chest and the other down his pants, into his underwear.

A panting laugh escapes him. Had Rob thought he'd be stopped? His own erection is obvious and Neil has a feral need to return the favor, but he can't seem to move anything besides his hips against Rob's hand. "Ah, ah...!" One hand reaches out blindly and he groans, half in frustration, still unable to speak. He's so close already it's embarrassing. Rob's hand is hot and gentle and he needs to touch Rob back—

"It was going to be Roxie. I always thought that." Rob speaks so quietly that maybe it's to himself, even though he's looking at Neil with a different fire in his eyes now. "For so long, I've wanted... but then..." He sits back, kneels up, hands moving to his slacks.

Neil sits up almost fast enough to get dizzy, hands joining Rob's to pull his pants and boxes down. He reaches for Rob's dick, grasping, squeezing, and his own throbs when Rob shudders and grunts.

"Neil. You're just— you're so..."

He's pure instinct, and need. And what he needs, apparently, is for Rob to push him to the floor again and ruck up his shirt, because he doesn't fight back. What he needs is to get his own pants out of the way, and somehow he manages it in between touching Rob. Rob's hand settles below his clumsily stroking one, and his body presses against Neil's.

Then his hand gets around Neil's dick too, and it presses against Rob's.

The motion is too much. Neil gasps out a string of curses that alone would be plenty to get him the switch for the umpteenth time. "Oh, god, oh my god...!"

Someone's being pretty loud. Neil realizes it's him when Rob kisses him hard again, tongue searching.

He moans with abandon into Rob's mouth, feverishly rocking up against Rob's hand and dick and his own hand, over and over. Please, please, fuck—

His climax is so strong he might have screamed if not for his mouth against Rob's. He hears Rob gasping, a shivering moan, feels sticky warmth over his skin. He bucks repeatedly, maybe whimpering. He's never felt this good.

Then all at once the aftershocks shake him and Rob's mouth parts from his and Neil inhales like he half-drowned. But Rob stays over him, against him. Neil's free hand is gripping his shoulder so hard it takes several seconds for his fingers to loosen. For some reason, he doesn't move his hand.

They breathe together. Neil wonders why he doesn't want to leave his body.

"Ah, damn," Rob mutters presently. He sits up, dislodging Neil's hand, then stumbles to his feet and moves to his bedstand, whipping out a handkerchief from the drawer with one hand and attempting to pull his pants back on with the other.

Neil watches him move away and back to him. He's too soft, cleaning him and Neil up. "Guess you'll have to burn that," Neil says, putting the snark into his voice since he's too tired to smirk.

Rob grunts. He folds the used hankie into itself, then gets a clean one from the drawer, wraps it around the folded one, and stuffs the ball into the laundry bag in the corner.

Speaking is the key that allows Neil to move, too: getting off the floor, straightening his clothes. He straightens Rob's shirt while he's at it, distantly marveling at the lack of internal screaming; Rob gapes, mouth hanging.

He leans down fast to kiss him, but somehow Neil's prepared this time and meets him. No tongue, yet this kiss burns hotter than the others.

When it ends, Rob says, with absolutely no bite, "You're infuriating." Then he turns and walks for the door.

Something possess Neil to ask where he's going.

Rob looks back at him, hand on the doorknob. "I'm taking a walk."

Neil's left staring at the closed door, the image of Rob's back imprinted on him.

After a moment, he turns for his desk. He picks up the pen and paper from the floor and puts them back. He sits down, pulling the chair in, and takes hold of the pen.

In the end, he rests his head in his arms and staring at the wall, a hundred half-finished thoughts vying for attention.

#Sigsquare #JujYwrites #To the Moon #Finding Paradise #spice #compactorr #victorian AU #i say that but i can't history so uh it's 19th century anyway XD

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horizon-verizon · 1 year

Note

One of the most mysoginistic takes in reddit about Rhaenyra:

"He should have named Aegon heir the day he was born and raised him to be a proper king. Rhaenyra was still young enough that she would have eventually gotten over it and Daemon was still away at war away from his influence. I think she would have understood eventually as well.

Let’s not forget Rhaenyra was content with eating cake and flying around her dragon, it wasn’t until Viserys thrust the prophecy on her out of guilt for Aemma and spite for Daemon that she then took it serious.

Even when she is pleading to Viserys in episode 8 she even admits being heir has been a major burden upon her life." So Aegon should be raised a proper king just because he has a cock. Rhaenyra, being a woman, should be content with eating cake.

Show!Rhaenyra is already a watered down, rewritten version of her canon self, who anticvipated ascending since she was 8 and never questioned it herself. She says and affirms that the throne is her birthright and dismisses her brother’s claims.

This moment/episode is a huge reason why I detest both this show and think this episode is the worst one aside from 9 and 10. It has the most misogynist writing of the season, where it totally removes Rhaenyra’s quick action, firmness, agency and dignity to make Viserys seem more of a savior when it really was not necessary.

Why can’t Rhaenyra have retained her desire for the throne? For power? For safety for her kids?!

So again, that user knows nothing and obviously never read the book or read it carefully. And you don’t even need to read it “carefully” to know this about canon Rhaenyra--it oozes whenever we get mention of her and her actions. So It’s better to say “fairly” and with an actual brain.

This part in particular:

it wasn’t until Viserys thrust the prophecy on her out of guilt for Aemma and spite for Daemon that she then took it serious.

Viserys didn’t just “spite” Daemon, he seriously believed that Daemon would destroy his legacy and invite ruin to the house. He also continues to keep Rhaenyra as his heir despite his sons not just because he’s guilty over Aemma (even with such a tragedy and his part in it, the passing years will give him other reasons and time to think Rhaenyra fit and good for the position, aside from him putting his eggs in the proverbial basket).

She always took it seriously! Going back to episode 2, with Rhaenyra choosing a guardsman. Her logic for choosing Criston Cole was that real experience more than a man's lineage and status was more useful and needed to protect herself and her father when Otto was the one to want basically anyone else and a person w/o said military experience! Cole at least fought in Dorne/the Stormlands. She also had an argument with Rhaenys about the lords accepting her in the same episode, which shows that drive and desire that I hoped for--even if that scene didn't make sense for what we would expect from Rhaenys since in the canon lore, there was never a hint of such divide or contention between these women, and they rather worked together. Rhaenys comforted Rhaenyra after Luke's death and was the one to suggest they all burn down the greens for Rhaenyra's sake. Apart from that, out of all the cousins Rhaenyra could have, Rhaenys was the one to not only support her as a woman for the throne if she couldn't get it-- especially a family member, a fellow Targ (to bring on house pride and lineage).

