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kimerousel · 2 years

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“Nachzehrer: The Mistress Returns”

A completed short story by yours truly! An oldie, but one I’m still fairly fond of.

Hell hath no fury like a woman wronged... especially when that woman transforms into a nachzehrer upon her untimely death and returns to exact her revenge. Genre: Horror/Dark Fairytale | CW: Suicide, death, body horror, descriptions of gore and violence

His wife’s body twisted slowly as it hung from the rafters of the great hall, her bare feet dangling off the ground as her eyes, bulging and swollen, stared wildly—accusatorily—at him. The servants had found her first. They now refused to enter the manor, much to his annoyance. Superstitious fools. He let out a snort, looking over his shoulder at the closed great doors before sighing and drawing the dagger he wore at his hip. They had left him to clean up the whole mess on his own.

The woman had been a nuisance from the day he had deigned to marry her. Now, she had left him one last mess to clean up. He grabbed a table and shoved it closer to her dangling corpse, wincing slightly when it rotated to glare at him with glazed-over eyes that still burned green like witchfire. A knock sounded on the door when he began to cut the thick rope that held her aloft.

“One moment,” he called, eyes focused on the rope.

The knock sounded again. The rope frayed.

“Ugh,” he grunted, rolling his eyes as he hopped off the table and stalked over to yank open one of the double doors that shuttered him away from the common folk. A pair of guardsmen met his gaze, staring dully at him from under their strange, swooping helmets.

“We heard there was a death?” One of them asked, hand resting on the sword at his hip.

“Yes,” the widower responded, folding his arms over his chest. “My wife has had… an accident.”

“Foul play?”

“No. Foolishness.”

“She was due for trial. We had come to make our arrest.”

“Well,” the widower drawled, regarding the pair of guards with a flat glower, “you’re a little late for that, aren’t you?”

A heavy thud sounded from behind him, and he grimaced. The guards glanced at one another, then moved almost as one to walk through the doors. He did not stop them; instead, he turned to stand aside, arms folded behind his back as he took a moment to glance at the crumpled body of his wife, now in a heap on the floor after the frayed rope had finally snapped.

She had brought it on herself. She was wild and willful, some low-class upstart that her father wanted to marry up. Pretty enough, but worthless in the end. He watched as the guards rolled her over and laid her out on the floor; her arm had been broken in the fall and hung at an awkward angle as they examined her. His gaze slid away, and he picked at the lint on his fine jacket.

She had been beautiful, once. His dear, lovely Adelinde… She had golden hair that shone like the sun, skin the color of moon-kissed lilies, and green eyes that blazed like emeralds. In death, she looked nothing like herself. Those sparkling green eyes bulged from fields of red, and her swollen face stuck out its putrid tongue like the masks the savages wore to frighten their enemies…

“She took her own life, then?” One of the guards asked, and the widower flicked his gaze up for a brief moment before looking away once more.

“I presume so, yes.”

“One of the servants?”

“Doubtful,” he replied at length. “They either avoided her or enjoyed her company. Besides… I doubt they would go through the trouble of… stringing her up like this.”

One of the guards, the younger of the two, fixed the widower with a pointed stare.

“Did she know that she had been accused of witchcraft? Took her own life to keep from going to trial and facing the proper judgment?”

The widower grimaced, and he adjusted his jacket with a sharp jerk from both hands.

“If she did, it was from no word of mine. I would never give warning to a witch.”

The guards stared at him a moment, then looked down at the twisted features of his former wife’s corpse. Finally, the two of them rose, each holding one end of the body between them.

“Well. Either way, she’ll face judgment now. All sinners do, someday.”

The widower nodded mechanically and watched as they hauled his wife off toward the grounds on the outskirts of the town--unhallowed ground reserved for the burial of criminals, suicides, and witches. As he stood in the doorway, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction, he heard the soft murmurings of the servants rising up like the rustle of leaves falling in the woods.

“Nachzehrer,” one old woman who worked the kitchens whispered, clutching tightly to her apron. An older man beside her nodded, head bobbling like a hungry duck’s.

The widower stepped back inside, slamming the door behind him, and glowered down at the hired help that clustered around like a flock of terrified hens after a fox had been discovered in the coop. All eyes were on him, blinking stupidly in the mid-morning sun that filtered in through the high windows.

“Enough with your superstitions,” he growled. “Everyone back to work.”

There was no argument voiced, but he could see the resentment that echoed in the eyes that glanced at him before slowly sliding away. The whispers continued, regardless. Nachzehrer. Nachzehrer. Nachzehrer… the consuming dead.

He wore mourning clothes for only a week, then promptly shed them to begin making his advances toward other eligible women around the town. Some thought him improper, but most took pity upon him; poor handsome Gerhardt, trapped into marriage by a cunning witch’s charms! There was certainly no lack of pretty women to walk with, to dance with, to impress with his hunting talent and natural eloquence…

Many of the ladies with whom he pitched woo had been rivals of his dear Adelinde before her death; they were women she had jousted with her sharp tongue, who had often slinked away in defeat, licking the gaping, bleeding wounds left in their reputations; women she vied with in the dance hall, each flaunting the newest season’s fashions and the quick, easy knowledge of the latest steps from across Europe; women who mocked her low birth, only to promptly have every secret dalliance exposed to the horror and delight of the entire town.

He sighed wistfully as he listened to the vapid rambling of his newest pursuit: beautiful, but frightfully boring, with a long family history of producing strong male heirs. That had been another thorn in his side; his Adelinde had never given him a child, though he had tried tirelessly--to the point where his lovely wife had begun to hate his advances, had glowered at him even in the darkness after the candles had been blown out.

In fits of boredom, he undertook a number of dalliances with tavern women, with peasants, with unfortunate servant girls who got in his way. Through it all, however, their faces became her face. He watched with horror as, at the height of his passion, the face that looked up at him, tears shimmering in dark eyes, swelled and twisted into the horrific mask that had been his wife’s face in death. Green eyes burned like witchfire into his soul, and those bloated lips sneered silent curses at him.

He began to take ill, hiding himself in his rooms save for the occasional venture out into the town to keep up appearances and court the ladies at the balls. Every woman he saw seemed to be his Adelinde, her gaze still falling on his shoulders long after she was gone. The whispers of the servants hounded his every step: Nachzehrer. She will be back. The mistress will return, and God help us all.

The first disappearance came as a shock that rippled throughout the entire community. The boring-yet-beautiful woman he had courted in earnest, now his fiancée, had gone out on an afternoon walk, as per usual, and had never returned. No one that had walked with her remembered seeing her go, and no one in the town or the surrounding countryside had seen anyone of her description. There were suspicions of robbery and kidnapping bubbling up amongst the crowd, and it became the favored subject of conversation at the next ball.

“Poor Brunhilde,” one elderly dowager said, fanning herself quietly as she stared off at the dancers with a frown. “And you, Gerhardt--losing your wife and so soon after to lose your fiancée. How dreadful.”

The widower nodded, face pale as he clutched his drink with white knuckles.

Nachzehrer.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

“I do hope they find her soon, and unharmed. Though the way she carries herself, I have no doubt her father will soon be getting a ransom note. The poor dear. Poor, sweet Brunhilde. She would have made you a lovely wife. Not like that wretch you married, before. No way to speak of the dead, I know, but that woman was a monster. Terrible creature.”

He excused himself from the ball early that night.

Peasant girls vanished with little notice, though their families mourned in their own private way. He had arranged a secret rendezvous with the tavern owner’s girl, but she had never arrived. She did not come to the tavern the next day. Her father leveled the widower with an unpleasant stare the next several times he visited the tavern.

These were only the start. One by one, each and every woman he had made contact with, save for the servant girls trapped in the manor with him, began to vanish off the face of the earth. There was no outcry, no mess left behind--they simply disappeared, as if the earth had opened up and swallowed them altogether. People stared at him, now, with the same heavy stare that his wife’s dangling corpse had leveled upon him when he had gone to cut her down from her final perch.

A hunter returned one day after being out later than expected, following the tracks of a gigantic boar. People continued to disappear: hunters, supply wagons, travelers--all vanished without a trace on the outskirts of town. The citizens met and discussed their options, then decided that this rampant boar, the likeliest cause of all their woe, must be destroyed. Gerhardt received a brief reprieve from the oppression of their stares; no longer was he the primary suspect, and no longer was he silently accused of murder by each and every pair of eyes that met him in the streets.

Sometimes, they accused him of far worse.

They had no need to; he was tormented enough. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his wife’s eyes bulging from their hideous sockets, lips pulled back in a deathly grimace like a wild, horrible smile. Each time he saw her, it seemed, that smile grew wider and wider...

The hunting party never returned. Vanished.

He went home, resolved to lock himself in the manor. The old woman in the kitchens shook her head at him, and he felt a shiver run up and down his spine as he paused halfway up the stair.

Nachzehrer, she said with her eyes as silence hung between them. The mistress is coming home. God save us all.

The next day, he resolved to lay his paranoid concerns to rest. There was no such thing, he told himself, over and over in dizzying cycles of half-coherent thought; no such thing as the dead that rose again to consume the flesh of the living. He wandered to the outskirts of the town, hood drawn up high over his head as he wrapped his traveling cloak tightly around him.

It was the dead of winter, now, and his breath escaped him in wisps of pale white smoke as he paused at the edge of the cemetery. The dead slept peacefully under their carved headstones. Further off, beyond the high wall, under brambles covered over with frost, the undesirables lay in their fitful slumber, howling for justice, for vengeance, for mercy.

He took his first tentative steps around the wall, creeping closer to the pile of disturbed dirt that marked the recently deceased--but it had been weeks. The dirt should not look so fresh, so--he shook his head, clearing the thoughts away. The dead do not rise to eat the living. The dead do not rise... The dead do not… do not…

There she was. His Adelinde, as beautiful as the day he had met her, but painfully pale, kissed by frost as she lay in the open hole in the earth with not even a casket for her bed. Gerhardt’s breath hitched in his throat, and he reached a shaking hand down to caress her frozen face--only to draw suddenly back when he realized that one of her eyes was open, staring at him, green emerald paled by death and brought to a blind, glassy sheen.

It had been weeks, his mind repeated, like the sudden clanging of alarum bells. Weeks. She looked so beautiful, still, so--but she had not been beautiful when she died. Her face had twisted, bloated, turned beet-red with the blood that drowned her brain and forced her tongue out of her sweet, bow-lipped mouth. Her hands held one another, left thumb tucked into her right hand as she stared up one-eyed, unseeing, at the sky, the trees, the world entire--everything but him. She was so… beautiful.

As he gazed upon her, he found himself trembling with a sudden rage. Someone had disturbed his Adelinde in her final rest. Someone had jealously dug up her corpse, had--it was too horrible to think. He pulled himself away, groaning. Why had he accused his dear Adelinde, told the world stark falsehoods of her wickedness? She was a lamb of God, and nothing more. The most beautiful, the most beloved, innocent… no one could have her. No one could see her. Little by little, he began to push the dirt down into the hole with his bare hands, covering his dear, sweet Adelinde with the soft blanket of the earth as she stared blindly at him with that single pale eye. Before he covered her face, he could have sworn he saw her smile.

He washed the dirt from his hands, but he could not scrub her image from his mind.

The church bells rang in the dead of night, and Gerhardt pulled himself from his bed in quiet confusion. He lit a candle, squinting in the dim light as he saw other tiny flames burst to life in other windows all the way down the line of the main street of the town. The bells rang on--a slow, steady drone like a funerary dirge--and he pressed his face against the warped glass of his windows to try and get some idea of what was going on. Had someone died? Even so, they usually rang the bells in the day—never this late at night. Was there an emergency? He saw no one in the streets…

Then there came a loud, panicked knocking at his bedroom door. Annoyed, confused, exhausted from persistent nightmares that had dogged him for weeks, he moved to answer his midnight caller. The old woman from the kitchens stood before him, wringing her gnarled old hands as her nearly toothless mouth gaped wide.

“Nachzehrer,” she said, flinging her arms out to grab hold of her master’s satin nightshirt. “Nachzehrer. The mistress.”

Furious, eyes burning in the dim candlelight, Gerhardt grabbed the old woman’s hands with fierce strength.

“There is no such thing,” he bellowed. “Damn you and your superstitions! Adelinde is dead! She is dead, and no one will ever see her again! No one will gaze upon the roses of her cheeks, nor see the sun gleaming off the spun gold of her hair! She is dead and gone, and I have killed her, don’t you understand? It was because of me! Because of me, sweet Adelinde, light of my life is gone because of me! And all is gone with her!”

He flung the old woman away from him as she opened her mouth to speak again, and watched, horrified, as she stumbled back only to tumble like a rolling boulder down the stairwell. Her eyes seemed to watch him as she fell, her gaze an unspoken accusation. She fell on the steps with a final, horrible crunch, and he could faintly see from the moonlight flooding in through the great windows of the main hall that there was blood pooling on the fine wooden floors from her mouth and nose.

He shook his head as other servants opened their doors to see what had caused all the fuss, then shut himself inside his own room when one of the servant girls screamed.

“No, no, no, no,” he hissed, raking his hands through thick black hair as he dashed to the window, staring out as the bells rang on, heralding death. “No. I didn’t… mean…”

“The old woman had it coming. Did she not?”

That voice.

He turned, slowly, and saw witch-green eyes staring at him from the darkest corner of the great bedroom he had once shared with his wife. A shadow stood there, strong and tall, fine of frame. He lifted the candle in trembling hands and saw the dirty red dress that his wife had loved so dearly.

“It is so terribly hard to find good help these days. Weep not, fair Gerhardt. She will be judged, as all poor sinners are.”

She stepped forward, and he saw her in the light: her skin was horribly pale, with the deep bruise that the rope had left behind forever imprinted on her delicate neck. His mouth moved, but no words came.

“Death comes to everyone,” she continued, her form seeming to shimmer and distort in the flickering light of the candle. “And we all deserve it.”

He turned to look outside again. The streets were filled with bloated corpses, and the sky looked as if it burned red with hellfire. The candle fell from his hand, and its flames lazily licked at the heavy curtains, trying to grasp, to climb, to consume.

Adelinde was growing, changing--he heard the sickly crackling of her bones, the wet sound of flesh twisting and tearing, the faint click of hooves as she set her hands down on the floor before her. A giant boar stared him down with witch-green eyes, standing where his wife had stood. A long tongue flicked out, snake-like, tasting the air, and his heart raced as he reeled back. He did not notice the flames creeping up his nightclothes, did not hear the desperate pounding at his door.

“Poor handsome Gerhardt. Your wife is such a boor,” the massive creature with too-long legs said, its emaciated frame drawing closer to him as he felt the first sharp pains of fire touching his flesh. He could not breathe. His chest tightened, seared with anguish, as his arms and legs went numb.

“And the way she eats! My goodness…”

The tusked jaws gaped open—and open, and open. Gerhardt stared into the mouth of hell until his eyes rolled back in his head. He breathed in acrid smoke as the room seemed to grow brighter. The mouth closed on his feet, great teeth crunching through flesh and bone as he fell deeper into that endless maw. Soon, all that remained to greet him was hot, wet darkness.

Finally, Gerhardt screamed.

The noise resounded in the hollow echo-chamber of the creature’s gullet until, with sickening finality, the molars crushed his skull and silenced him forever.

The door burst open, and the servants rushed in--only to find an empty room, half-ablaze, with no trace of their master left behind. The city streets ran red with blood, and babes cried, freshly-orphaned, from their beds. As they clung to one another, creeping out of the manor while the building began to burn with renewed vigor, the newly-widowed old man looked at the younger ones around him and whispered a single word: Nachzehrer.

They all nodded. They all knew.

Everyone that had heard the horrible ringing of the bells was dead—save for them. The Mistress had returned, and the Mistress had spared them all. The Mistress was good.

God save the Mistress.

God save them all.

#writing #original fiction #horror fiction #dark fairytale #nachzehrer #my writing

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picklepiecow · 3 years

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the original version of darshan before i found those shoulder-hole shirts! both shirts are hard to draw from the side imo lol but while he would wear either one, i thought the shoulder holes were too cute to pass up and also look better in this drawing. i’d love to draw him in one from a different angle to show it off better.

also that cheekbone line was supposed to help guide me in my shading LMAOOOO i forget if i even used it

#also the lack of effort i put into that helmet DSKJFVDJND god #i did not enjoy drawing the helmets folks #oh also #this sketch is the reason he's wearing so much blue #i don't even rly like the colours of his outfit in the full drawing #and i took so fucking long to figure them out #i just could not picture him not wearing a blue shirt #bc i sketched him in blue #it cursed me

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. ��They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher higher higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x fem!reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #king of cups #mandalorian smut

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rosethornxs · 3 years

Text

Bubble Baths, Bruises, and Beskar

Boba Fett x Fem!Reader

Here it is on AO3

Rated: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 4.5k+

Summary: Set after the events of season 2 of The Mandalorian, Boba comes home sore and tired after a very long day and you want to help him feel better so you draw him a bath and help him relax in more ways than one.

Warnings: smut, FLUFF, bath sex, woman on top, slight thigh riding, slight cockwarming, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it folks), pet names, slightly injured Boba, grumpy old man Boba

Author’s Note: This was inspired entirely by @jangofctts, who I love and adore. Her Boba series, Being No One, Going Nowhere made me fall deeply in love with our grumpy, green bounty hunter and this fic was born. It is based on a drabble I sent her about taking a bath with Boba that I desperately wanted to explore further. It is the first fic I’ve written in over 3 years and also the longest. I must say, I am very proud of this fic and I hope you all enjoy!

Tatooine’s binary suns had slipped below the desert planet’s horizon several hours ago and Boba still had not returned from wherever his occupation took him that day. He didn’t really appreciate questions about his whereabouts so you learned not to ask and tried not to worry. You knew he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself if things went wrong but not knowing where he was when he went away left you with a sense of unease. It wasn’t uncommon for Boba to return home well into the night, quietly slipping into your bed upon his return so as not to wake you. Despite his best efforts, you usually woke when the bed dipped and he climbed into it. You always rolled over and curled into his side before drifting back to sleep, happy and relieved that he finally returned to you. Tonight however, you found yourself wide awake much later than usual so you decided to wait up for him.

You were tucked comfortably between the blankets on you and Boba’s shared bed, bathed in the soft orange light of a lamp on the wall. You clutched a holopad and skimmed through a novel you found amongst its files. It was not a particularly engrossing novel, you thought, and you were finding it hard to concentrate on the words as your thoughts drifted to Boba and whether or not he would be home soon. Your entire body ached for him when he was away, and only when he finally returned could you relax.

As if on cue, you heard a soft clang come from the hall. You set the holopad down on the small table beside your bed, threw off the blankets, and crossed the cool stone floor to the door. Peaking your head into the darkness, you saw a shadowy figure moving down the hall.

“Boba?” you called softly.

The figure in the hall abruptly stopped moving and for a moment you were worried it might be an intruder until a familiar, gravelly voice answered you.

“What are you still doing up, Little One? It’s late.”

You watched as Boba’s shadowy form reached up and removed his helmet before continuing up the hall to your room. His movements were stiff and he seemed to be favouring his left side. Your heart dropped at the thought of him hurt.

“I was waiting for you to get back. I— I missed you…” you confessed sheepishly, heat creeping into your cheeks, “and besides, I’m not tired.”

Boba’s response was a rather tired sounding grunt and he finished making his way to your room. You took a step back to allow him through the door, finally able to see him clearly in the lamp light. You gave him a once-over, noticing several new blaster scorch marks and what appeared to be a blood stain on the dark green beskar. Boba set his helmet on a shelf and slowly began working to remove the rest of his armour. You winced at his low groans in rigid movements.

“What happened?” you asked tentatively, knowing he didn’t like to share the details of his work with you.

Boba didn’t answer and continued to remove his armour. He didn’t want you to know the horrible things he did. You were a light in his world, soft and innocent, but easily snuffed out and taken from him at any moment. Boba didn’t want to ruin your innocence or scare you away with his horror stories so he kept them to himself. He didn’t realise that there was almost nothing he could do to make you leave him, that’s how much you cared about him. You wanted nothing more than to be his confidant, someone he trusted enough to bare the darkest recesses of his soul to.

Boba groaned in pain as he tried to undo the ties on the right side of his cuirass. You rushed to help him and he sighed in defeat before submitting to you. You undid the ties, and gently raised the heavy beskar over his head, then placed it on the floor below his helmet.

“Are you okay?” you asked, hoping that if you didn’t push for too many details, Boba might give you an honest answer, “you can tell me, you know.”

“Just tired,” he rumbled, pulling off the rest of his armour and letting it fall to the floor with a clang, “and a little sore.”

You were certain there was more to it than that but you didn’t press him for an explanation. Instead, you gathered the fallen armour and placed it neatly against the wall with his cuirass. Boba staggered over to the bed and sat down on the edge with another grunt, leaning down to pull his boots off. You surmised that whatever mess he’d gotten himself into during the day must have really done a number on him because you’d never seen him move like that before.

Suddenly, an idea crossed your mind and you followed him to the bed. You knelt between his knees and gently ran your hands over his thighs. Boba’s gaze softened as he watched you, his mouth curling into a small smile.

“Let me draw you a bath,” you offered.

Boba chuckled slightly as if you were joking.

“It’s late,” he muttered, moving a large hand to cup you cheek affectionately.

His calloused thumb lightly stroked your cheekbone. You held his forearm and leaned into his touch, looking up at him with big doe eyes.

“Please? Let me take care of you.”

Boba grumbled in protest.

“Come on Boba,” you implored, “look at you, you can barely move.”

You knew you were pushing your luck, Boba already seemed a little grumpy and you didn’t want to risk actually making him cross, but you did want him to feel better.

After a few moments of arguing, Boba begrudgingly agreed to your request. You stood and pressed a soft kiss to his temple before heading to the bathroom that was connected to your room. One of the advantages of this palace, or whatever you wanted to call it, was all the amenities you were not used to in your previous home. A near infinite supply of warm, running water, and a large stone bathtub were among them. You almost felt bad, using so much of a valuable resource on a desert planet, but you shoved the guilt to the back of your mind, this was for Boba.

You quickly sent to work preparing the tub, twisting on the taps and pouring in the contents of a sweet scented vial of bubbles. Soon, the large bathroom was hazy with warm steam and the tub was nearly overflowing with foamy, white bubbles. You hoped this wouldn’t be too much for Boba and he’d deny himself the pleasure and warmth of the water. He wasn’t one to indulge in such things, despite being the one person on this entire godforsaken planet who deserved it the most, in your opinion.

After making things perfect for the tired bounty hunter, you went back to the bedroom to fetch him. The sight of him lying back on the bed with his legs hanging off the end made your heart swell. He looked almost vulnerable in this position and the fact that you were one of the only people he allowed to see him like that made your insides twist with adoration and happiness. You watched the steady rise and fall of his chest as you quietly approached the bed and climbed on next to him.

“Boba—,” you murmured, pressing your smiling lips to his jaw. “Did you fall asleep?”

Boba let out a long sigh and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“No—,” he grumbled, opening his eyes to gaze at your face. You pressed a chaste kiss to his lips and sat up. Boba rubbed slow circles against the tunic that covered your body.

“Come on, it’s ready.”

You reluctantly removed yourself from his grasp and stepped back onto the stone floor. Your hand reached out to pull Boba’s arm in an attempt to help him up and off the bed. You weren’t particularly successful, as the man was double your size, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. Boba sat up with a huff and staggered into the steam-filled bathroom behind you. Looking back at him with a proud grin, you chuckled as he rolled his eyes, knowing that, despite his grumpy façade, he did appreciate the things you did for him.

“Let’s get this over with so I can go to bed.”

It was your turn to roll your eyes.

“Alright, old man,” you teased, earning yourself a light smack on your ass.

“Don’t test me, Little One.” Boba’s tone was sharp but his tired eyes still sparkled with amusement.

He reached for the hem of his shirt and began to pull it off. Your breath hitched at the sight of his bare tummy. You didn’t think you could ever tire of watching Boba’s strong muscles work as he moved. However, you immediately offered your help when he hissed in pain and struggled to get the offending article of clothing over his head. You carefully pulled it off him, folded it into a neat square, and placed it on the floor by the door. You then turned back and ran your eyes over his newly exposed form, wincing as you noticed a fresh, dark purple bruise spread across the left side of his rib cage and under his arm.

“Kriff, Boba!” you swore, “are you sure you didn’t break anything?”

You were no medical expert but even you knew the risks of getting hit hard enough to make a bruise like that.

“I’m fine, s’nothing I can’t handle.” Boba assured, tugging at the strings of his pants and pushing them down his thick thighs.

You shivered with arousal at the sight of his broad form, completely bared to you. He exuded such power and confidence, and you had to bite your lip to hold back a moan. You gaze followed him as he gingerly slipped into the warm, bubbly water. Despite all his protests from earlier, Boba sighed with relief and relaxed as the water engulfed his sore muscles, rising just enough to submerge the lower part of his chest. You picked up a sponge and a ceramic pitcher from a shelf on the wall and approached the edge of the large tub, kneeling beside him.

“Is the water warm enough?” you asked, dipping your fingers in to cheek the temperature.

Boba hummed in response and you took that as a “yes.”

Taking the sponge, you soaked it in the water then dragged it through the bubbles to collect a few suds on its porous surface. You drew the sponge gently across Boba’s weathered shoulders, cleaning off the remnants of his day. Humming softly, you continued to cleanse the bounty hunter’s skin, paying special attention to the sensitive scar tissue that criss crossed his entire body. Part of you wanted to ask how he got all those scars but you knew he would tell you when he was ready so you didn’t push him. You dipped the sponge in the water and passed it over Boba’s skin a few more times before squeezing it out and discarding it on the floor next to the tub, opting instead for the ceramic pitcher. You filled it with water from the tub and poured it over Boba’s shoulders, rinsing off the bubbles. He hummed in pleasure as the water cascaded down his body, back into the tub.

You set the pitcher on the edge of the tub and then placed your hands on Boba’s shoulders. Rubbing gently at first, you began working the tight muscles and felt him stiffen as you found a particularly firm knot near his neck. You adjusted your position to provide more pressure to the areas and began massaging it until Boba relaxed again, then you moved to the other side. Once you were satisfied with the way his muscles felt under your touch, you moved your hands to the base of his skull and rubbed circles with your thumbs on the sides of his spine. Boba tensed again when you reached another tender spot and you gently worked it until the tension melted away. Finally, your fingers reached the top of his head and you softly traced the silvery scars that covered his scalp with your fingertips. Boba shivered in response to your touch.

“That’s nice, Princess,” he purred.

Your lips curled into a smile at his comment and you turned to look him in the eyes. To your surprise, for a split second it looked like your tough bounty hunter was about to cry. Was he really so starved of touch and affection that a simple bath and massage made him so emotional? It was rare for his rough features to reveal so much to you about the state of his mind. You blinked and his expression changed to one of adoration as he gazed back at you. Seeing Boba in such a vulnerable state really messed with your feelings and you had to fight your own tears for a moment.

“Are you going to join me in here, Little One?” Boba asked, trailing a wet finger down your arm.

You shivered at the sensation and nodded, standing to remove the thin tunic that shielded your body from the rest of the world. Boba let out a low growl as your bare breasts were exposed to him. Heat pooled between your thighs at his reaction to seeing you naked. It made you feel beautiful and adored. No one else in your entire life made you feel the way this dangerous bounty hunter did. It was thrilling, knowing that the same man who was capable of ending a life without second thought, was also capable of loving you so softly.

You let the tunic fall to the floor, and shimmied out of your underwear, allowing them to land next your tunic. Boba’s gaze raked over your nude form and you stepped towards the tub once more. You lifted your leg over the edge and sank it into the water, careful not to land on Boba. Your other leg quickly followed and the rest of your body slipped into the tub. The disruption of another body splashed water of the edge and made a mess on the floor. You didn’t care though, as you settled on Boba’s lab, facing him.

Boba’s hands trailed down your back and rested on your hips. He pulled you against him and you could feel his growing erection pressed against your lower belly. You whined with need as Boba leaned forward and pressed his open mouth to the curve of your breast. He sucked a purple mark onto your soft skin and you arched your back into his touch with a moan. Your breathing grew ragged as his warm mouth enclosed around your nipple, and your nails scraped against his shoulders. Boba dragged his lips up the column of your throat, nipping at your sensitive skin before capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

You moaned into his mouth and he hummed in response, pushing his tongue past your lips to deepen the kiss. Kissing Boba like this made your entire world melt away, and it was like you and him were the only two people in the universe. Your thoughts were entirely consumed by him and you couldn’t even begin to remember what your life was like before he joined it.

“That’s a good girl,” he breathed.

You rocked on his thigh in an attempt to get some much needed friction against your throbbing heat. Boba flexed his muscle to accommodate your neediness and let out a low moan when your stomach rubbed along his stiff cock.

“Boba—aa,” you whined, grinding down on him, “N—need you.”

Your movements disrupted the water even more and it splashed out of the tub, leaving more puddles on the floor.

“I’m yours, sweetheart,” he purred, “take what you want.”

Boba pressed his forehead against yours and waited for you to make a move. You reached into the water between your bodies and stroked his cock a few times before lifting your hips and lining him up at your entrance. Boba let out a pleasured groan as you eased yourself down slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed in your warmth. Your jaw fell open, mouth forming into an ‘O’ shape at the sensation of him filling you up completely.

“Oh stars, Boba,” you moaned, feeling him twitch inside you.

One of your hands rested on his shoulder to steady yourself and the other held on the back of his neck. Boba’s hands remained on your hips, lightly gripping your soft skin in the water. His thumb traced slow, soothing circles on your hipbones as he waited for you to move.

“You take me so well, Princess,” Boba praised, “so tight and wet for me.”