Why the fuck does this user think that rapist, drunken Aegon the Elder would be a better ruler than Rhaenyra, or a better candidate? Because Aegon has a dick and they have no creativity or put value into anything that goes out of their own sense of social order and overall immediate convenience, that’s all.

(Let’s just move along with the show for a minute AND use an argument one of those green stans/Rhaenyra haters use) Rhaenyra has been forced to marry for duty and for her father’s advancement, by his orders. She has also lost her mother and struggles with having to bear children and never being taken seriously or occupying the same spaces as the men around her. You’d think that this would invite some sympathy or at least the grace of observation, not censure. But noooo.

And this:

Rhaenyra was still young enough that she would have eventually gotten over it and Daemon was still away at war away from his influence. I think she would have understood eventually as well.

So Rhaenyra is meant to take the idea of her being passed over as “just how it be” because she is female? Bow her head and accept everyone’s assessment that she is inherently or inevitably “not right” for the throne because she is female?

Aegon the Uncrowned refused to give up when Maegor took it, why should Rhaenyra feel like she should? He was ridiculed even by his past supporters for “allowing” Maegor to take his birthright. And yet, no one in the fandom from what I’ve seen has said the same of him the way they do Rhaenyra, or it is not nearly as common to see things like this for him.

Aerea Targaryen anticipated becoming a Queen.

Alysanne openly criticized Jaehaerys’ misogyny and refusals to name their daughter Daenerys and their granddaughter Rhaenys as his heirs.

This user just wants patriarchy, not real peace and harmony. Fuck them.

#asoiaf asks to me #viserys i targaryen #viserys i #viserys i and aegon ii #viserys and rhaenyra #rhaenyra and viserys #westeros succession #succession in westeros #fandom misogyny #fandom commentary #HotD episode 8 #hotd comment #house of the dragon #hotd reddit #viserys i's characterization #hotd characterization #rhaenyra's characterization

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thesinglesjukebox · 4 months

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MELANIE MARTINEZ - "EVIL"

youtube

We just couldn't help ourselves: Amnesty 2k23 is continuing for a few extra days before wrapping up for good. First, Micha asks us to revisit an artist we last covered eight years ago...

[3.75]

Ian Mathers: Whenever we cover someone on the Jukebox I'm not already familiar with, I wind up looking up what I can about the artist/album/song, just for my own edification. In this case, between having a Wikipedia page with a "Sexual assault allegation" subheading, the language I saw her fans using to defend her/defuse said allegations on reddit, and reading the lyrics to "Evil" afterwards... well, I got the ick. (For the record: the genders and identities of the relevant people do not exacerbate or mitigate any of the accusations for me, and even if I grant for the sake of argument the most steel-manned version of Martinez's defenses, even if her accuser was every bad thing claimed here or else, that still does not eliminate the ick or make me like the song.) And seeing as how I am not a court of law and I can neither punish Martinez in any way nor do I have any desire to do so, having the ick does not need to meet any further burden of proof for me to say I don't particularly want to hear this one again. [4]

Nortey Dowuona: Maybe you shouldn't make a song about how someone is calling you evil when you abuse your friend's love and trust and can only say they didn't tell you that is what you did. That IS evil. [0]

Taylor Alatorre: Thank you, Melanie Martinez, for deciding to stop making kindercore concept albums with song titles like "Sippy Cup" and "Lunchbox Friends," so I can listen to your stuff without feeling like I'd be aiming a flamethrower at my eternal soul. "Evil" is still rooted in the rococo fantasy impulses that have animated Martinez's career -- there's a stock sound effect of an egg being cracked -- but it puts them to more workmanlike ends, crafting a realistically spiteful break-up narrative that's upsetting within the song's moral universe but not viscerally so in ours. That straight-outta-Guyville guitar chug, steady and reliable as ever, helps ground the spritely vocal theatrics in something tangible, and the decision to let the chorus marinate for a few extra bars was a bold yet correct one. I'm probably grading on a curve due to low expectations, and judging from the Alex Garland-meets-Tim Burton aesthetics, I assume the rest of the album is nothing like this. But still: "tears of oxalate"? That's one of the most genuinely grunge-sounding lyrics this side of No Code. [8]

Michael Hong: She snarls and fills the whole thing with cool details (the sound of an egg cracking when she sings, "wanna see the yolk"). Neat moves until the muffled framing lifts, the realization that she's not the victim of this story, but the girl who once wrote a diss track against someone who leveled accusations of sexual abuse against her. [0]

Frank Kogan: Interesting vocal, halfway between cute and smoky. [4]

Alfred Soto: The professionalism of its structure -- the hooks go boom-boom -- doesn't endear to me this honing of angst and decent rhymes. [4]

Tara Hillegeist: This wouldn't have been out of place on Everything Is Embarrassing, which does about track for where Martinez's general inspirations draw from, compared to her contemporaries; she's still about two decades out of date, only now she's grown out of her kinderwhore-but-make-it-more-coquette era and settling herself solidly in A&Rechtshai'd also-ran wonderland. To be clear -- there's nothing that is unappealing about that steady grunge-fuzzed bass lick keeping the song grinding along beneath its childish piano twinkling and vocals that sound like they were sung into enough sheets of gauze to cover Martinez' signature squeaky pitch, with more sheets layered on the squeakier her voice threatens to get. And the lyrics are some of the strongest I've seen from her yet; certainly, her target demo could do worse for a self-liberation anthem than a singalong that proves this catchy and caustic beneath the sandpaper faux-distress sonically draped over every word -- better this than, say, "Alice Practice", almost certainly, yes? But I still feel like something's missing, here, and I wonder what it says about myself and Martinez alike that the best way I can think to articulate that lack is, indeed, to ask all over again, if wincing for different reasons this time than the last: what if she just -- acted her age, for once? [5]