You whined at how nicely he stretched your cunt, taking a moment to adjust before you slowly began to ride him. A sinful moan escaped Boba’s lips as you lifted yourself until only his tip remained within your silky folds. You sank back down onto him ever so slowly, relishing the feeling of his thick cock gliding against your sensitive walls. Your cunt squeezed around him earning yourself another moan. You eased up again, just as slowly as before, but Boba had enough of your teasing and tugged you back down on him thrusting his own hips up to meet yours. You let out a pleasured cry as the sudden movement made Boba’s cock expertly hit the most sensitive spot inside you.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Little One,” Boba growled, his eyes not once straying from your face as he watched you ride him.

You began to pick up the pace slightly, twisting your hips and grinding against him. Neither of you really minded the slower than usual pace, simply enjoying the feeling of each other’s bodies writhing together in the water. The sounds of splashing water, heavy breathing, and your combined moans echoed in the bathroom. Boba’s grasp on your hips tightened as he took over some control, guiding you down on his cock and thrusting up against you. As your movements became more reckless, more water cascaded over the edge of the tub onto the floor. With each thrust, the head of Boba’s cock struck that spot inside you, causing the blossoming tendrils of your release to form in your belly.

“Maker, Boba, just like that,” you whined, leaning forward and pressing sloppy kisses along his jaw, “Mm, so close.”

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he purred, continuing to pump himself in and out of your quivering heat.

Boba let go of your left hip and snaked his free hand between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb. He rubbed quick circles over the bundle of nerves and you let out a high-pitched mewl at the new sensation, clamping down on Boba’s cock. It was enough to send you over the edge and your body curled inwards, your cheek pressing into the crook of Boba’s neck as the first wave of your orgasm flowed through you. It was slow and intense at the same time as pleasure radiated out to your extremities. Your fingernails dug into Boba’s back, creating little half-moon indents on his skin as you rode out the rolling waves of your release. Boba continued thrusting into you, chasing his own release. The sensations made your body spasm and you cried his name like a prayer.

Your walls fluttered around Boba’s twitching cock and he too was tipped over the edge. He stiffened beneath you, and praised your name. His hold on your hip tightened enough to leave a mark as hot ropes of his seed painted your walls, filling you up. You slowly continued to move your hips against his, coaxing every last drop from his cock.

As you came down from your high, you rested your tired body on Boba’s broad chest, your cheek still nestled against his jaw. Your fingertips lightly traced along the base of his skull and you could feel Boba soften inside you. He trailed a hand softly down your back and you shivered as droplets of water rolled across your skin. You stayed like that on his lap for several minutes, your body rising and falling with his chest as his breathing evened out. After a while you realised how cold the water in the tub was getting and you started to shiver slightly. Boba gently lifted your hips and hissed as his cock slipped from your warmth. As much as he enjoyed just being inside you, it was his turn to take care of you. He leaned across the tub to turn the taps on and add more warm water, one arm holding your waist so you wouldn’t drift off his lap.

You sat up and watched Boba as he reached for the pitcher you left on the edge of the tub and filled it with warm water from the tap before turning it off. His other hand softly took hold of your jaw, tilting your head back and exposing the expanse of your neck to him. He pressed a kiss to your throat and then moved his hand to shield your eyes as he poured the pitcher of water over your hair. You hummed contently as the warm water covered your hair and cascaded down your back.

Boba set down the pitcher and turned to select a vial of soap from your collection at the end of the tub. The one he chose smelled like Malreaux Roses, it was one of his favourites. He poured a small amount into his palm and returned the vial to its rightful place before rubbing his hands together to create a lather. Boba smoothed the suds over your hair and began massaging it into your scalp with his calloused fingertips. His touch felt like heaven and you closed your eyes, moaning softly at his gentle ministrations. He ran his fingers through your hair, pulling lightly to detangle the knots, but not enough to hurt you. When he was satisfied with his work, he poured the rest of the pitcher over your hair, rinsing the suds away. He smoothed his hand over your clean hair and squeezed out the excess water. You watched him with adoration and leaned forward to kiss him once more, humming against his lips. He returned the kiss for a moment before pulling away.

“Come on, Princess, it’s late,” Boba rumbled, “let’s get you to bed.”

You had forgotten just how late it was and apparently so had your body. Exhaustion quickly creeped into your bones and you let out a yawn. Boba stood first and you reached to unplug the drain before taking his hand and hoisting yourself up as well. He stepped out of the tub right into an icy cold puddle on the bathroom floor.

“Kriff, girl! Were you trying to flood the place?” he muttered in an amused tone.

You couldn’t hold back the giggle that escaped your lips as you gazed and the water soaked floor around the tup.

“It wasn’t just me, mister,” you smiled and stepped out of the tub, trying to avoid the puddles as much as possible.

Boba plucked two towels from a shelf on the wall and wrapped one around his waist. He turned to you and draped the other across your shoulders. You squealed when he curved an arm under your bum and swept you off your feet, his other arm held securely around your back. Giggling at his antics, you leaned your head against Boba’s bare shoulder as he carried you, bridle style, into the bedroom. He gently placed you on the bed and you moved to sit on your knees, taking the towel off your shoulders and using it to dry your hair. You watched as Boba dried himself with his own towel, taking care not to move in such a way that would irritate the bruise along his ribs. His movements were not nearly as stiff as they were when he first got home and you were pleased that the bath seemed to have helped.

When you were finished with the towel you tossed it onto the floor, deciding that your would deal with the mess in the morning. You let out a yawn and crawled back on the bed, sliding between the blankets with a sigh. Boba joined you moments later after switching off the lamp. His large hands quickly found your body and he pulled you into a warm embrace. Your heart fluttered and you hummed contently.

“Do you have to leave again tomorrow?” you asked softly, not really sure if you wanted to know the answer.

“No,” he murmured, breathing in the scent of your freshly washed hair, “I have things to do here tomorrow.”

Your heart soared with happiness at the prospect of getting to wake up next to him in the morning. Boba was a busy man and constantly had one thing or another to tend to, often leaving your side before the binary suns peaked over the horizon. You woke to an empty bed just as frequently as you went to sleep in one.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” you smiled.

“You’re too good to me, Little One.”

You frowned slightly at his words and rolled over in his arms to face him. It was too dark to see his expression but you assumed his eyes were sad.

“You deserve good things, you know that right?” you took hold of one of his hands and brought it to your lips, pressing light kisses to his fingertips, “you deserve all the good things.”

Boba didn’t say anything but kissed the top of your forehead and rubbed your hip, pulling your tighter into his embrace. He still wasn’t sure what he could have possibly done to deserve someone as loving and kind as you after all the horrible things he’d done in his life. You deserved better than him, he thought. If you heard him say that aloud you’d be heartbroken.

“I love you, Boba Fett,” you murmured against his chest after a few moments of silence.

Boba’s breath caught in his chest and he stiffened. While you’d thought those three little words hundreds, if not thousands of times, this was the first time you dared to say them out loud. The silence that followed was not uncomfortable and you were neither surprised, nor disappointed when Boba didn’t say anything in return. You knew he would tell you when he was ready, and really, actions spoke louder than words. This was especially true for Boba.

You could feel your mind slowly drifting into the clutches of sleep after such a long day and you relaxed in Boba’s arms, curled into his chest. Boba absentmindedly ran his fingers along your bare back as your breathing slowed. You were nearly asleep when you heard him, voice barely above a whisper but still clear and unmistakeable.

“I love you too.”

#boba fett x reader #boba fett x female reader #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars universe #star wars #star wars fanfiction #boba fett smut #smut #fluff

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tominostuff · 4 years

Text

Oshii Mamoru x Anno Hideaki Char’s Counterattack Fan Club Book

Published: January 1993

Just the first 3 pages as a teaser lol

Influence

Anno: As a creator, I like CCA because you can hear Mr. Tomino’s very genuine voice in it. But Mr. Oshii, you tend to dislike doing that. You try to sugarcoat your true intentions and hide it deep within. So, it’s unexpected that someone like you enjoyed CCA.

Oshii: Well, isn’t it just that? As you said, Mr. Tomino’s raw voice is all out in the open.

Anno: Yes. It’s very direct. I think sensitive people may even harbor hatred for it.

Oshii: (Kazunori) Itou-kun apparently stopped watching 5 minutes in. When he heard the first “heavenly punishment” line, he couldn’t follow along anymore and stopped (laughs). Since he used to be at Sunrise, he probably sees more.

So [whether or not you like the movie] is probably decided by what kind of reaction you’d have to hearing lines like 修正 “correction” or 粛清 “purge” or 天誅 “heavenly punishment.” Since there’s bound to be many people who have a dislike towards words like that. Especially older people react towards “purge” and “correction.” For the pre-war faction, “correction” meant military lynching and for people after the 70s, “correction” means demonstrator/political radicals or controlled lynching. There’s also the Red Army (JRA) issue as well.

If it were a movie, they may have not been bothered by it but since it’s an animation. There is a gap between the raw human intentions and the drawn world. And that actually makes a bigger impact. So for people who dislike seeing undiluted emotions show up on screen, they just can’t do it.

Anno: I wasn’t bothered by it.

Oshii: I think you and I were making things during the awkward off season of animation. People like Miya-san (Miyazaki Hayao) who were swept along by Toei and made animations for kids versus people who were pursuing movies and ended up in an anime studio...our generation of people is the in-between, so we understand both sides. We are caught between both the part that’s making shows for kids and the part that wants to make movies that we are personally satisfied with. So, depending on where you place the center of balance, you end up making a completely different thing.

On one hand, I felt that this movie could only be accepted by people like that. The older folk just thought it was bad. People in the anime industry especially. And for younger folk, they don’t know how to process an undiluted political world like that one. Despite all of this, the theaters were pretty full. And that’s probably due to the influence of Gundam.

It was around the same time as Patlabor. Even though Mr. Tomino did whatever he wanted in Gundam, and I worked on Patlabor with the same Shochiku, when the high ups at Shochiku came to the press release for the previous Patlabor installment, they just said “I didn’t understand anything” and left. “Nothing made sense.” They were grumbling, “but robot anime originally was like this” as they went home. Which I think was thanks to Gundam (laughs).

Even so, I was impressed that a script like CCA was greenlit. How could they release something like that. Probably because they weren’t watching it very seriously. Everyone is so enchanted by the surface-level space war aspect that there’s very few people who accurately grasp Mr. Tomino’s intentions.

Anno: I didn’t understand it the first time I watched it.

Oshii: The idea itself is not anything exceptional. It doesn’t come up to the surface but… to exaggerate, this is about present day, but as a phenomenon, in Japan maybe after the 70s? Among the political ideas that collapsed in the 60s was a type of retaliation ideology….. There’s a bit of nihilism in it, but basically there existed a political thought that placed its basis on the idea that “humans are no good.” However, that never made its way into the mainstream and much less in a world like animation, the center of popular culture, the fact that it showed up so suddenly was a surprise. It was almost pure literature.

To want to retaliate against humanity or to want to correct humanity… truth be told, I also had similar thoughts. For example, the upcoming Patlabor has a bit of that in it. There’s a desire to seek revenge against a kind of deceptive inquisitiveness of this generation. However, I’m hesitant about being too direct about it (laughs)... more like I personally, am not a fan of being so direct…. And to go so far as to start saying the intellectuals that, the masses this. That part of the dialogue was probably an exact reflection of Mr. Tomino’s beliefs. As a method of expression, I would never do something like declaring my true beliefs during the movie.

Just, the one thing I don’t get is why he suddenly did something like that. I actually haven’t watched the Gundam series too seriously so when I saw that, it seemed out of the blue. Perhaps he had laid the foundations for it earlier but I actually haven’t watched anything since Zeta Gundam. Watched the first Gundam and then suddenly CCA. So I don’t know what happened in this gap but it probably wasn’t anything sudden, it was probably always present.

Anno: Yes. I think he spit out everything he had accumulated, or more like, he put an end to things.

Ideologies

Oshii: When you’re working on anime, you’re required to be different from an ordinary movie director. Even though it may look like we’re doing whatever we please, there are some things that we just can’t do. In a live action, even if it’s a bit explicit it may not be a huge problem… but with anime, there’s the first psychological barrier of the people who have to draw it. And when you think about it, the first person who did those things was Mr. Tomino. Like the child who fires in front of his mother. Or the boy or girl, I forget, that got their head blown off along with their helmet.

When I saw Ideon, I believe it was when I was working on The Wonderful Adventures of Nils at Pierrot, it gave me such a shock. And it became the topic of discussion among directors at the studio. We wondered if it was okay to make something like that. My mentor, Mr. Tori (Hisayuki Toriumi), was someone who would do rather sadistic things. Like, Gatchaman was horrible. People would get hung with chains and beaten with a whip or Joe the Condor would get his face stepped on and messed up. He’s done pretty controversial things over the years. However, he never was as raw. After all, we had passed the era where such direct expression is allowed.

There were a few taboos that were said to exist in anime, the destruction of bodies being one of them, but the bigger one that existed was probably, “politics.” To express your own political beliefs in the anime you were creating. I don’t mean things like post-war democracy or Tezuka Osamu’s humanism, etc, but radical revolutionary ideas, betrayed ressentiment (concept of resentment or hostility related to 19th century thinkers like Friedrich Neitzche), feelings of grudge, etc. have no place in anime. No one explicitly says it but as you spend time at the studio, you naturally begin to realize that’s the limit. If you want to do it, you have to change its shape. So like in Urusei Yatsura or Patlabor, I had to disguise it as a type of metaphor or a running joke. So even if you’re allowed to have a miniature battle for authority in a school setting… well, originally, even that was going too far, I was told many things by different people… it wasn’t like anyone said anything openly but no one thought to do it in the first place. The reason why is because everyone thought animation was the wrong place to be testing such ideas, who’s going to want to watch something like that.

Back when Toei made Future War 198x, circulation boards went around and the Toei Animation Company labor union went on strike and all that, but inside, there were a lot of debates happening. Especially among directors wondering how they should take it all. Regardless of the fact that the age of the average anime watcher was increasing due to the anime boom, where exactly do we place the limit? Is it okay for us to try things that an ordinary live action director might do? For the generation of directors above us, these questions existed in a more tangible form. Whenever there was destruction of bodies or kiss scenes, like Mr. Tori did once in Gatchaman, every time something like that would happen on screen, production companies would file complaints or the TV stations would complain, and there would be this back and forth. Even so, there were people who wanted to depict these things. But in other words, that was it. The complaints were only on the artistic level. What that person did in CCA is leagues beyond that.

The philosophies or policies or themes, those things aren’t in there because the movie needs it, no, the ideology is first and foremost (laughs). It’s probably forgiven because it’s underneath the umbrella of Gundam but even so, I was surprised that they could go that far.

And, I was surprised a second time when there was no reaction to it. I spoke about this with Anno over the phone but, there’s no talk about it, good or bad. Why is there no reaction to such a radical outburst? There were probably a few entries to some anime magazines, I’ve seen a few of them myself, but in the end they were just the usual debates about war in Gundam.

In that way, it was as I expected. By “as expected” I mean, even if one speaks of such ideals in animation, who is going to see it, and how? This is a problem that I’m always facing myself because the stories that I want to create aren’t reaching the audience that I desire. And that’s probably because it’s anime. If it were live action, you could just leave it alone and a bunch of critics would come along and say what they want. Even if it’s just some boring police drama, they’d dig up all this nonsense to write. Conversely, [CCA] didn’t receive attention because it was anime. Because it was anime, the ideas presented in it were overlooked. To Mr. Tomino, that was probably extremely regrettable. Because I am always experiencing similar things. The anime isn’t reaching the people who are supposed to see it. That is what I felt from it.

Anno: Anime as a method of expression is very infantile. Especially facial expressions, angry faces have raised eyebrows, crying faces have tears in their eyes, blurry pupils means they are crying; if a foreigner saw this, I don’t think they’d understand. Japanese people are trained to understand to some extent so they know “oh they’re crying right now.”

However, whether the character is crying because they are happy or because they are sad, cannot be understood through just the art, without dialogue and the whole package. So, whether hands go flying or blood is shed, at the end of day, they’re all cell humans. Even if they speak, it's just 3 frames of mouths going open and close. I think the sincere attitude of trying to go so far through such childish means of expression and in the even more remote region of robot anime is amazing. I don’t think there were any directors like this until now.

Oshii: Yeah, there weren’t. I didn’t think he would take it that far. Although, I had sensed that vibe from Gundam itself. The structure of war depicted in it probably made that kind of thing possible. I don’t know how much he had pre-planned while he was creating the initial settings for the show but… it’s probably something similar to Patlabor where you start realizing “oh this is possible too” as you go. But, I kind of understand why it came out of a robot anime. With gag anime or home drama, school stories, these things would definitely be caught in a check at some stage. It’s probably due to the very combative world of robot anime, which depicts war, that kind of thing was passed (laughs).

Anno: That’s right. It was probably only possible because it had its beginnings as “just an ad for robot toys.”

Resignation

Oshii: Back when Urusei just finished airing, I met Mr. Yasuhiko at a magazine interview. It was right when the manga, Todonotsumari, was serializing in Animage. The first thing that person said was, “Animators like the ones depicted in [that manga] don’t exist. The anime studio environment that you are creating there is the furthest from an anime studio in reality. It’s what doesn’t exist the most. Why do you do this?” That’s when I sensed a bit of the resignation or frustration that generation of uncles hold towards animation. To put it bluntly, it's a type of inferiority complex.

I, too, was told that when I entered Tatsunoko. “In the end it’s just an ad for toys. So don’t put too much effort into it. If you don’t keep it at a minimum, you’ll only feel disappointed at the end. If you become too serious about making a masterpiece or making a film, you won’t make it in this industry.” I got a lot of that. Whether they were sakuga directors, animators, producers, bosses. From different people, in different ways, I was told many things. To summarize, that’s pretty much what they’d tell me. “The anime job is not a place for that.”

I’m generalizing but the generation above us started from a place of resignation. Like the background artist who couldn’t feed themselves off of oil paintings or the animator who couldn’t become a mangaka, it’s not nice to say but the industry was full of people who drifted into it. It was that kind of world. But there were good sides to it being that kind of world. No one would comment on what other people were doing.

Like, I was told at the beginning, “Don’t criticize other people’s work.” And not only did this apply to people in my own studio but I also wasn’t allowed to say this and that about what Toei was doing. From the start I was still in the mindset of a film bro so I’d complain “what is that?” but I was told off not only by older directors but also by directors my own age. Was it Mashimo Koichi? (laughs). “It’s easy to spot as many faults as you’d like in other people’s work. So there’s an infinite number of criticisms you can make. The only thing that matters is what you yourself creates.” To that I said, “I don’t think so. I have the ability to state why boring things are boring with logic to back it up so I should be allowed to. If we don’t say these things out loud, nothing will change. In exchange, I don’t care how badly my work gets criticized.” That’s a very normal thing. Bar fights are constant in the movie industry. “Why doesn’t it work in the same way in the anime industry?” is how I felt.

So, until I met Miya-san I was always frustrated. Meeting Miya-san was the first time…. cause that person is the same way. He says whatever he wants about other people’s work…just as I thought, this kind of person does exist. Even as we argue, even as we lovingly tear each other’s work apart, we are still together. I think that’s a very important skill as a director and even beyond that, I was perplexed as to why this wasn’t allowed in the anime industry.

The one thought I always held within all of this was that, before the sponsors or stations or whatever, the anime industry carved out territory for itself and didn’t try to leave it. So when the industry was forced to the forefront with the anime boom, the previously anonymous animators and directors suddenly found themselves in the limelight. And with that, all of the inferiority complexes came flooding out in a warped way.

For example, Mr. Yasuhiko’s Crusher Joe is unnecessarily cruel. Like small animals getting turned into meat clumps with a machine gun. Or patricide or siblings killing each other. Everything that had been suppressed until now came flooding out in a very warped way. Endlessly mass producing worthless children’s media that's neither good or bad would turn one’s literary consciousness inwards. So when you’re finally able to put work out there under your own name, all of that came out. Basically what I’m saying is that the balance is off. How far can you take things, from where should you start dialing back; everyone has their own parameters based on their unique method of expression. But they let everything out, completely ignoring these parameters.

When I saw this, I was full of complicated feelings. “Why do you guys have to have such a complex towards making animation?” I hated it so much because the generation below me doesn’t really have these taboos or warped perceptions.

Anno: They really don’t.

Crime of Conscience

Oshii: On the other hand, there are many things that you can do in anime that wouldn’t be allowed in Japanese movies. Ideas that would be stamped into the rejection pile for a Japanese movie can be expressed to a certain degree in anime….is what people discovered. One way to put it is, if you take “the way anime is viewed” in a societal sense and work within those means, then anything is possible…..or at least I felt (laughs). It’s only useful up to a certain point of course. Using a tactic of pushing and retreating to mix things up while creating a proper product on the other end was how I was doing my job. At the time. Even now I feel I work in a similar way but it’s different. We become wary and don’t do it like that. We’d try to cheat things by having it take place in an alternate universe. Or if you’re trying to depict a rebellion, don’t draw it from the rebel side but from the police side instead (laughs).

Even today, although it takes a different form, the idea that animation is for kids still persists. Showing nude bodies, and not cute things like shower scenes or skirt flipping, but in the context of lovers or affairs, passionate love or a world where politics are spoken about so clearly, is going to be rejected. But if you add “somewhere out in outer space,” sometimes it slips past the radar and gets greenlit.

However, I think Mr. Tomino knew what he was doing.

Anno: I think so too.

Oshii: When I saw it, I thought “he did this on purpose.” There’s probably parts that I understand because I am also a creator. It was well balanced. There was none of the off-balanceness of Mr. Yasuhiko. Of course, what lies underneath is the same. At the foundation is this inner warped hatred towards animation movies. On the other hand, he understands that he’s just an anime person and can't express things well when he’s separate from anime. That kind of thing, however, was pretty well controlled when it came to Char’s Counterattack. Therefore, there is no doubt that it was a crime of conscience.

However, even if it was on purpose, I still think the film was too blunt. I thought it would be better to disguise it a little more, dress it up a little more, camouflage it, and wear a covering, something.

Anno: On the contrary, I thought that’s what made it so masculine or cool.

Oshii: It’s dangerous. Danger is not about being socially sanctioned, criticized, or denounced, but rather straightforward words suggesting revolution, intellectuals this and that, and correcting or imposing sanctions on humankind… if you are not careful about it, the intentions may be flipped on you. In other words, you run the risk of becoming a gag. Political language is rather delicate, isn’t it? If you do it too much, like those violent student protesters who often appear in TV dramas, it becomes a comedy act that’s so ugly you can’t even call it a parody. That’s why, in Urusei Yatsura, Megane, the plot device guy, was doing everything exaggeratedly as a running joke. That's because I thought that if I didn't do it that way, it wouldn't pass, and I, personally, wanted to see it. There was a part of me that felt detached. And that was funny in itself. The fact remains that even to me, that era, while there were some painful parts, I also felt that it was humorous. Some parts are nostalgic, and some parts make me feel even disgusted. I found some salvation in letting everything out through a plot device character like Megane. That kind of thing, if you do it seriously, it's just painful.

In short, political language is pretty delicate…. Going back to the phrase “heavenly punishment.” I’m positive that there’s people who laughed at that phrase. Because we’re talking “heavenly punishment” in a space environment. What he’s doing is describing the “February 26 Incident” verbatim but the world he’s created is a future battlefield in outer space. There’s an immense gap. The younger generation may not care about it, though. I've always felt that kind of thing from Sunrise. There is something off about them. It seems that there are people who strangely want to enumerate dead languages.

My scariest thought is that there’s probably people who laughed at CCA. That they found it comical. The fact these imperial loyalist type characters are living out the “one person one kill” kind of world in outer space. I avoided writing these kinds of stories for this exact reason. ‘Cause at some point, someone is going to laugh. Like the drama, “Hyokin Tribe” from back in the day. You write the drama very seriously and in the end, it all flips on its head. It’s the generation where (serious) things are seen in a cynical manner. I am conscious of the enemy waiting, ready to turn everything into laughs. Especially when it comes to anime, anything is possible so you take it very seriously until the very end where it’s all comedy. The moment that becomes obvious, everything you’ve accumulated becomes invalid. So I prefer it the other way around, to create the mood, “this is a lie, it’s all jokes,” and then reveal that it was actually my true intention all along. I feel that it’s more effective to build up the jokes and then bring it into the real world at the end. In short, you can’t be seen through this way. If you ask me, the modern movie goer is rather twisted. A naive audience doesn’t exist. Within that, however, many anime viewers are among the exceptionally naive. They get impressed right away. As if they’re prepared to be impressed. Compared to the average viewer, anime watchers are easy to deceive, to the point where I go, “why are you so naive?” They easily go along with your tricks. They are waiting, ready to go along with anything you offer them. It’s the same mentality as the people who come to anime events and go, “since I’m already here, I am prepared to get my money’s worth by laughing at everything, even the parts that aren’t funny, and have a good time with everyone.” From a customer’s point of view, it’s such a naive mindset….maybe even going past naive into sly territory. Speaking broadly about movies in general, half-baked drama, half-baked crying or overly sentimental things doesn’t work on audiences nowadays. Rather, they are looking for ways to laugh at it.

Ever since that TV drama, "Stewardess Monogatari", I've been endlessly wary of such things. The goal is to make people laugh, not be laughed at. The movie is useless unless we (the creators) hold on to the hegemony.

Oshii: So when I saw CCA, I thought, there are definitely people out there who got together to drink and laugh out loud while watching this movie. And those who didn’t, said they couldn’t bear to watch it and stopped watching. Since they immediately develop a dislike for it. And the people who watched it seriously are hardcore robot fans, or Gundam fans…… they probably watched it very passionately (laughs). When you remove all of that, the message is clear. It’s completely anachronistic….. well, rather than anachronistic, I think what he’s doing is to a certain extent effective. It’s similar to what I was doing last year (Patlabor 2?).....he's speaking very sincerely, but depending on what kind of world and audiences see this movie, it will become a very unfortunate movie.

Anno: I think that movie is so one-sided though. I can’t imagine he had the audience in mind while he was making it.

Oshii: Well there was a sense of agitation, “there’s no way you’ll understand!”

Anno: I get that sense from the fighting spirit of the film.

Oshii: Because humans are somewhat beyond saving, even if you look at history, we haven’t done anything good. Probably even in the next century, whether humans go out into space, humans will repeat the same stupidity, getting everything and everyone involved and ruining it. That’s why he said, if God isn’t going to do it, I will.

Tsuge (Patlabor) and Char were thinking the same thing, basically wanting to impose punishment. It’s the story of a terrorist who, even if they don’t manage to impose that punishment, can reveal the naked truth just for a moment. It's the world that Miya-san hates most (laughs).

Miyazaki Hayao

Anno: But there’s probably a part of Miya-san that actually wants to write that kind of story.

Oshii: Somewhere yes. Take Nausicaa for example, within that world called “Nausicaa” there are characters with that sort of “scent.” Even that person (Miyazaki) has his own variations of this. It’s just that he has internalized that making it a reality would be a bad thing.

Anno: But his true feelings are Lepka (Future Boy Conan) or somewhere around there.

Oshii: Yes his real thoughts are somewhere different. That’s because that person is very strategic about what he puts out into the world and how. And it’s not necessary for the work to align with his truth.

Anno: Speaking of revealing one’s truth, I had expectations for Porco Rosso but what part of that was true, damn it (laughs).

Oshii: His truth was in there. But not of observations on humanity or the world, his truths about his personal life was the only thing in it. Especially surrounding troubles with women (laughs). And of course, only people who know him personally would understand such a thing. In that sense, it goes far beyond the craftiness of Patlabor; Porco Rosso is way more sly. He let everything out in that film and even left excuses for himself.

When you take off the pig mask, Miya-san is underneath. If he truly wanted to create a world that’s so unheard of and positive like that, why did the pig need to wear a trenchcoat and smoke? They just need to be going oink oink. It would’ve been a much more fun anime that way. If he wanted to make an anime that’ll make the kids happy, then there’s no need to make it so hard boiled, they should’ve just been oinking….cause pigs don’t need to speak. The pig goes oink oink, and is for some reason is good at piloting a plane. Then it would’ve been so much fun. But it’s not like that. And the reason it's not is because he wanted to show his truth….more like, he wanted to dispel his own sorrows through making this film. The audiences had it okay but his staff who had to go along with this are so pitiful. That’s the true pig curse. I bet they couldn’t stand it. Because they’re Miya-san’s excuse.

#cca doujin #hideaki anno #mamoru oshii #finish someday #translations #interview

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

Text

Stay Safe Part Two: Tranquil Turmoil

Fandom: The Mandalorian [Star Wars]

Pairing: Eventual Mandalorian [Din Djarin]/Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Part two of the tale! Also, I will do my best to tag who I can, but my browser tends to crash after tagging three to four people. So please forgive me if I don’t manage to tag you, I still love you <3

Thank you for reading! Enjoy!

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

Part One

You had to take numerous breaks for the child, the small being clearly not used to this level of 'forced march through uncertain terrain'. "You're going to sleep like a rock tonight, aren't you?" You asked, chuckling when the kid babbled wildly as if to reply.

Up ahead, you saw the Mandalorian pause once again. "Everything alright?" He called, his hand resting on his blaster.

It's not like I'm going to run away on you, you thought uncharitably, rushing to force a smile. "Short leg syndrome!" You responded loudly, choosing to swing the child onto your shoulders and trot briskly up the path. "He did good, I'd say, but he's getting tuckered out." You continued once you were close enough for the beskar-clad man to hear you without raising your voice.

He simply nodded, turning and continuing along the well-worn trail. You shifted your attention to the massive trees flanking the path, gawking a bit at the height and lush greenery of it all. Your drifting often brought you to orbital stations or desert planets, so this verdant forest was a rare sight indeed.

"Not used to it?" His voice broke the silence and you glanced at him, a little confused that he was trying to make conversation. He was still staring straight ahead. He must have been watching you out of the corner of that visor.

"Not at all. I'm really familiar with the dust and sand. I mean, these trees are huge!" You exclaimed, humoring him. "Everything looks so alive and...soft, I guess?"

"Foliage alters terrain dramatically. Don't be taken in by how it dulls the edges." He grunted.