Will Adams: Because I refuse to stop melting my brain on Twitter, I log on daily and am continuously confronted with the fact that Melanie Martinez has many, many fans. Specifically, Stan Twitter, who regularly include her in prompt tweets like "WHICH POP GIRL IS TAKING IT IN 2023" or "YOU HAVE $15. WHAT ARE YOU BUYING" alongside everyone from Lana and Taylor to Charli and Carly. Having only ever heard approximately 1.5 songs of hers, my reaction is always, "is she really that special?" Listening to "Evil," I hear the appeal: "Kill Bill" cuteness over scuzzy indie pop. I still don't hear the special. [3]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: An innovative, path-breaking exercise at the intersection of Yeule and Disney Channel Original Movie Soundtracks. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: This is such a crowded genre, there's no reason to listen to songs this plodding by people this shitty. [1]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: The plinking piano doesn't set itself up against the rest of the instrumentation to provide the necessary contrast: her knowing devilishness just comes off poorly rehearsed. The schoolyard chant of a chorus doesn't help. [4]

Micha Cavaseno: Me, the late Prodigy, and Melanie Martinez all have at one point hailed from the greater Hempstead/Queens area and similarly have a miserable personality. Now, while I am not shooting up Demerol in order to function, nor have I had any issues with sexual assault allegations (P and M, respectively, for those who don't know), I too suffer from a sort of paranoia and gothic mistrust around the world around me; gothic in the general instability and unreliable nature... and y'know, overbearing maudlin evil spooky shit. Which is why I have always had time for how "cringe" Martinez's music has read for people with her kinderwhore one-trick pony provocations. I don't mind the Hot Topic narcissism and edgelord tendencies because at the end of the day, it's a reminder of how easy it is to believe in truth as victimhood. "See the horns on my head they're from goddesses; On God." is easily my favorite non-rap lyric this year to overanalyze because it's a perfect synthesis of New York ethnic AAVE blended in with faux-feminist self-appointed martyrdom in an alt-rock style. The witches you could not burn wearing fishnets and Timbs, but without any of the seams from such a wave of clichés showing. But whereas Prodigy's foes were the great peril of fake MCs and/or fake thugs, Martinez's foe are her own fans. She already demonstrated her obsession with this on the APPALLINGLY BAD K-12 record, one of the worst artistic expressions about "cancel culture" you could ever ask for and a distasteful response to accountability. "Evil" (and most of Portals) is better for avoiding jeering in favor of defiance, yet it still makes me incredibly sad that all Martinez wants to do (like so many people in the world) is see snakes and betrayal, and those who would tear her down and live life in hopeless nihilistic rebellion in any direction. I remember craving that sense of power to mask for my own senses of guilt and cowardice, and how worthless that feels after you've had to live on it for so long that it's all that defines you. Maybe there isn't a world without armor and thorns, but I wish to God I knew people dreamed about it anymore. It made being unable to believe feel less painful. [7]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

#music #pop #pop music #music writing #music reviews #music criticism #the singles jukebox #Youtube

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fallensnowfan · 1 year

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More somewhat scattered thoughts about my beloved samurai family - In general, they are a reflection of the Straw Hat crew of sorts, one who lost their Luffy. Though they held strong in spite of the overwhelming odds they faced and were able to regroup for the sake of liberating Wano from Kaido.

Each of them have been in a leadership role or top position, in some way or another, at some point in their lives.

Kin'emon - Founding member of the alliance and Momo's father figure.

Denjiro - Boss of the Yakuza and of a district in the Flower Capital. One of Hiyori's father figures.

Izo - Division commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. Took care of Kiku on his own for a time, when the two were very young.

Kiku - Does teahouse poster girl count as a top position? I didn't see anyone else doing it. The most beautiful woman at heart. Also guided groups around Wano to where they needed to be during Acts One and Two.

Raizo - One of Wano’s best ninja.

Ashura Doji - Leader of the Atamayama mountain bandits.

Inu & Neko - Ruled Zou and are founding members of the alliance.

Kawamatsu - Holds/held the title of Yokozuna, the top sumo wrestler in Wano. One of Hiyori's father figures.

More detailed thoughts:

Kin'emon & Kiku - Attempting to reverse engineer some of their scenes. Kin'emon allowed Shinobu to escape from Onigashima with Momo, Shinobu showing she understands what Usopp would say to Kin and Kiku in chapter 1036. Kin then lived and motivated himself to find help for Kiku. I think they both needed to be hurt/in a position where they would ask Usopp to leave them, for the sake his big moment of calling out a negative part of the samurai mindset that had them being too eager to give up on life.

For Kin specifically - In a flashback near the end of the arc, Kin said. "To disregard a woman's decision that she gathered all of her courage to make does nothing but shame her." I think both he and Kiku knew what the result of re-matching the traitor would be, but they are both samurai who are very very stubborn. A bad situation all around and again, that’s why what Usopp shouted to them in 1036 is so important.

For Kiku specifically - She is forced to confront her sentimentality, the fact that the past can not be returned to, and that if she continues following the way of the samurai, being a way that is very in conflict with some of her own desires, it will only continue to harm her.

Izo - So stylish, so cool. Went with Marco to return a favor to his homeland, and to his first found family. Kiku is his younger sister, of course he would do anything he could to ensure she lives, especially after losing a younger sibling during the Marineford war. I see CP0 during the Onigashima war as being almost representative of the WG, just on a smaller scale. Izo killing one of the agents represents a step towards the WG's downfall, while it's unfortunately not so easy, the dominos have begun falling, in large part thanks to Izo. Post-Wano is the Straw Hat’s and friend’s time to continue what he started.

Denjiro - A classic One Piece badass with a goofy side, also blue. I like his story being mostly separate from the Straw Hats. Forcing every major character to interact with the main cast when it’s not needed could easily lead to awkward storytelling. Same can be said of the stories of other Wano characters as well, mainly Hiyori, Kawamatsu, and Ashura, to varying degrees.

Raizo - Extinguishing the flames of the castle is his way of not allowing a repeat of Oden Castle burning, and of repaying the Mink's for protecting him during Zou.

Ashura Doji - Most reliable of the group when it comes down to it. Easily able to see past any nonsense and recognize situations for what they really are. His joining Oden is one of my favorite recruitments of the group.

Inu - Fought Jack not out of revenge, but to keep him from creating more victims. Which I like for how it suggests he doesn't see the harm he and Zou underwent protecting a comrade as a defeat. Because they did protect Raizo.

Neko - Did fight Perospero for the sake of getting revenge. Independently of anything to do with the Kozuki clan, the Big Mom Pirates caused a lot of grief to the Minks in years past, during Whole Cake, and to Wanda and Carrot soon before Neko arrived. I like revenge being the motivation for Neko in this case.

Kawamatsu - Best Kappa. I would have liked to see him get a bit more individual spotlight and scenes with Hiyori, though the Beast Pirates who ran Udon Prison were his main tormentors, so seeing him beat them up a bunch was very cathartic. I absolutely adore his scenes with Onimaru and him being best Kappa dad to Hiyori.