"Yes sir!" You saluted him and he scoffed, waving the motion off. After a few more minutes of walking in silence, you spotted a large structure looming in a clearing to the side of the trail.

"Be on your guard." Was all the Mandalorian said, tapping his holster.

It was a settlement of sorts; a series of tents scattered around a towering, ramshackle yurt that appeared to be the central focal point. You did your best to be inconspicuous, but it was an uphill battle when you were walking drag for a Mandalorian in polished beskar.

Upon entering, you realized that the yurt housed a communal area and drinking establishment. The limited patrons of the bar started whispering to one another once the Mandalorian had stalked by, and you found yourself on the receiving end of more than a few inquisitive looks.

You surreptitiously tried to mask the bruising on the bridge of your tender nose, pulling the cowl of your cloak up until it was just beneath your eyes.

The Mandalorian settled down at a table with a clear view of the entrance, his head turning lazily slow to survey the area. The lone hostess, stars bless her, approached with no trepidation whatsoever. Clearly she had seen more than her fair share of strange or unusual characters pass through.

"What can I get you folks?" She asked, wiping her hands off on the dishrag that hung on her hip.

"Bone broth for the little one." The Mandalorian ordered, then tipped his helmet in your direction.

You hurried to scan the scrawled menu propped up at the bar while the hostess proudly informed the Mandalorian that she had taken down a grinjer earlier, so there was plenty of broth to be had. Mindful of the limited credits you possessed, you selected a dish made up of local vegetables and started to count out the amount it would cost you.

The Mandalorian exhaled audibly, the noise almost a sigh. "What did I tell you? Save your damn credits." He muttered. Then, slightly louder to the hostess, "get them a good portion of that grinjer meat to go with what they ordered." He slid his own credits across the table, knocking yours out of the way with his elbow. After the hostess had departed to put in the food order, he leaned back once again. "If you don't eat now you'll be sorry later, stowaway."

"I'm sorry." You whispered, staring hard down at the table. You absolutely were not going to cry in public. You refused to humiliate yourself any more than you already had! Gods, you wished you were back on Nevarro. At least there, things were normal.

His fingers tapped on the table twice, drawing your attention back to him, but he seemed to just be idly shifting his weight. The child babbled at him from their seat, tiny hands waving animatedly. "Is that so?" The Mandalorian replied, sounding for all the world like he was carrying on a conversation with them. "Very interesting stuff, kid." Under his breath he murmured, "we've got eyes on us, stowaway, and not the usual kind."

You went rigid in your seat, unsure why his words terrified you so much. Bounty hunters take down all kinds of desperate people, this is regular for a guy like him. "S-Someone you know?" You stammered.

"No." He answered quietly. Then, "Could be nothing. People who don't know any better stare. Be ready."

The hostess returned with the food that had been ordered (as well as two lurid blue cups of freshly-brewed spotchka, the luxury!) and after ensuring that the child could drink their broth safely, you fell upon your meal with gusto.

"Slow down, you're going to choke." The Mandalorian admonished you, his tone amused. "No one will take it from you, you know."

"Mm, but-" You chewed and swallowed. "But it's really good."

"Savor the taste, then." He abruptly got to his feet. "Watch the kid. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Oh. Uh, stay safe?" You replied uncertainly, blinking up at him.

He paused, and then shook his head like he was dismissing something. "I'll be back in five minutes." He repeated curtly.

You watched him depart, pursing your lips before turning your attention back to the child. They whined, taking another noisy slurp of their broth. "We'll give him two minutes." You decided, nodding firmly and starting to wrap up the rest of your meal. "Then, we'll rescue him."

…

"You want some soup?" The Mandalorian offered, flat on his back with his blaster aimed at the head of the dark-haired woman opposite him. She was on her stomach, her own pistol lined up with his shoulder.

You and the child stood several feet away, the child toting their small bowl of broth and you clutching your two cups of spotchka. You had stumbled upon the tense scene once the allotted minutes had passed, following the noises of what sounded like a scuffle between a few of the outlying tents. Your heart threatened to leave your chest when you finally caught sight of the two rolling around on the ground, struggling and swinging at each other with purpose.

The woman sighed heavily, holstering her gun after a moment. The Mandalorian rolled to his feet and extended a hand to her, helping her up off the ground.

The two of them were covered head to toe in pine needles and detritus from the forest floor, which helped to defang her somewhat as she went on to explain that her name was Carasynthia Dune; she had been a shock trooper and this was her early retirement of sorts.

You could tell she was former military just from the bold band of tattooing that ran around her bicep, never mind her well-built physique or the confident way she carried herself. The fact that she had gone toe-to-toe with the Mandalorian and somehow emerged relatively unharmed was more than enough to earn your silently-awestruck admiration.

"I knew you were Guild. Figured you had a fob on me, that's why I came at you so hard." She admitted to the Mandalorian by way of apology, nodding her thanks when you offered her the untouched tankard of spotchka.

The armored man grunted, "I assumed as much." He started brushing himself off, leaving Cara to stand there awkwardly.

"So, what happened?" She turned to you, tapping her nose. "Get a little too mouthy for the tin can?" The Mandalorian's motions hitched momentarily at Cara's query.

"Mouthy?" You repeated in confusion.

"Yeah, your nose, it's all…" She traced a circle around her nose, pulling a strange expression.

"Oh! Oh, no. I got hit in the face with beskar. Not his beskar! An ingot of beskar." You floundered, chuckling nervously while you readjusted your cowl to conceal your nose once more. "It was all a big misunderstanding."

"Uh huh." Dune didn't sound convinced in the slightest, her eyes narrowed at you.

"Don't appreciate that insinuation, Dune." The armored man snapped.

"Well, I don't appreciate you muscling in on my turf." She fired back airily. "As fun as this little scuffle was, Mando, unless you want to go another round one of us is gonna' have to leave. And I was here first." With that ironclad logic, she turned on her heel and promptly walked away.

The Mandalorian sighed. "Looks like this planet's taken." He shook another handful of needles out of his cape, grumbling to himself. You moved forward without thinking to sweep a few dead leaves from the thick cowling draped around his neck, your fingers reaching out quickly.

His hand jerked up, pinning your wrist to his shoulder and bringing you to an abrupt halt. You hadn't even had the time to flinch. "You've...y-you've got some leaves under your chin." You managed to stammer, the realization dawning on you that you could be in very deep trouble. He could snap your wrist like a twig, could do much worse than that.

He didn't let go of your hand for a long moment, leaving you to stare up at the blank void of his visor. You had obviously startled him, but despite that his grip wasn't overly tight. Leather worn smooth grazed over the skin of your wrist, his thumb momentarily pressing down on your palm before he released you and took a step back. "Just...tell me where they are." He muttered gruffly.

Through your concerted efforts of indicating around your own neck and his attempts to mirror locations on himself, he managed to rid his gorget space of all the debris. The child began whimpering and whining during the activity, finally plopping down on the ground.

"You all worn out, little one?" You soothed, hoisting the child up into your arms. They rubbed their eyes, fussing until you bundled them up in your cloak. "Shh, take a nap. Close your eyes. You're safe." You assured them, rocking back and forth slightly.

"We're heading back to the Crest. This planet's off-limits." The Mandalorian growled, his words clipped. "I have some repairs that can be managed with what I've got on hand. Leaving Nevarro wasn't kind to my ship."

"Can I help?" You rushed to ask, swallowing hard when he cocked his helmet. "Please, let me help. I can fix things, I'm good at-"

"We'll see." He cut you off, straightening his cuisses. "Can you carry him? I know you managed it all of the way here."

"He's not heavy." You assured him quietly.

"Let me know if you need a break."

Maybe once you made yourself useful with repairs, he would give a request to return to Nevarro a bit more consideration. With your fingers crossed and your hopes cautious, you trudged along after him back into the woodlands.

...

The Mandalorian sighed for what seemed like the millionth time, sussing out the right spanner to hand up to you. Night had fallen and so the two of you were working by a combination of the landing lights on the Razor Crest and headlamps.

"This portion is almost rusted through. You're definitely going to need at least one new blade soon." You called, doing your best to coax some patcher over the hole in one of the left engine's anterior rotor fins. "Also might want to clean your bearings more often than normal, what with all the sand."

"I'll take that under advisory." He replied. "Will it still fly?"

You peered over the side of the fuselage, passing him back the spanner. "I mean, you tell me. You're the one that knows how it behaves." You tapped the roof of the craft and then aimed a finger gun at the armored man. "How do the landing hydraulics look?"

His shoulders drooped. "Not spectacular." He admitted. "Got caught by a ravinak a few jobs back. Didn't get out of it unscathed."

You scooted to the side of the cockpit's viewport, sliding off to land with a thud on the boarding ramp. "I imagine hydraulic fluid is tough to come by on a planet like this." You squinted up at his headlamp, half-blinded.

"You imagine right." The beskar-wearing man heaved a sigh so deep, it sounded like it came from the ground beneath him. "Damn kid, he's lucky he's so cute." He growled. "I'd be well on the way to my next bounty if it wasn't for this."

You tapped your foot while you thought. "Oh! I almost forgot. I…" You fumbled at your side pouch, pulling out the small bundle you had made earlier. "Here, I saved you some food."

"Why?" He inquired bluntly.

"Because you didn't eat and...I mean, you gave me that jerky earlier, and you paid for my food but I couldn't eat all of it, so I wrapped it up and saved it for you to...um...eat?" Your voice faded uncertainly as you struggled to get the words out, hideously sure that you had somehow managed to offend him. Please, please don't be upset, I just want to go home.

He held out his hand after a second that lasted an eternity and you quickly passed the food over. "That was very kind of you." He said quietly. "Thank you. I will eat later." His voice sounded slightly strained.

You scolded yourself inwardly for being shocked that he thanked you, nodding and then resuming your hunt through your tools for your hydroline sealant. With a little luck, you might be able to-

"Um, excuse me sir?"

You jumped at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, whirling and being confronted by two bedraggled-looking men. "Can I help you with something?" The Mandalorian asked, his tone utterly flat.

"Um, well, yes actually. Raiders." The first man began warily.

The other man extended his hand, the small bag cradled in it serving to illustrate their bargaining power. "We have money."

"You think I'm some kind of mercenary?" The Mandalorian asked sharply, his hackles clearly raised.

"Well, you are a Mandalorian, aren't you?" The first man appeared confused, stuttering, "You're wearing Mandalorian armor--um, that is Mandalorian armor, right?"

"It is."

"So you are a Mandalorian! I told him you were! Sir, I've read so much about your, your people--er, tribe?" This man was floundering worse than you. Your heart went out to him, watching the Mandalorian's posture stiffen more and more with each word out of his mouth. "If half of what I've read is true, then-"

"We have money." The second man reiterated, like he thought the beskar-wearing hunter hadn't heard him the first time.

"'Mandalorian' and 'mercenary' are not synonymous." Oh he was angry, you could feel him biting out his words even through the modulator. But the two men just stood there, looking like kicked puppies until the Mandalorian finally grunted, "how much?"

"It's everything we have, sir. Our whole harvest was stolen." The first man said dolefully as the Mandalorian busied himself tinkering with the landing gear.

"Krill. We're krill farmers." The second man clarified.

"We brew spotchka, our whole village chipped in!"

The Mandalorian paused in his motions, turning and actually looking at the small pouch. "It's not enough." He announced dismissively.

"Are you sure? You don't even know what the job is-!"

"I know that it's not enough. Good luck."

"This is everything we have. We'll give you more after the next harvest!" The second man attempted to wheedle, glancing at you hopefully as if he expected you to help him reason with the armored man.

You were uncertain of how to inform him without words that it was a lost cause, and your armored companion made his aggravation abundantly clear by activating the hydraulics on the boarding ramp. Steam hissed and billowed outwards, startling the two men into stumbling back a few steps so the ramp wouldn't hit them as it juddered up.

"Come on. Let's head back." The first man said dejectedly, tugging on his friend's sleeve.

The second man started pitching a fuss even as they slowly retreated to their cart, "Took us the whole day to get here. Now we have to ride back, with no protection, to the middle of nowhere."

You saw the Mandalorian straighten up, turning his head slightly. "Where do you live?" He asked suddenly.

"On a farm. Weren't you listening? We're farmers." The second man answered him a little more petulantly than you would have advised.

"In the middle of nowhere." The Mandalorian persisted.

"Yes?"

"You have lodging."

The first man seemed to catch on to the Mandalorian's train of reasoning, excitedly saying, "Yeah, absolutely!"

"Good." The Mandalorian nodded, and then gestured to you. "Come up and help."

...

After a brief detour to acquire Carasynthia Dune (the Mandalorian playing the dangerous game of tossing the proffered bag of credits at her feet and asking her if she was ready for round two), the cart hummed along on the trail through the woods.

"So...we're basically running off a band of raiders for lunch money?" Cara sounded unimpressed.

"They're quartering us in the middle of nowhere. Last I checked that's a pretty square deal for somebody in your position." The Mandalorian reasoned, "Worst case scenario you tune up your blaster, best case...we're a deterrent."

The two men who had hired the Mandalorian (and shock trooper by extension) didn't seem to be able to believe their good fortune. They introduced themselves as Caben and Stoke respectively, and were more than willing to engage in conversation with you about their circumstances.

You figured it would be in your best interest to make yourself scarce from the Mandalorian and Cara's strategy meeting, and so you plied the two men with questions about the surrounding woods and their village in general.

You learned that Caben's past relatives had been the ones to start the krill, ensuring that the village would have a steady livelihood through dispensing either the raw material or finished product of spotchka. They were relatively self-sufficient, the woodlands they tended rich with game and plants alike.

Unfortunately, that same richness seemed to have attracted unwanted attention in the form of these raiders. Klatoonians had been harassing the small village for several cycles, stealing multiple harvests of krill.

"So uh, what do you do?" Stoke asked you curiously during a lull in the conversation.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're traveling with a Mandalorian. You must be pretty tough if you're running with someone like him." He theorized, studying you in the dim light of their lone lamp.

"Oh! No no, noooo. I'm a temporary issue for him, I'm sure. Got tossed into his cargo hold at the last port like so much baggage." You confided with a grimace. "My only saving grace currently is that I can entertain younglings."

"Well, that's great!" Caben exclaimed, though Stoke looked a little less enthused. "We've got a host of young ones that I'm sure would love to have someone new to play with."

"I've bounced around a lot, so I've picked up a variety of different songs and games." You grinned. "Pretty sure I'll have something in my arsenal to keep your kids out of their hair." You continued, lowering your voice as you indicated at the fearsome duo behind you.

On your lap, the child yawned and snuggled into your cloak, clearly done for the night. You followed soon after, bidding the two men goodnight and curling up against the side of the cart.

…

The day dawned clear, but with a humidity unfamiliar to one such as yourself. Mist danced in rainbow semi-circles through the tree trunks, the sun slowly burning it off as it rose.

The child bounced in your arms when you carefully climbed off of the skiff to stretch your legs, easily keeping pace with the slow-moving vehicle.

"How much further?" You whispered to Caben, doing your best not to disturb the snoring Cara and Stoke. You couldn't tell whether the Mandalorian was also sleeping, but it didn't hurt to be considerate.

"Only a few more minutes. Just over that next ridge." The man replied quietly, pointing ahead at said ridge.

You propped the baby up on your hip and set off at a brisk walk, your body delighting in the fresh air of the forest. It was so strange, having something aside from the blistering climes of Nevarro or the stale, recycled air of hubs in your lungs. Maybe you had been directionless for too long, maybe...maybe leaving Nevarro was a blessing in disguise.

As you reached the top of the hill, a little gasp escaped your lips. The whole valley was spread out in front of you, the small village dwarfed by the wetlands that surrounded it. Uniform pools lined the outskirts, obviously the krill fisheries the men had mentioned. Despite the early hour, you spotted several people already moving around.

The landscape was idyllic, almost achingly so, and peaceful.

Tears sprang to your eyes unbidden and you quickly dashed them away on your shoulder, huffing out a trembling breath. "Well little one, let's see whether your papa can help these people." You mused.

...

Caben hadn't been lying about the younglings. There was a group of eight children that rushed to greet the cart as it arrived, small bodies crowding around you to ogle the tiny being in your arms. Said being didn't appear to mind the attention, waving their little fists in excitement.

The Mandalorian seemed on-edge the instant he moved from the cart. Despite the serenity around him, you could feel tension radiating from his form. He was wound tight and you couldn't understand why. Even if raiders had been known to attack the place, right this minute all was calm and tranquil.

That unease was made abundantly clear an hour or so later, while you were being shown your housing for the foreseeable future. One second, he was nodding along to what the lovely young woman (a widow?) was explaining to him about the large hut being a barn previously. The next, he had whipped around to face the doorway, his blaster already drawn.

Gods, he was so fast.

The deadly would-be assailant was none other than the widow's child, the small girl cowering a little beside the door.

"Easy." You hissed, surprised nonetheless when the armored man clumsily shoved his weapon back into the holster.

Cara moved to the doorway, crouching in front of the child. "Hey squirt. You're pretty quiet, huh? Think you could teach me how to sneak like that?" She asked. The child seemed to recover from their scare quickly, pulling on Cara's arm to haul her away for 'training'. "You owe me, Mando!" The shock trooper yelled back over her shoulder as several other children joined in on the 'lesson'.

"I'm sorry, she's just not used to strangers." The widow apologized uncomfortably, wringing her hands.

Seeing how distraught she was, you impulsively decided to speak up. "No no, don't worry about it. We're just a little tired. Jumpy, you know." You explained, attempting to play it off before the Mandalorian could sigh or say whatever he had in mind. "Some of us are quick on the draw. But not here." You muttered the last part under your breath, stressing the final word.

"I apologize for startling your child." The Mandalorian added stiffly, and you thanked the Maker that he wasn't about to undermine your shaky attempt at diplomacy.

"She will be fine." The woman assured, giving him a tentative smile and then departing.

"I don't need you to speak for me, stowaway." The armored man snapped once she was (probably) out of earshot.

"I know that, but I wasn't sure what you were going to say and I didn't want you to hurt her feelings." You shot back, "You did kind of, almost maybe, consider putting a slug in her kid."

"I'm not used to this." The Mandalorian stated bluntly, his honesty shocking you anew. Would the surprises never cease?! "They're respectful but they're not scared."

"Isn't it better that way?"

"Scared people keep their distance. Other people want to get close. They want answers." He shook his head, clearing his throat. "I...should probably take Dune so we can start with our reconnaissance." Despite his words he moved at the barest meander to the doorway, where he proceeded to lean nonchalantly for several long minutes as he watched the children drag Dune around. He finally murmured, "I'm probably going to need assistance when I attempt to extract her from the Fou...younglings. Think you can run interference?"

You cracked your knuckles and then hoisted the child up onto your hip. "Once I get there, they won't know what hit them." You promised firmly.

...

"Can you pay, can you pay, calamari flan? Fly my ship as fast as you can!" You chanted, your hands clapping out a gentle rhythm as you recited the nursery rhyme. "Fuel it and park it, Dropship Three, and leave it in the hanger to be flown by me!"

The children around you all sang their own haphazard versions of the song, hands clapping and slapping against each other in almost-unison. It was incredibly entertaining to listen to some of the verses they came up with. In your time spent roaming after the death of your parents, you had heard a lot of different iterations of this rhyme. No matter where you traveled, it seemed that kids always gravitated to you. With them came songs and games and sometimes, sometimes, joy.

In spite of that, you still tried to keep everyone at arms' length. You would always have a new planet or station to breeze off to, a tumbleweed through and through. So you clapped, and you smiled, and when it was time to go, you vanished in the night like a wraith. It was better that way. Let younglings come up with their own conclusions.

The Mandalorian and Cara emerged from the forest on the edge of the village, and the man tilted his head at you to indicate you should join them.

"Sorry guys, looks like duty calls." You apologized to your giggly, rambunctious audience, getting to your feet and dusting yourself off. You then bowed dramatically at the large-eared baby who had been sitting beside you, extending a hand for them to hold. "By your leave, my lord." The child quickly latched on, toddling in the direction of the Mandalorian.

When you arrived at the barn, however, Cara looked grim. "We've got a big problem." She informed you softly.

"The raiders have an Imp walker." The Mandalorian dropped the bombshell on you without quarter, and you took an unintentional step back. "I don't know how they got it, but I've seen those things in action. No matter how good I and Cara are, it won't be enough."

"Wh-What are you going to tell them?" You asked once you found your voice again. Even though you knew it was silly, you found yourself nervously scanning the woods surrounding the village.

"The truth." Cara shrugged. "I'll give 'em their credits back. Hell, maybe we can help them move. They can't stay here, that's the takeaway. Sooner they come to terms with that, the better."

...

The Mandalorian broke the news to the village much like he had broken it to you, consideration thrown to the wayside in favor of expedience. "Bad news. You can't live here anymore." He addressed everyone bluntly from the front steps of the barn.

"Nice bedside manner." Cara grimaced, shifting her weight awkwardly as the villagers began to stir and protest amongst themselves.

"You think you can do better?" The armored man huffed.

"Can't do much worse." The woman snarked under her breath before stepping forward. "I know this is not the news you wanted to hear, but there are no other options." Cara announced clearly and firmly, the former soldier obviously rising to his challenge.

"But you took the job!" One man shouted.

"That was before we knew about the AT-ST." Cara said loudly.

"The what?"

"The armored walker with two enormous guns that you knew about and didn't tell us!" She snapped, frustration bleeding into her tone.

Over the building hubbub came the voice of the widow, Omera. "We have nowhere to go." She stated calmly, her child tucked against her side.

"Sure you do. This is a big planet." Cara replied dismissively. "I've seen a lot smaller."

Now emboldened by Omera, several other individuals raised their own voices. "My grandparents seeded these ponds!" Caben informed Cara.

"It took generations!" Stoke added.

Cara's shoulders slumped. "I understand, I do. But there are only two of us." She said, gesturing at the beskar-clad man. You were more than happy to be left out of this particular equation, your brain still stuck on the fact that somewhere out in those peaceful woods, there was an actual mobile assault tower.

"No there's not, there's...at least twenty here!" Stoke fired back, his arms spread wide to indicate all the people in their village.

"I mean fighters. Be realistic!" Cara protested.

"We can learn!" Caben insisted, starting a new wave of murmurs as the villagers began to nod and agree with him.

Dune heatedly spat, "I've seen that thing take out entire companies of soldiers in a matter of minutes!"

That only brought a momentary pause to the debate. "We're not leaving." Omera said, her words soft but firm. Resolute.

Cara's voice shook when next she spoke and you got the impression that she wasn't seeing a village spread out in front of her, but a munitions-blasted battlefield. "You cannot fight that thing."

You hesitantly put a hand on her arm, offering what little support you could. She shot you a grateful look, her smile thin.

The Mandalorian, who until then had remained silent, abruptly spoke up. "Unless we show them how." He cocked his head in your direction, ignoring the incredulous look Cara was sending his way. "Remember all those crates I had you lift?"

...

Blasters. A multitude of different makes and models, more than enough to arm half the village. You wondered in the back of your mind why the hell he had brought so many weapons.

Targets were quickly thrown together and anyone who was confident was instructed in the art of long range combat by the Mandalorian, his cape billowing behind him as he walked down the line to adjust foot placement.

Cara took over the melee weapon options, setting the rest of the men and women up to defend themselves with long, sharpened sticks and various other methods. You began to understand how she had gone toe-to-toe with the Mandalorian as you watched her cycle through the steps, every motion impactful and economic.

The two ran drills and you alternated between them, the child residing in a back sling you made out of your cloak. Maybe, maybe you could be useful in this type of situation, you hoped. Maybe you could help keep these kind people safe.

The Mandalorian pawned a spare vibroblade off on you to replace your dull knife and you quickly adopted the techniques he and Cara showed you. You were constantly mindful to keep your fingers well away from the blade after you lost a chunk of knuckle skin when you tried to show off, the bandage you gained serving as a visual reminder to be cautious, that this was not your old knife.

When the Mandalorian finally nodded in approval at the shot you took, you felt proud enough to burst. When Cara grinned broadly at you after you ran through a defense drill, you could have cried.

The plan of attack was simple, as all plans should be: Topple the AT-ST as quickly as possible, use high barricades to divert the Klatoonians into more strategically viable locations and then pick them off.

And now, up to your knees in mud, you goaded Caben, Stoke and several other villagers on into competition. Which fishery-pit would be the one to render that walker powerless? Whose shoveling would be triumphant in the long run? Bets were placed as the trap holes grew deeper and the barricades were raised on the edges of the village, fortifying the front line.

The rain had started during the afternoon and continued on well after dusk, making the work a thousand times muddier than before. Once you were finally done digging you were a filthy, shivering mess. Waving a goodbye to the others, you slogged back to the barn. Your boots were heavy enough to impede your movement, so your progress was admittedly slow.

"Stay at the door." The Mandalorian ordered sharply when you managed to trudge up to the raised porch and start struggling out of your boots.

You groaned unhappily but obeyed, wondering if he intended for you to stay outside all night so the rain could rinse off the muck.

He came back with a bucket, his cape hanging over his arm instead of his shoulders. "I'll hold this up so you can clean yourself." He muttered after passing you the pail of hot, soapy water. "Dune is already asleep, so this is the best I can do."

"B-B-But what if you g-get wet?" You asked through chattering teeth, already stripping down to your underthings as he threaded one end of the cloak through the woven twigs that composed the barn wall. You were too cold and wet to be overly worried about propriety.

"I'm going to be wet anyways, I have the second watch. I'm not worried." Even from behind the cape, you could hear the rain softly ping off his helmet and pauldrons. "Blanket is just inside the door, left side. Let me know when you're heading in so I can turn."

You quickly dunked the provided rag into the bucket, scrubbing furiously at the grime on your skin. "W-We think we made them deep enough. We dug a good six extra feet each, I w-would s-s-say." You informed him proudly.

"Good. That's really good." You could hear the smile in his voice, as strange as that sounded. "Means the walker will have a nine to eleven foot drop, which should be more than enough." He then added, "You've done well."

You flushed hotly despite your freezing body, stammering out, "o-oh, I'm just doing wh-what I have t-to-"

"No. You could have dropped into a funk and refused to do anything once we left Nevarro, but you...you've been good with the kid. With these people." The bounty hunter paused. "I've been thinking about leaving the kid here," he continued quietly. "Once we get rid of the raiders, this village will be peaceful again. And...and he seems to like it here." He shifted his weight, heralded by the clank of beskar. "You seem to like it here, too."

"I do." You replied honestly. "Nevarro was home for a while. I was used to it. It was normal. But this place…" You trailed off, a little perturbed with how much your heart was aching at the idea of having to leave this behind.

You had never felt any sort of attachment to a location, always knowing that you wouldn't be there long. Nevarro marked the longest you had stayed in an area, sitting proud at a whopping thirty-two days.

"I won't be able to bring you back to Nevarro." He admitted quietly. "I can't...I can't go back there."

What could have gone down on Nevarro that would make a Mandalorian unable to return? Curiosity burned at you and you opened your mouth to ask the question.

"What is the name of that song you taught the younglings?" He inquired before you could get the words out. "The one with all the clapping."

"Oh, that's just...i-it's a nursery rhyme. Originally I think it was something about...baking?" You theorized, rinsing the rag. "Everyone has a different version of it, though."

"It reminded me of home." The wistful tone of his voice took you by surprise. "We would...when you have the armor, to keep time you would rap on your neighbor's. We stomp, clap, slap hands, beat the armor...no matter what we do it's loud." After a brief pause, "Do you have other songs like that?"

"Stomping, I'm not so sure about. See, a lot of flotillas and mining platforms have rules structured around excessive noise. Keeping younglings entertained and quiet...now that is the challenge." You informed him, scrubbing roughly at your elbows and knees. "I have a few others with the clapping. Some of them up the complexity of the motions depending on how long you're playing for, though, so maybe you could adapt one of those for your stomping needs?" was your tentative suggestion.

"Leave your clothes where you dropped them. Omera brought some dry things for you earlier."

His abrupt shift in topic made your head spin and you panicked momentarily before blurting out, "Maker, please tell me there's pants and not one of their confusing skirts."

"I didn't look at 'em, stowaway. I just know that she put them with the blankets." The Mandalorian replied testily. "You'll find out soon enough."

Mercifully, the widow had provided a soft, knee-length tunic. Thank the Maker for small favors, you did not want to try and figure out one of their skirts at this hour. Intricate hook-loop closures and trews were great and all, but right now you were exhausted and bed was calling your name.

You slipped the garment over your head, taking a moment to run your fingers along the blanket-stitched hemline. The fabric was dyed a rich teal, a trait shared by most of the apparel in this settlement. One of the krill byproducts was the brilliant blue carapace that gave spotchka its distinct hue. According to Stoke they had to strain nearly half of the unprocessed carapace from the spotchka mix lest it turn unbearably bitter. They then utilized this excess to color their fabrics, bathing the entire village in a myriad of indigoes, teals and cobalts.

The long sleeves of the tunic flopped down over your hands, banishing some of the chill from your body. "Huh. Guess I'm not as tall as Omera." You observed aloud, waving your sleeve-covered hands around to illustrate this incredible fact.

The Mandalorian shook his head at your antics and busied himself tucking his cape back under his pauldrons. "Get some rest, stowaway. As long as nothing happens tonight, tomorrow is when we'll strike. I need you at your best." He said curtly. Then, a little softer, "I need you to keep an eye on the F...younglings." He sounded slightly pained. "They'll need assurance. And if anything happens during the fight, they will need to be defended."

"Of course!" You promised, fisting your hands tightly in your sleeves. "I'll do everything I can to keep them safe. We all will."

Cara raised a sleepy fist of acknowledgment from her own cozy pile of blankets, the soldier mumbling something before rolling over.

"This is the Way." The Mandalorian stated, the black void of his visor boring into you. He seemed to be waiting for something, so you finally bobbed your head in agreement. He then departed without another word, the woven mat over the doorway whispering against the rough-hewn planks of the floor in his wake.