#one piece #wano arc #one piece spoilers #akazaya nine #kozuki clan #kin'emon #denjiro #izo #okiku #raizo #ashura doji #inuarashi #nekomamushi #kawamatsu #kozuki hiyori #kozuki momonosuke

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stormkobra-5 · 2 years

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The Heir of Djarin

Episode 8: Rising Phoenix

Summary: Poe and Laylah return to D’Qar with Din, Grogu, BB-8, and the promise of the Mand’alore. Now, things are kind of back to normal, and Laylah earns the final piece of her inheritance. But the First Order is still disturbingly quiet... Until Poe discovers what they’re looking for.

A/N: There are differences between Heir of Djarin and the Poe Dameron comics, such as Poe already has Black Squadron formed at the beginning of Heir of Djarin, whereas the first Poe Dameron comic is supposed to take place at the end of Heir of Djarin.

Warnings: This story is rated 14+ for canon-typical violence, action, and language. The main character is recovering from a traumatic backstory for the sake of the plot, so there is mention of distrust, social anxiety, self-doubt, and emotional damage. Later chapters may involve mature themes for drug usage (spice), excessive alcohol consumption, and clubs that imply adult entertainment (the main characters do not take part). Nothing explicit in any chapters.

_____________________________________________________________

We walk through the gardens-- her gardens, I come to learn-- for the better part of an hour before settling on a bench of white wood, fitted with cushions on the seat and back for her comfort. She tells me stories. Of how her older sister, Duchess Satine Kryze, never approved of her joining a group called the Death Watch on Mandalore to overthrow their pacifist government and remake it into the glorious place it once was. How Satine was killed by Darth Maul out of spite in front of Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, the very same who partially trained Luke Skywalker and his father before him, who became Darth Vader. She tells me of her friendship with Ahsoka Tano, and her continuance of her struggles to return Mandalore to its old ways. Of the Nite Owls. Of her many exploits trying to free and revive Mandalore. Then she tells me of her quest to locate and retrieve the Darksaber. Of how she hunted Moff Gideon for years before finally locating him-- only to have Din Djarin win the Darksaber. How later on, she was injured in battle, and could no longer fight for her people. “I discovered it the hard way when I got one of my own killed.” A shadow passes over her face that doesn’t seem to fade. “I was unworthy of my armor. I had betrayed the Creed. Without me, any hope for a true Mandalorian leader faded away... I continued in a different way. I sought out Mandalorians to join the Last Blood. A brotherhood of our people across the galaxy that were like me: waiting for the Chosen One to come forward. I passed on my armor to Maz Kanata, who felt it necessary to give it to Din Djarin.” She pats my knee. “And that, dear girl, is where you come in. How did Din find you?” Kriff. I’ve never told anyone but Poe this story. Leia and Maz know only parts of it, like Kylo Ren. I can’t look at her as I speak. “I... I fell from the sky. I was yanked from my time and place, and ended up... here. I was on the planet Din was staying with Grogu-- he found me. Took me in, made me a foundling. Trained me. Named me a Mandalorian and his heir. And then... then he gave me the Slave. He gave me your armor. I can only hope I can honor your legacy, Lady Kryze.” She inspects my pauldrons and vambraces with a smile. “These dents and scratches are new. You’ve put the armor to use... yet, I wonder, why did you keep the old marks when you repainted it? Even the owl?” “You earned these scars, Lady Kryze,” I reply softly, “I wasn’t going to erase them.” “Why?” She challenges. “Because...” I start, then, “Because that’s what the people did where I came from. Erased history. Rewrote it. Ignored those who came before them. It’s one of many things I vowed never to become.” She regards me carefully, narrowing her eyes. “And what else did you vow?” I answer her question immediately but carefully. “Never to be greedy or selfish. To always think of the needs of others and protect the weak and innocent. To uphold honor and dignity. To learn from the lessons set forth by my predecessors.” “And this was before you came here, to this galaxy?” She sounds intrigued. “Yes, Lady Kryze.” She tilts her chin up, something like approval in her eyes. “Then the stories I have heard of you are correct. You have the heart of a Mandalorian.” She thinks for a second. “What will you do when the time comes to revive Mandalore, young Djarin? Will you be ready for it?” I think about that for a second. “One is never ready, Lady Kryze-- but one can always be prepared. I will learn, and I will listen, not only to the words of the people, but to the advice of those I trust. I will learn from the mistakes I make and fix them.” “You strive for an honorable purpose, young Djarin,” Bo-Katan inclines her head, gesturing to a nearby protocol droid. “Summon the Mandalorians.” I half expect them all to jetpack in, but they walk normally, careful of the gardens. Din is with them. Bo-Katan stands before them, and everyone kneels until she orders them to stand. “This child,” Bo-Katan says, “Is the one whom will wield the Darksaber. She is to become the Duchess of Mandalore. You are to heed her commands and her call as if Mandalore is as it once was. We are the Last Blood-- we are all that is left... To you, young Djarin, I present a choice.” I lift my head, stunned speechless. Hell. “You can continue on the fighting path to free Mandalore with the Resistance, or, you can join us, begin to lead us now. Join our covert missions to cripple the First Order and gather supplies for the founding of our new planet.” I look back and forth between Bo-Katan and the Last Blood nervously. My gaze rests on Din, who gives no sign of what he’s thinking. But... I’m not Leia. After this little escapade, I clearly have a lot to learn about leadership. I’m still young and naive. Slowly, I stand, taking a deep breath. “I cannot express in words how grateful I am for your offer, Lady Kryze,” I manage, “I’ve waited a long time to be among my people. But... also, I’m not yet ready to lead you all. I still have very much to learn and see in this galaxy, and the last thing I want is to disappoint you with an ill-suited leader to a very important task. For now, my path is with the Resistance. One day, when the war is over, that will change. And then I’ll be older, and wiser, and can lead you as you deserve.” Bo-Katan nods with approval. Boba Fett inclines his head to me. Din looks on with what I hope is pride. The Mandalorians thrust their right fists into the air. “Vhaene-Besu! Vhaene-Besu! Vhaene-Besu! Hail to the Heiress of Mandalore!” I have to put my helmet on to hide my my flustered, tear-jerked face. “Should you ever need me, you need only call. I will come.” Together, as one, every Mandalorian in the garden, including myself, says, “This is the Way.” “Allow us to escort you back to your ship, princess,” A young woman in sand-colored armor all but asks. “It would be an honor.” I incline my head. “I accept. Thank you.” “I will stay here,” Bo-Katan sinks back into her seat. “The walk is too far for my bad knee. I would only disgrace you.” “I will remain with you,” Boba said. I kneel before Bo-Katan one more time. “My Lady Kryze-- it was the highest honor I can imagine to have met you.” Standing, I start up a different version of the chant they had granted me. One they all follow suit for without question. “Bo-Katan! Bo-Katan! Bo-Katan! Hail to the Duchess of Mandalore!” There are tears in her eyes as she takes my hands in hers. “You honor my legacy, Laylah Vhaene-Besu of Clan Djarin. Farewell.” I turn to Boba Fett, shaking his hand. “It was an honor, sir.” Boba Fett nods in acknowledgement. “The honor is mine, princess. I doubt this is the last time we’ll see one another; I’m sure you’re bound to get in all sorts of other adventures before long.” I can’t help but smile. “I hope that when we meet isn’t limited to only dangerous finales to adventures, Boba Fett. You might get tired of it.” He chuckles. “I doubt it, princess. Good luck.” “Thank you.” Din flanks my left as the Mandalorians take up the rear. My heart is pounding, my head feels light. Hell. Did that really happen? In the hall, we meet Lando Calrissian and Poe. Lando bows his head with a smile. “Lady Djarin. How was it?” “I can think of no higher honor, sir,” I reply, shaking his hand. “Thank you, Calrissian. It’s been an honor to meet you.” “I hope you return to Cloud City someday, my lady,” He says. “I definitely will. It’s beautiful-- and a wonderful place for the Last Blood. You’re very generous for sheltering my people.” He bows at the waist. “It’s my pleasure. Farewell, princess,” Lando smiles, “And good luck.” “Thank you, Calrissan. Farewell.” Once we’re back to the Slave, I see that it’s loaded with crates of medical supplies. Din’s starfighter is stored in the hold of a cargo ship close by, which also holds more medical supplies. I don’t need to check them. Once on the ship, I turn to the Last Blood and incline my head. “Thank you, Mandalorians.” “This is the Way,” They reply, but the male in front says, “Farewell, princess. Good luck.” The ramp closes, and finally, Poe, BB-8 and I are free of prying eyes. I tear off my helmet and turn to him with a huge smile, kind of bouncing up-and-down with excitement. “I met Bo-Katan!” Poe bounces with me. “The Bo-Katan?!” “Yeah!” “Well-- what’d she say?!” Poe demands, but I wave him off and rush past him, squeezing between the medical crates to the cockpit. “I’ll tell you everything while we’re in lightspeed, Poe!” As I’m strapping myself in, I call behind me, “But long story short, I’m officially a duchess!” “That’s awesome, Bez!” There’s a moment of hesitation. “Does... does that mean I’ll eventually end up a duke?” “Maybe,” I laugh, when I power up the ship, “But you’d have to wear your formal uniform all the time. Oh, and grow a beard so you look wise and stuff.” “I am not growing a beard!” Poe calls back, laughing. “Stop asking!” “I wasn’t asking!” “You are implying your question!” I switch the comlink on, shaking my head with amusement. “Ready, Dad? Gizmo?” “Badu.” “Grogu, don’t touch that. Yeah, we’re ready. After you.” He sniffles. Yes, sniffles. As if he’s been crying. “Dad?” I ask in disbelief. “Huh?” “Are you crying?” “NO, I have a COLD.” “One you didn’t have when I got here? That’s fast-moving, Dad. You might need to see a doctor.” “Oh hush up. You gonna fly or what?” I push the Slave into a liftoff, into the coral-rose sky and off into the endless reaches of space and stars.