You wondered at the quiet sadness in his voice long after you went to bed, your dreams haunted by glimpses of rain-speckled beskar.

Part Three

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #eventual romance #I still don't know how to tag this I'm so sorry #enjoy!#pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #the mandalorian spoilers #slow burn

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thedeviltohisangel · 3 years

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Creed//3//

Din normally didn’t act impulsively. He normally knew his objective and worked towards it determinedly and methodically. But she made him veer off path. She made his heart sputter and mind spin. The universe converged upon her until she was all he could think about. Until he didn’t think he’d ever be able to breathe again if his eyes didn’t land on her. Until the passion surged through his veins that only she could ignite. He loved her. He never stopped loving her.

masterlist is my url/writing or on ao3

send me any requests for these two

She was silent as they flew through space. The Child had moved to the seat next to him, looking around curiously and making the occasional noise. But she stayed as far away from him as she could possibly get in the tiny cockpit. Din thinks he would have rather had her screaming at him than be quiet. He’d rather hear her say how horrible of a person he is. How he ruined her life and should leave the Child alone so he didn’t ruin his life either. That no matter where he went, he left waste and destruction behind him.

“Have you ever heard of a planet called Sorgan?” Korra stood from her seat and took a few hesitant steps closer.

“No.” It was short with no feeling behind it. Deflating.

“I think that will be a good place to land. Lay low.”

“Okay.” She wanted to ask him how long he planned on laying low for. How long he thought he could hide from the Empire. How long he planned on keeping her away from her mother.

“Korra…”

“Not now. Not when I can’t look into your eyes and tell whether or not you mean it.” There had been a time when Din had shown her his face. Had done so willingly and desperately. He had broken his creed because he loved her. Because she was going to be his wife. His partner for the rest of his life. He doesn’t know if that was who she was to him anymore. If he could show her his face. Allow her to look into his eyes.

They landed not soon after, Korra walking slowly down the path so she didn’t get too far ahead of the Child. He waddled more than he walked and she found it endearing. He was determined to keep up with Din and not be left behind on his scouting mission. Even if she was unhappy with the man in front of her, she couldn’t be mad that he had chosen to smuggle the tiny one away from whatever fate had awaited him. “It might be best if we find him some food,” she offered as she still refused to look in Din’s direction.

“You’re right. You should eat something too.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m capable of taking care of myself.” Korra bent down to pick up the little one, carrying him forward so they could pick up the pace a little in town. There was nothing good that came from lingering amongst unfamiliar crowds. She entered what looked like a public house and found an empty table with a high enough chair for the little one.

“What’ll be for you folks?” the worker asked.

“Two bone broths,” Din answered as he gestured towards his two companions.

“Nothing for you?” Korra asked with a raised brow. He always did act like he didn’t need basic items such as food and shelter. But she also knew it would catch up to him if he didn’t admit he was human sooner rather than later.

“Nothing.” She rolled her eyes but accepted her own bowl of broth happily, tucking in as soon as it was placed in front of her.

“You put yourself in a difficult situation but you don’t have to actively make it harder by being stubborn.” Korra could see the look he was giving her even though he had his helmet on. It was one that had a million words embedded in it.

“I thought you weren’t interested in talking?”

“I am not interested in hearing your fake apology.”

“It is not fake. You know I take every action with you-” He stopped himself and turned his head in the opposite direction.

“Whatever you were about to say is clearly a lie. If you cared about me and my well being you would have done so many things differently, Din Djarin.” She closed her eyes and attempted to steady her breathing. More than anything, she did not want to cry in front of him. He could never know how devastated she was by him leaving. She could never let him know the true power that he held over her.

“Keep an eye on the kid. I think I saw something.” Din threw some credits down on the table to cover the meal before swiftly exiting to look for the woman he had seen lurking in the corner. Korra’s appetite was gone as she pushed the bowl of broth away from her.

“You should eat. You must have had a long day and an even longer journey ahead.” She doesn’t know if the creature could understand her or even cared that she was speaking to it but it felt good to not be entirely alone. She urged a couple more spoonfuls into his mouth before he looked eager to get down from the chair and see where Din had gone. “Let’s go see what trouble he’s found himself in,” she muttered as they followed in his footsteps. What they find is Din flat on his back with a blaster in his face and his own weapon pointed at a woman.

The woman, now seated back inside with them, introduced herself as Cara Dune. She told her story, from rebel shocktrooper to diplomatic protection, to her arrival on Sorgan to avoid the bounty she knew must be on her head.

“Only one of us can be here. And I was here first. Unless you want a round two…” Korra knew what she was implying. Cara and Din had seemed quite evenly matched. Next time, she would be prepared and would pull no punches. Din spared Korra a glance, communicating to her silently that they would need to move on from Sorgan. He had no interest in drawing anymore attention to them than he may already have.

It was dark by the time they reached the Crest, the Child sleeping comfortably in Korra’s arms. Her own eyes were drooping and her body was asking her to follow in his footsteps and get some rest.

“A couple of repairs need to be made before we can lift off. Why don’t you get some rest yourself. We’ll be in a new system before you wake up.”

“I want to be in my system when I wake up, Din.” He was silent and offered no physical indications as to what he was thinking. She turned and climbed back onto the ship, gently settling the little one in his pram. Korra took a deep breath. Maybe she needed to force herself to get used to this. Force herself to accept the notion that she was with Din and living life on the run. In the past she would have been excited by the notion. Told anyone who asked that the two of them could overcome any challenge that came their way. They had fallen so far. That was what hurt her the most. That she was afraid to talk to him. Bitter and angry when she did. She didn’t think she owed him an apology but maybe she owed him a listening ear. “I’m sorry for behaving like a womp rat. It’s been a long...long couple days.” Din stopped what he was doing and gave her his full attention as she stood at the top of the ramp.

“I’m sorry. For more than I could possibly list.” She watched him and he watched her. Just enjoying the moment of peace that had settled between the two of them. “I came to you because I didn’t know what to do. All I knew was that if it was the end for me, I wanted to see you one last time. Not in a dream but in person. I didn’t think it through.” Din normally didn’t act impulsively. He normally knew his objective and worked towards it determinedly and methodically. But she made him veer off path. She made his heart sputter and mind spin. The universe converged upon her until she was all he could think about. Until he didn’t think he’d ever be able to breathe again if his eyes didn’t land on her. Until the passion surged through his veins that only she could ignite. He loved her. He never stopped loving her.

“I can’t be mad at you for doing as I would have done.” It was true. Korra would not have been able to leave the little creature behind. And if she had truly thought death was coming for her, she too would have sought one last moment with the man she loved. No matter the cost. “We are both here now. We should focus on making the best of it. On figuring out a plan to get as close to normal as we can.” She had accepted that since Din made her a part of this, there was no going back. She would always be an outlaw. They would follow her back to her home and try to pry information from her. She couldn’t bring that back to the people of her planet. Din moved to stand at the bottom of the ramp, too afraid to get any closer. Afraid that if he did, all the progress they had just made would be erased by him pushing too far.

“I know it is not the life we once dreamed of having but-” The whirring of speeder bikes made the words die in his throat. He immediately switched into his role as bounty hunter. Killer. Protector. He pulled his blaster and aimed at the sound, slowly creeping up the ramp to try and shove Korra to safety.

“We mean no harm, Mandalorian! We’ve come seeking your help!” The two men explained that the entirety of their last krill harvest was stolen by raiders. That they had pooled together the money to hire him as village protector.

“I’m sorry but I cannot afford to entangle myself in any further business.” They sighed with defeat and went to board their bikes when a thought occurred to Korra.

“Wait! Where is it that you live exactly?”

“On a farm.”

“Is it secluded? Is there lodging?” It was then Din picked up on her train of thought. Maybe this could be where they laid. Maybe this could be where they began to build some semblance of normalcy in their lives. They nodded their heads affirmatively to both of her inquiries. “Then he’ll do it.”

----

Din made the choice to recruit Cara on the mission as well. He knew her experience could only help the situation. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t slightly fond of the woman who could beat him in a fight. The group traveled through the night before reaching the village, the local children immediately infatuated by the little green creature.

“Looks like he will fit in just fine,” Korra remarked as she grabbed the bag of her belongings and followed their host, Omera, to where her home was. It was humble but warm. The way a home was supposed to be.

“We can’t thank you enough for agreeing to help us. They startle our children and steal our crops. Your presence is a blessing for us all.” Korra smiled and knew Din was most likely blushing under his helmet. She moved towards the bedroom to set up the Child’s cradle as the Mandalorian stumbled through a response to their host.

“She seems very nice,” Korra spoke as Omera gave them some privacy and Din entered the room behind her.

“She is just grateful. Grateful I agreed to help protect her livelihood and her family.”

“I’m sure she wishes to see what is under your helmet,” Korra muttered as she moved to find the fresher. She wanted to brush her hair and splash some water on her face then find something to eat. Maybe even try and convince Din to eat.

“That is quite the statement,” Din replied as he followed after her and leaned in the doorway. “Even if she was curious, I would never show her.”

“When is the last time you removed your helmet in front of someone else?” she asked the question quietly. Almost sheepishly. Like she was embarrassed by the thought that it plagued her to think someone else had seen him.

“You were there. The night before I moved to Nevarro.” He swallowed thickly at the memory. He cherished it and the feelings of warmth and love it inspired in him. But also dreaded painful aftermath that had ensued. The sickening feelings of abandonment he had left on her. The way he had surrounded himself with a numb barrier as he had taken off the next morning.

“Ah, yes. The night you never even uttered the word goodbye.” Korra smiled shakily as she looked down at her hands. “Does that mean there’s been no one in your life since then?” She didn’t ask directly but he knew what she meant. Had he loved anyone since that night. Has there been anyone else in his heart since her.

“I had no interest. Still have no interest in anyone but you.” Din wanted to tell her exactly how he felt. That he still loved her and wanted to be with her. That he still thought he could survive this life if it meant coming home to her at the end of the day. That he would give anything to be able to fulfill those dreams they had spoken about so many cycles ago.

“I was so lost without you, Din. And I thought I would be angry with you the rest of my life. Thought that no other man’s advances worked on me because my hatred of what you did to me was all my heart had room for. And then I slowly realized it was because I could never not love you. That I could never move on because I wasn’t meant to.” Tears were slowly weaving their way down her face and Din couldn’t stop himself from reaching up to cup her cheeks and wipe them away.

“Does that mean you don’t actually hate me?” he asked with a chuckle as she melted into his embrace.

“No. I hate the universe for making you so stubborn. I hate that you are so loyal. I hate that you still maintain your honor even in a galaxy rife with corruption. But I hate even more that after all this time and all the pain and all the nights I spent alone that I still love you like you hang all the stars in the sky.” He wishes he could kiss her. Kiss her breathless and hold her close with no beskar between them. But he hadn’t made that leap in so long. Hadn’t had a reason to.

“Korra, my creed-” She shushed him.

“I waited this long just to see you again. I can wait until your heart tells you it is the right time.” She closed her eyes and imagined what he had looked like that last night when he had taken his helmet off. Imagined that he still looked exactly like that under all his armor. Even if he didn’t, he was still Din. Her Din.

“I love you and will do whatever it takes to earn your trust back.”

“Promise me you won’t shut me out. Never, ever again.” That was what had hurt her the most. It had felt like losing a limb, not being able to talk to him.

“I promise.” And Din thinks the words he shared with hers, the promises he made and would work to keep, were their own sort of creed. A bond between the two of them that maybe one day would overcome the one he had taken as a child. He hopes so, as he looks into her eyes and repeats in his mind. I promise, I promise, I promise. I love you and I promise.

#the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #star wars fanfiction

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roninkairi · 3 years

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Thoughts on "Masters of The Universe: Revelation, Part 1" (SPOILER ALERT)

There is a point in the 3rd episode of the series where Teela and Evil-Lyn hold a conversation concerning their respective male counterparts, He-Man and Skeletor. Eventually Evil-Lyn tells Teela that He-Man was too much of a "glorified goody-goody" and the real threat of all of the Masters was not him but Man-At Arms, something she reminded all of the Snake Mountain soldiers. It was an admission like this that made me more interested in her to be frank, and it led me to wonder what else she thought about others. And that's precisely one of the things I enjoyed about Revelations so far, the focus on everyone else.

Billed as a sequel to the original series that aired in the 80s, the show starts off simple enough; Teela is promoted to the rank of "Man At Arms" by King Randor while at the same time, Skeletor once again leads an attack on Castle Grayskull. And as expected He-Man, along with the orginal Man-At Arms and the other Masters, go to thwart him and his army. But this time though, things do not turn out how you would think they normally would.

Before the show premiered on Netflix, when watching the trailers, I had a bad feeling, that same feeling of dread I had when the original commercials for the Transformers movie came out; I knew someone important was going to die. I watched this trailer and said to myself "They're going to kill off the Sorceress, aren't they?"

OH DEAR GOD WAS I SO WRONG.

It was one thing to kill off Moss Man in the 'final' battle between He-Man and Skeletor. But then to have He-Man stab Skeletor with his sword...and then KILL BOTH THE MAN HERO AND VILLAIN OFF?

WTF indeed. Which brings me to my alternate title for episode 1: Suppose Teela and King Randor Find Out He-Man's Secret At The WORST POSSIBLE TIME.

The fallout from this event is the main drive of Revelations: Teela and the others are left with the urgent task of reforging the Sword of Power and restoring magic to Eternia or the whole universe dies alongside the planet. And for many folks, this is the cardinal sin that the show commits; daring to have an adventure where neither He-Man or his arch nemesis is the focus. To be honest with you though, He-Man is there, just not in the way you expected him to be. The sacrifice he made and the repercussions from said sacrifice are felt by everyone in one fashion or another and we see just how much he meant to Teela via flashbacks or conversations with others, and it's important as its these memories that spur her on. Unlike the original cartoon, we get to see what the adventures are like for the other members of the cast (I mean seriously, the show is called "Masters of The Universe" so at some point you should really expect to learn more about everyone else) and some of them have more surprising depth than their original portrayals.

That's another thing I wanted to pointed out; there are certain things from the original show that has been somehow changed for more dramatic results. While Evil-Lyn was a scheming magic wielder who was loyal to Skeletor in order to eventually usurp him, here she reveals it was more like a one sided romance with him. And, oddly enough, out of all the characters to bond wth, it's Orko the comic relief of the show. Only he has some serious confidence issues. It can't be helped though, as he is slowly dying from the lack of magic. He does his best to cope as he tells Andra to keep a diary of all of her adventures, something he wishes he did as his memories are now just a blur. His somewhat out of nowhere bonding with Evil Lyn is jarring as she relates to him concerning his struggles to be of some use to his friends despite his magic going haywire since she too had to fight for respect herself even after she joined with Skeletor and the loss of her powers ever since that incident. It makes what happens at the end of episode 4 bittersweet; even she mourns his apparent death as she lays her helmet at his tombstone (and makes her defection back to Skeletor when he and Adam return even more painful)

The show does a good job of addressing many of the things about the original show that made it stand out in my mind, like the questionable choices that these people made and while it's slightly darker in tone (I mean they are dealing with the Apocalypse essentially) it does not lose its humor. There are quite a few nods to the lore of the MOTU canon, both animated and comic plus the action is WAY better than the original show. But the main draw are the characters that are enduring this crazy point in time and for right now, these first 5 episodes set a very interesting tone. I suspect that now that Adam is back (albeit incredibly wounded) he's going to have to deal with the ramifications of his dual life and figure out how to not only get his power back, but face his own father eventually (and I can only imagine just how PISSED he will be when he finds out what King Randor did to Duncan and Orko when he died)

Part 2 can't come soon enough.