- - -

Needless to say, there’s a mix of reactions when we get back to D’Qar. Leia, understandably, sternly gives us the what-for, although she listens eagerly when we tell her about Bo-Katan and Boba Fett. The whole base is cheering and whooping as we push out medical supplies from our ships onto the tarmac to be rolled into the medbay. I’m surrounded by medics I’ve trained with and Dia asking me if I’m alright, what happened, how did I get these. Din, of course, drags Poe and I to the medbay, where we’re checked over and our wounds are properly treated with actual equipment. We disappear into our bunks to shower, but Poe’s a little late to meet me by Leia’s door since he takes the time to scrub Beebs clean. We tell Leia everything-- well... maybe not everything, although she gets a twinkle in her eye when we deliberately skip parts we’d like to keep between us. Threepio fusses over Beebs, begging he tell him everything, until Leia tells them to leave the room and talk so that she can actually hear what Poe and I are saying. We are given sanitation duty for a week, barring any necessary reasons for Poe getting in his X-wing and me going straight to the medbay. That night, medics and Black Squadron combine with the presence of Din, Connix, and a few other commanders to hear every detail of the story. Poe and I take turns telling it, embellishing certain parts and leaving others just as they are. Neither of us say anything about the kiss (although he does brag about how he swung us to safety in the temple) but everybody figures it out anyway, since Poe and I had requested to share a bunk earlier, which Leia found amusing for some reason and which prompted a twenty-minute lecture from Din that involved fists and guns and lots of threats that nearly had Poe revoking the idea. The next day, Poe and I essentially “move in together,” into Poe’s slightly-bigger commander bunk with its own little fresher. People ask if that seems a little fast, but then we remind them that this is war, and we’ve shared near-death and battle experiences. You can’t exactly put something off if you want it, because you might not get it. Though honestly? I’ve never slept better than I have curled up to Poe, with BB-8 on his charging station in the corner for the night. Suddenly, I find the closet full of my clothes and his, plus his flight suits, and next to Grogu’s rock that he gave me is a model X-wing Poe’s dad got him when he was a kid. The whole fresher system changes-- we try, really, we do, to make it work so there’s only one of us in there at once, but it just takes too much time. So while I shower, he shaves, then he showers while I get dressed. We’re almost normal, even hurrying out the door with nothing more than a quick kiss and a “Gotta go to work, see you later.” Poe returns to his duties as the leader of Black Squadron a week after our return to D’Qar. I’m back to hardly seeing him, but I hear the thunder of X-wings practicing in the mountains and smile. At least, I always see him at night, even though we’re always finishing up work on our datapads-- except for when he does night drills. Then he comes back for only a few hours of sleep before rushing back to the tarmac. When Poe returns to his duties, my training resumes. I’m upped a level, like I was to supposed to be before we ran off, and Dia can’t get over the fact that I’m technically royalty. All of a sudden everybody wants to be my friend, and it’s actually a little frightening. Sometimes when it gets too much, Din will let me carry Grogu with me-- all attention is on him when he’s with me, and he eats it up like those blue cookies he loves so much. Din, he remains a commander. He sees me in the cafeteria every day when I’m not busy practicing poking around somebody’s insides using a dummy or a holographic simulator, and despite the fact that he pretends he really doesn’t like Poe, he actually admits that he approves of him. “Somewhat,” He specifies when my face lights up, “I don’t like the fact that he takes you on random dangerous adventures.” “It was my idea, Dad!” Sometimes, I find myself missing my family more than ever. My mother, Rochelle, what would she think of me now? What about Thomas, Julia, Tristan, Jade? How are they? Are they doing alright? I wish I could do so much as write them a letter. I know that they’d love Din. Maybe he and Mom could’ve gotten together, if they’d come with me through the portal. I definitely know they’d love Grogu. And Poe? Well, fighter pilots run in the family. They’d approve. Of course, I often wonder about the Force. I leave myself open to it, and am now experiencing the world with a kind of sixth-sense. A spider-sense, y’know? It’s not so bad. I wonder about Ahsoka Tano. I worry about my fellow Mandalorians. I wonder about Kylo Ren, about if we’ll ever cross paths again. I memorialize TN-9824 in a painting. I think about the stormtrooper I seen mopping floors, and the girl scavenging for parts. If my fever-dreams were visions, they proved true enough so far. I wonder what I have to do with them. For now, though, the First Order is quiet, so I let myself be happy while I can.

- - -

A rest day. The first one after our return to D’Qar, three weeks later. Everything is going smoothly and calmly, so I’m surprised when, at breakfast, Din approaches me with Grogu in one arm and a mysterious package in the other. Actually, that’s not even the surprising part. “You’ve got the day off, right?” “This time around, yeah,” I answer, “Why?” I perk up, realizing what’s happening, “Ooh! You got somethin’ planned, Dad?!” “I do. Put on your armor and meet me on the tarmac in half an hour.” With that, he leaves, because that’s not at all confusing. Luckily I was done with breakfast. I haven’t worn my armor since Poe and I’s unsanctioned endeavor. I’ve cleaned it twice, though, so it’s nice and shiny when I bring it out from under the bed and put it all on. I’m out on the tarmac almost on the dot of half an hour, scanning for Din’s hard-to-miss silver beskar-- and Black One, naturally. ’Course, Poe’s not anywhere near here. He was actually ordered on a mission this time, to go grab some intel that might reveal why the First Order seems to be focused elsewhere. None of the members of Black Squadron are on D’Qar at all. They should be back later today, but... “There you are,” Din’s voice from behind makes me jump. He guesses where I was looking since I have my helmet on. “Stop worrying. He’ll be fine.” I nod, though I can’t bring myself not to worry. Worrying is my thing. Din walks past me. “Come on. Follow me.” “Where we headed?” “I can’t tell you.” I skip up to keep pace with him, though it’s hard-- for a guy who’s almost sixty, he’s pretty kriffing fast. “Ooh! A surprise? Interesting... Gizmo! Any clue as to what’s goin’ on?” “Badu,” He babbles, “Du.” “Ah. Gotcha. Totally secret stuff. Nice. That means it’s gonna be good.” I manage not to ask questions. Not when we leave the tarmac for the forest, not when we follow an old, beaten path into the mountains, not when we get so high up that the X-wings and Y-wings practicing zip by on high-speed passes so close they nearly deafen us. “Okay, I give up.” I slump down onto a boulder, trying to catch my breath. After all, my blastershot wound still isn’t completely healed. “Where are we going? What’s in the package? Why are we going on the side of the mountain opposite from which the jets are practicing?” “That’s a record for how long you’ve held in your curiosity,” Din comments with amusement as he turns to face me. “I’m not telling you a thing. Besides, we’re almost there. Come on.” He continues up the path, so with a heavy sigh, I heave myself to my feet and trudge after him. We emerge onto a relatively empty field next to a cliff overlooking the valley. I inch closer to peer over the edge-- it’s a sharp, straight drop-off into oblivion. “Dad, are you trying to get me to help you hide a body?” He hefts the package pointedly. “What body is this small?” I shrug. “Maybe you rolled up a dead jawa. How am I supposed to know? I’m not the murderer.” Din chuckles. “Turn around and face the cliff, kid.” I do, fully trusting him but at the same time the trained part of my brain is freaking out irrationally about him pushing me off the cliff. “You ever heard of the Rising Phoenix?” “Sounds like a Harry Potter movie,” I respond, stiffening when I feel him attach something very heavy to my back. “There you go again, with your weird Earth references...” “They aren’t weird where I come from, pal.” “I bet. So, the Rising Phoenix was a particular kind of training. It’s one of the many things that makes a Mandalorian warrior what they are. I got my very first one when I was first looking after Grogu, but you have the advantage of having one ready and waiting for you.” “Wait-- kriff-- Dad-- are you giving me a jetpack?!” I try to turn to see, but he makes me look ahead. “I’m giving you Bo-Katan’s jetpack. The final piece of your inheritance-- stop trying to see it, hold still. I need to re-sync it to your helmet.” Wait... “My helm-- it works like Iron Man?!” Din pauses. “Uh... sure.” Kriffing hell, I’m gonna be like Iron Man! “Cool! So is it like eye gestures or thinking or what?” “Neither. More of a will. You’ll see.” There’s a final chink, and the jetpack is firmly attached. The dim jetpack symbol in the bottom of my screen blinks away for a second before returning with a full fuel gauge and a brighter color. My heart is pounding with excitement, butterflies doing somersaults in my stomach. I glance over to Din as he comes to stand on my right side, making sure Grogu is very secure in his bag and harness. He gives me a little thumbs-up which I excitedly return. Din turns his head to look at me.“Alright... Ready?” I eagerly nod, trying to copy his casual stance. “Now... Just... will the jetpack to turn on. Do it with me.” Din’s jetpack kicks on, and he hovers a few feet off the ground. I try as hard as I can, but it’s easy, because the only thing going through my head is jetpackjetpackjetpackjetpack. Mine bursts to life with a hiss of fire, lifting me off the ground with him; surprisingly, I feel no heat. For a second, we hover there, my stomach plummeting and I’m giggling madly at the sensation. I’m flying! “Very good. Now do it in reverse.” I do. Terra firma feels so inferior now. “How much fuel is in these things?” I ask curiously, an idea forming in my head. “About twelve hours’ worth-- Laylah, no!” I’m already running. I leap right off the cliff and dive toward the valley below. I’m screaming and laughing at once, because this is the best feeling I’ve ever experienced-- this weightlessness, this freedom, as I fall full-speed toward the earth below and I know that no one can catch me. I know Din comes after me, but I don’t want to be caught. I streamline my body and race for the valley of trees below. No one’s ever gonna catch me again. I faintly hear Din calling my name. I wait-- I wait until the last second, and then I activate my jetpack. Full speed. I shoot up, straight past Din and into the open sky before me, free. I have the movements down-- partially because of the fact that on Earth, I watched Avengers a lot. Iron Man was always my favorite superhero. Learn from the best. I copy his pose and I’m going so fast I can feel the same Gs I do when Poe takes me up in his X-wing with him and flies me around the mountains; otherwise, I’ve never felt them before. There are no Gs to pull in space. I shoot as high up as possible, but it starts to get hard to breathe and far too cold. I drop. I let the jetpack shut off and I free-fall. I’m spinning, but on purpose, and then I activate my jetpack again and shoot off down the valley, ensuring to stay well out of the way of the practicing pilots. Up here, untethered from any solid ground, I feel more at ease than I ever have, even in the Slave. I could fly forever. The empty blue sky calls me to keep going. The ground feels like a burden and space too far away. But the sky is all mine, and nobody can catch me up here. There’s no burden of restoring a cursed planet or finding a new one entirely. There’s no war, no First Order, no Resistance. Nothing and no one else but me, free, and this vast expanse of robin’s egg blue before me. I’m never gonna come down. I know I have to, eventually. But thankfully the opportunity presents itself in the form of none other than Poe Dameron, probably the only thing that can get me down. “Laylah,” Din sing-songs over the comlink, having long since stopped trying to stop me and rather praise me and follow me as closely as he can. “Your boyfriend’s here. Just got the message from Connix. If you were closer to base, you might’ve heard her.” I’ve been planning this all day. “Is he landed? Like actually on the ground?” There’s a pause, then, “He’s just shutting down Black One now. Why?” “Follow me and find out!” I’m a few miles out, but it only takes me a few minutes to speed by Din and Grogu and back toward base. I have to time this perfectly, or it’ll be an embarrassing waste of a badass move. I’m a flying person in a suit of armor-- I have to pull this stunt, out of respect for RDJ and Iron Man. My rangefinder lets me see what my eyes can’t-- that Poe’s just climbing out of his cockpit, parked at the head of Black Squadron’s parked spacecraft. I pitch down, getting to twenty, then ten feet, catching the attention of everybody in the vicinity. I cut the power to the jetpack and drop, landing just like Iron Man. Kriff-- ow-- my kriffing hand-- don’t have kriffing-- beskar gloves-- kriff-- ow-- I stand like it’s no big deal that I slammed my hand full-force into duracrete and probably broke something. My hand is throbbing. But Poe seen it, and he’s smiling, so that’s all that matters. The pain in my hand suddenly seems to fade away. Only to return a second later because I just kriffing broke my hand for aesthetic. Poe beams at me. “Wow, Bez. You got your jetpack!” I do a mock bow, holding my injured hand to my stomach. “Thank you, thank you, you’re a great audience.” Poe snorts with amusement, shaking his head as he hands his helmet and gloves off. But something’s wrong. He doesn’t have his usual cocky smile ready to tell me how the mission went. He doesn’t run up to greet me. He’s worried. Very. I go up to him, trying to conceal the fact that I’ve hurt my hand. “Poe... What’s wrong?” “I’ll tell you later,” He promises, “Right now I need to go debrief with Leia.” Then he rushes off, running his hand through his hair without even pausing to give me a kiss. The whole of Black Squadron follows him, and Poe actually stops Din in his tracks, gesturing inside; Din follows. Now I know it’s bad. But I can’t do anything. I’m not qualified to be in that debrief. I’ll have to hear it from Din and Poe later. For now, I need to get my kriffing arm checked.

- - -

“Dumbass,” Poe scoffs, shaking his head, when he sees the cast and sling on my arm. I’ve fractured most of my knucklebones and sprained my wrist pretty badly. “I was going for the look,” Comes my weak defense. “You’re just lucky you just didn’t break your arm. That would’ve been embarrassing. The move itself was badass, though. I’d try it on soft ground next time, from a lower height.” “Consider it done.” He doesn’t say anything about his mission yet, and I don’t ask. I never do. I wait for him to tell me when he’s ready, especially when he’s worried. So we go about getting ready for bed, but when I sit down and am ready to try figuring out how to get into bed with my damn sling, Poe says, “Finally figured out why they’ve gone quiet.” I scoot forward, giving him my full and complete attention. He runs his mom’s ring up and down the chain around his neck, which he only does when he’s very nervous. Which only makes me nervous. I hug him from behind, balancing on my knees, and he kisses my wrist. “They planning some nefarious deed or another?” “They’re looking for Luke Skywalker,” Poe explains softly. “That crystal on your necklace we thought was a map? They thought it was one, too. They thought it was a map to Luke. Hell, they didn’t even know about Palpatine’s lightsaber until they followed us to the temple.” Luke? The last living Jedi? No wonder they’re looking for him. Kylo Ren probably wants to kick his ass in front of his troops to prove that Sith are superior or whatever. “You think they’ll find him?” Poe shakes his head. “Not even Leia knows where he is, and she’s been looking for him for years. Hopefully the First Order will have the same luck... but now we have leads. Lor San Tekka is an old friend of Leia’s who might know where he is. The problem is finding him.” He flops back onto the bed, heaving a sigh. He thinks for a minute. “...I want you to come with me.”

“Uh?” I say, very intelligently, making him smile a bit.

“I want you to come with me,” He repeats, sitting up to take my hands in his. “You’re a medic now. You’re one kickass pilot. I want you out there watching my back from the Slave. I want you to be a part of Black Squadron: a medic in the field. How’d you feel about that?”

Slowly, I’m smiling. On Earth, I’d wanted to be a doctor in the Air Force some day. This is pretty much the same thing, but in space. I lean forward and give him a kiss. “Duh I’ll join you.”

Poe smiles warmly, pulling me close for a hug. “...Your dad’s not gonna approve.”

“Dad doesn’t approve of anything dangerous,” I retort, “But that doesn’t stop me from doing them anyway.”

“You’ll have to wait till your arm heals, though.” He teases.

I lay down beside him, and there’s a horrible crunch as my cast almost breaks. The comical sound in such a serious moment has Poe covering his face as he laughs when I cry out in a very undignified tone, “AgH kRiFF--” “Bet you’ll never do that again.” He says, pulling me up into a better position on my other side. I give him a kiss. “Never.”

- - -

Eight months go by without anyone really thinking about them. The year shifts from 33 to 34 ABY, and I turn twenty. Grogu and I make it a point to celebrate Din’s fifty-ninth birthday, although he knocks off a couple of the candles on his cake so that it’s fifty-five. On base, things seem calm and even almost normal, but there’s a tense undertone to everything we do. The commanders are always busy in meetings, going off-world to try and secure aid and assist planets, or overseeing missions from a distance. The control rooms are full of people on headsets communicating with our people in the field when they can, supervising scheduled check-ins and unexpected scenarios.

Once my arm heals, I do become a member of Black Squadron. I join them in their search for Lor San Tekka and their run-ins with Agent Terex, who honestly reminds me of those mustached villains in black-and-white movies that overdo their evil laughs.

The First Order is everywhere we go now. Several of our people have been captured-- only a handful have been found or rescued. There’s no word from Bespin, from Lando or Bo-Katan or Boba Fett. There shouldn’t be. With the First Order looming, I’m hoping they’ve decided to go even quieter than before. Hopefully Lando has even fled the planet; with his hand in the Rebellion so many years ago, I’m sure the First Order is looking for him as a “war criminal.”

Then we find Lor San Tekka. His location, at least. Hopefully. A small little desert planet called Jakku.

The whole of Black Squadron waits for Poe by our ships nervously. Despite the fact that I’m a part of them now, I still like to keep to myself, so I lean against the Slave with my arms crossed and my helmet on, trying not to show the fact that my stomach is swirling with anxious butterflies.

I’m sure that, by now, the First Order must have gotten a hold of the information as well. It’ll be a race, one that we might not when. If they find Luke first, who knows what they’ll do.

Somehow, I’m not sure why, but the Republic still isn’t concerned that the First Order is actually a threat. Yet here they are causing chaos and disrupting peace and hunting old Jedi dudes that just want to be left alone. Sounds a lot like an Earth government, to me.

Snap and Karé are off talking by themselves by Snap’s X-wing, looking very serious. Jess and Suralinda try to fix up a droid while a mechanic is working on repairing the faulty engine of Jess’s X-wing. I say nothing. To Black Squadron, I rarely speak. I’m their quiet, calm medic, and I’m determined to stay that way.

Finally, I hear the trademark little bweep of BB-8 as he and Poe approach, though Poe looks sullen at best. The whole of Black Squadron faces him expectantly. “When are we leaving for Jakku?” Karé asks, but I know that look.

“We’re not all going to Jakku, are we, Poe?” I say, and the whole team seems surprised at the Mandalorian’s interjection.

Poe’s gaze lands briefly, regretfully, on me. “No. We’re not. I’m going alone.”

“Why?” Snap demands, “You know that we--”

“It’s not a question of your skills,” Poe interrupts, and scans over all of us as he speaks. “Listen... The First Order is probably already on this. Leia needs the best we have going in there, and we’re it-- but if we all go and none of us make it out... I wish I could take you. Really.” His eyes rest briefly on me. “But we need the best of the best always ready to do what Leia needs done. I’m going to lessen any losses.”

Your loss would be no lesser, I want to snap, angry but understanding.

“You’re all to stay here,” Poe adds, “That’s an order. Bez, I’m talking to you.”

I only incline my head. We both know I’ll disobey that order if necessary.

“When are you leaving?” Jess questions, and Poe sighs.

“Now. I need to get there as soon as possible.” My heart catches in my throat. He’s going where I can’t follow. What’s worse is that the First Order may already be waiting for him. Maybe I’ll break the order as soon as he’s left the tarmac.

“I’m taking a different X-wing,” Poe continues, “Try to keep it less noticeable.” He indicates it with a wave of his arm, and I immediately make my way over as he bids the Black Squadron farewell. My heart is heavy, and I feel a hard core of grief in my chest. I have a very, very bad feeling about this mission. Poe and BB-8 arrive shortly thereafter, and I take my helmet off so our eyes can meet unobstructed; there are words flying unspoken between us. No long goodbyes. We promised that, too. “Say goodbye to Bez, then go ahead and get in,” Poe tells the little droid; he’s not even wearing his flight suit. I kneel down to give BB-8 a hug. “Be careful, buddy.” He beeps and hurries off to get lifted up into the X-wing. Poe and I face each other. When I start to speak, he raises a hand. “Ah. No L-word, remember?” I make a face. “I remember. But.” I reach up and take my amulet over my head to give it to him. He lets me put it on him before giving me his necklace. There’s a stiff lump of emotion in my throat and my eyes are watering, but I force myself not to cry. This time is different. The First Order might already be there, and if they see him... “For good luck. Bring it back to me, Poe.” Poe’s having just as much trouble as I am. His grip on my hands is tight. “I will. You better not lose my mom’s ring.” “I won’t.” We don’t ever do long goodbyes. I want to say it: the L-word. So badly. But I don’t even dare think it, not when both of us believe it to be a jinx. “Good luck, Poe.” “Thanks, Bez. I’m gonna need it.” After a quick kiss he’s turning and climbing up into the X-wing. Then the cockpit closes, and the X-wing powers up. I get back as it vertically takes off, and I stand there until I can’t see it anymore. There’s something in the Force going off like a warning bell, but I’m not sure what it is. I do know, however, that I’m resisting the urge to get in the Slave and go with him. I hear the distinct jangling of Din’s armor and glance over to see him approaching with an air of worry. He puts an arm around my shoulders, and I let the tears fall. “You okay, kid?” “I’ve got a bad feeling about this...” “Don’t worry,” Din says, “He’s the best pilot we’ve got. Why do you think Leia’s sending him? He knows what he’s doing.” We both watch the place he disappeared for a bit before I go back to the medbay. Something’s off, and I need to keep moving so I can ignore it. But ignoring the Force, I’ve discovered, is pretty damn hard.

______________________________________________________________~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*****************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading! The epilogue and final part of The Heir of Djarin will post next Wednesday night. Anyone who wants to be tagged, just let me know!

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