...what? You were expecting a "Prince Adam is Hard Gay" joke?

Come on. I'm not that predictable.

#masters of the universe spoilers #masters of the universe revelations

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pauldron-pieces · 3 years

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Destrier Revel’s Backstory: Burn The Wicked

Fandom: Dungeons And Dragons (5E)

Pairing: N/A, Destrier-Centric

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: This is a hypothetical scenario featuring original characters in a world created by my Dungeon Master. As usual, this is non-canon and I own nothing aside from intellectual properties specifically attached to Destrier Revel. This installment is mechanically unsound in a multitude of ways and ignores certain important lore facets. Trigger warnings are listed inside. Enjoy!

Taglist: @sporadic-fics and @cookiethewriter!

Inspired By: Fire Emblem: Three Houses OST: Awakening and Ivan Torrent: Facing Fears

[Urgals are a monstrous race that seem to be a cross between ogres and orcs.]

[Destrier Revel is a level ten human Conquest paladin with six levels of Phoenix sorcerer, and his appearance can be found here.]

[And lastly, this is how I pictured Aetros Ad Astra.]

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains multiple triggering scenes, including vivid descriptions of gore, extreme duress and character death. Stay safe!]

He entered the temple warily, but not before removing his helmet. Destrier knew better than to assume whatever god this temple represented was dormant, and entering any place of worship with one's head covered was a nearly certain way of getting it separated from your shoulders.

This ancient stone structure was different from the clapboard Urgal constructs that dotted the hillside beneath it. Clearly, it was a relic of some bygone time or civilization.

Knowledge is power, Knight Revel. Seek it out, and we may yet win this war. With his late mentor's words ringing in his ears, Destrier proceeded with caution.

Brittle, charred remains crisscrossed the stones beneath his feet, crumbling to dust at his advance. The knight wondered at the thin layer of ashen debris that coated everything despite the lofty height of the temple. The winds that had whipped outside appeared to have gone still.

Further into the temple, far removed from the weak light that filtered in from the arched doorway, was an altar of some kind. Destrier squinted, trying to decipher the runes on the sides of the obsidian stone table with little success.

A soft crackling noise met his ears and for a moment he paid it no mind, too engrossed in the arcane markings. It was almost like a torch or a cooking fire was burning nearby.

Destrier straightened up abruptly with a loud metallic clank! , certain that he had heard words in that strange sound.

He is not one who would normally come to a place like this. The shine of armor does not gleam so in Our temple , the crackling voice mused softly.

"Where are you?" Destrier queried, turning in place and scanning the room. When he came full circle back to the altar, he was surprised to see a small flame flourishing atop the dark stone. "Show yourself!" He called, more than a bit perturbed.

We will not be commanded in Our own temple, foolish one . The voice sounded stronger now, a thick accent lilting through it as well as a touch of amusement. Grovel, and perhaps We will spare you .

Destrier's grip on his lance tightened momentarily, and then he dropped to a knee. "Forgive my impudence. Had I known this truly was a place of worship, I would not have spoken so rashly." The blond apologized. "May I know the name of the master of this temple?"

The flames sputtered and hissed, almost indignant in their noise. You may address Us as Garuda . First-Born of the Stars, Everflame, Light in the Darkness, Aetros Aegis, Ad Astra, et cetera, et cetera.

"Your titles are many and grand. How is it that I have not encountered any of your followers?" Destrier questioned, legitimately curious.

Somehow, he got the sense that the fire was preening. We have slumbered for many years, foolish one. The Urgals at the foot of this mountain have done wonders at keeping the outside world away.

"I am afraid they have all been slain. My men fell upon them in the dawn."

Such is your way. But why have you come here? The flame turned sly, what brings a warrior of your caliber to this place? Certainly an ordinary man would be pillaging the encampment .

"I have been sent out for more than that," Destrier replied. "I search for true victory; the ability to deal a penultimate blow to the enemy. One that they cannot recover from, that we may rout them completely."

Are you not a paladin? This is all you do . The flame said dismissively.

" Hear me , Garuda." Destrier implored, raising his head to watch the flames dance and lick over the stone. "The common folk do not ask for war. They do not ask for heightened taxes, food shortages or midnight raids upon their peaceful settlements. All they ask for is safety , and I cannot even give them that much!" Destrier clenched his fist. "Women and children starve to death in the cities that were supposed to be havens. The Urgals have learned over six years that to destroy our trade routes is to slit the throat of the army, and their savagery is not held in check for innocent civilians."

Knight Revel took a moment to get himself back under control while the fire in front of him flickered thoughtfully. When next he spoke, his voice trembled slightly.

"I would fight to my last breath for my comrades, for any member of the populace. I serve wholly to uphold the king's ideals. King Jonathan is a man of great wisdom and strength, I gladly serve him." The blond man hesitated, tamping down the memories of his mentor grinning wide in triumph, "I was given this missive because they believed in me."

You do not seek the power for yourself, then .

"What good is power, used by one man for one man's benefit?" Destrier asked sharply. He had never been overly invested in advancement for the sake of advancement. Becoming a squire at the tender age of five had seen to that . "My king and my mentor have charged me with this task, and I will see it through in order to extend my king's territories."

Interesting. You believe that there is still power out there for you to find? The flames questioned sardonically.

"I have no other choice but to believe. Our losses are catastrophic in the face of the numbers of the enemy." He could not bring himself to mention Leofore's name. The shame was still too fresh, not yet blunted by drink or the passage of time. "I have been sent to find the knowledge to turn the tides."

What faith are you of, paladin?

"I have no true faith. I am not a follower of the chantry, nor the monastery. My strength comes from my belief in my mentor and, in turn, my king." Destrier answered the question readily, his hand over his heart in the common indicator of sincerity. "I am unbound to any divinity."

This appeared to please Garuda greatly, satisfaction rolling off the small fire in waves of radiant heat. How very interesting . Faithless paladin, knight of a God king, We will grant you the power to try . Over and over if need be, until your war is won.

An enormous, spectral figure wavered into view behind the flame, their whole body somehow twinkling through and through with stars. Horns that curled like a proud ram's graced their head, and in their hands was a flaming weapon. This must be Garuda's true form , Destrier realized belatedly. The being gestured at him, urging him to rise.

Come, faithless paladin. We shall see whether you are able to be reborn in Our starfire. Take hold of the haft.

Knight Destrier Revel, loyal bondsman of King Jonathan, acting commander of a battalion he should not be leading, felt fear grip his soul. "What if I am unable? What if it is too much to bear?" He asked tentatively, leaving his lance on the floor when he stood.

What is the loss of one man to a God king? His own words, turned back upon him mockingly. We will not wait forever. Either take the plunge or let Us return to rest. Garuda extended the hilt of their weapon toward Destrier.

Knowledge is power, Knight Revel. Seek it out, and we may yet win this war . Leofore's words echoed in his head over and over, giving him the resolve he needed to steel himself. Destrier swallowed hard. "I must. I have no recourse." He finally whispered. Two hands reached out and took hold of the haft of the amorphous weapon. One moment it was a mighty axe, the next a spear with two separate blades.

Garuda chuckled, low and dark. Faithless paladin, you were drawn to Our power like a moth to Our flame. You are charged to burn the wicked and rule the ashes, rising again and again at the cost of your body and soul. Will you take Our power?

" Yes ." Destrier responded fiercely, his brown eyes aglow in the light of Garuda's fiery stars.

…

He awoke on ancient stone steps and for a moment, Destrier simply laid there. Overhead, the stars spun in their nightly dance.

His whole body was hot to the point where he was sweating in his armor. When he went to sit up, Destrier found himself unable to support any weight on his hands. He forced himself up with his elbows and levered onto the next step, finally achieving a semi-upright stance.

Something was very wrong with his hands. Destrier began the slow, clumsy process of unfastening the buckles on his left gauntlet, using his teeth instead of uncooperative fingers. But when he tried to remove the loosened armor, the pain was so great he nearly vomited. Gritting his teeth, the knight continued wriggling the armor until it finally released his hand.

Patches of his skin were entirely burned away or grafted to the inside of his gauntlet. His palm was down to raw tissue. Destrier saw bone . Bile surged in his throat again and he choked, clutching his hand close and drawing on the wellspring of healing power that his mentor's training had granted him.

Gods, Leofore, what have I done .

There on the worn steps with no one but the stars to witness his grief, Destrier wept for the loss of his friend.

/x\

His hands healed well, aside from the brand of the flaming haft that stayed squarely in the center of his palms and the inside of his fingers. At least they did not pain him or impede his ability to wield his lance.

Burn the wicked, rule the ashes . We will grant you the power to try .

The first time he absently lit a small fire with nothing but a snap of his fingers, the knight waved it off as a fluke. Naero took it in stride, just asking Destrier for a light instead of relying on Thranrok or matches.

Destrier found himself drawn to the battalion campfire at night, losing his train of thought for hours while he stared at the dancing flames or looked upwards through the smoke at the stars. If his compatriots noticed, they did not mention it. They were all still mourning the loss of Leofore; it mattered little where one of them found comfort or respite.

The knight slowly adjusted his armor to accommodate his strange new talents, star-shaped cutouts finding their way to his gauntlets that he may better utilize his fire in battle.

The first time Destrier fell in combat, that was a bit of a different story.

The Urgals had set upon yet another village, boldly doing it during the sleepy midafternoon. Destrier was sent out with his battalion, Thranrok and Naero alongside him. Gen and Argon had stayed behind this time, believing that their forces wouldn't be needed for this skirmish. The air was thick with the threat of an impending storm, dark clouds gathering in the distance even as the troops moved forward.

The battle quickly dissolved into anarchy. Destrier was cut off from his men in a suspiciously short period of time, the knight fighting desperately against the hordes of Urgals that descended upon him. There was a strangeness in these creatures, a new frenzy. Something had changed in their ranks.

The blond man whirled and thrust, his lance piercing the chest of one of the monsters that had been approaching from the flank. However, that left him wide open on the other side.

An Urgal warhammer caught him in the ribs so hard he was knocked off his feet. Destrier crashed through the side of one of the houses that lined the street, his vision fading to gray momentarily at the impact. He gasped and choked for breath, feeling his shattered ribs grate against one another as he tried to stand. The young man pressed a palm to his side, mending the injury hastily.

Stifled sobbing echoed in the space and Destrier turned his head, spotting the form of a woman huddled in the corner of the room with a baby in her arms. A shadow suddenly darkened the hole he had made in the wall and the massive shape of an especially formidable Urgal forced its way through in pursuit of the knight.

"Back, beast!" Destrier shouted, slamming his bracers together and then using the haft of his lance to catch the Urgal in the chest, stopping it in its tracks. His gauntlets heated rapidly and the creature shrieked in pain, jerking back with glowing handprints branded onto its leather armor. Destrier snarled, moving forward to press his advantage. He could do this. He could keep them safe-

The other Urgal's warhammer smashed into the side of his head. Destrier dimly heard a wet snap , and then everything went dark.

In the breathless silence, a bonfire roared to life.

Burn the wicked, rule the ashes. We have granted you the power to try. Over and over, over and over. Those who would lay hands on your body will not even be able to touch your shadow. Arise again, and again, and again.

For Leofore.

The paladin reached out to the void of stars and something too immense to name reached back, pouring into him with single-minded intent.

Destrier's eyes flew open. Stars and galaxies swirled hazily in his vision, the whole world tinged an odd, smokey gray. He knew, with a strangely clinical certainty, that he had been dead seconds before. He growled, sparks issuing from between clenched teeth as he grabbed the ankle of the nearest Urgal. His body was molten, his armor shimmering with the same heat that birthed constellations and warmed the very vacuum of space, but he did not feel it.

Destrier all but climbed the Urgal in order to stand again, searing marks into the tough skin as he went. The creature screamed and howled in pain, alerting his companion that the dead paladin appeared to still have some fight left in him. Knight Revel buried his lance in the creature's gut as thanks for being too slow to kill him again.

The woman in the corner had gone silent. Destrier prayed she was alive, but he could not spare the attention to check. His helmet had given way under the assault, one more thing for him to focus on. Have to lead them away from here.

The remaining Urgal retreated through the destroyed wall and the knight followed swiftly, his form wrapped in roaring starfire the second the fresh air from outside the structure reached him. The cosmos burned at the corners of his eyes, stars wheeling just outside his field of vision.

Burn the wicked, rule the ashes . Over and over his mind chanted the phrase, over and over until Destrier found himself mouthing it like a mantra. The air around him boiled and sang as though it was a living being and he snapped his fingers, flames smoldering at the hems of Urgal undertunics.

Destrier was more cautious now, even with this incredible power at his disposal. He wove and ducked around attacks, thrusting his heated lance into chests or stomachs wherever he was able.

"This is why you cannot let go of your weapon even for a moment." Leofore admonished as he helped the younger man back up. "One moment is all it takes for the enemy to gain the upper hand, Destrier. Never let your guard down, and do not be so quick to trust!"

Destrier nodded, accepting his practice lance back from the older man. "Thank you for your wise counsel as always, Knight-Commander Leofore." Leofore struck without warning, knocking Destrier's legs out from underneath him and toppling the blond once again.

The commander threw his head back and laughed, then crouched beside the fledgling knight currently flat on his back in the dust. "Do not even trust me , Knight Revel! It will only leave you with misfortune and more bruises." Leofore grinned.

Destrier shook his head to dispel the echoes of his mentor's voice, baring his teeth and snarling. True, his helmet had been lost in the fight. But he still had his lance, the fire and his wits. Naero and Thranrok were somewhere out there on the battlefield as well. As long as his surviving companions drew breath, he would continue to fight.

/x\

The battle was over.

Piles of embers smoldered in the streets, the rainfall coaxing wraiths of smoke to billow skywards through the downpour.

Knight-Captain Destrier stood in the middle of the main thoroughfare, steaming shoulders bowed under the weight of some no doubt cosmic burden. Naero rolled his eyes, sauntering up alongside the larger man.

He went to place a hand on his shoulder and then paused, feeling the heat that still rolled off his armor in waves. "Revel?" Naero queried slowly.

"Why do we bother with any of this?" The paladin responded with a question of his own, his words clipped. Naero circled around him to find that his arms were protectively cradling the body of a woman. "I could do nothing ." Destrier continued, voice thick with unshed tears.

He raised his eyes to Naero's and the elf was confused by the depth of emotion he saw there. This woman was a stranger, a civilian. Dime a dozen. But the way this buffoon was reacting, it was as if she had been his own mother.

A baby's sharp wail of distress interrupted the thoughtful stillness and Destrier flinched, clearly startled. "What?" He muttered in confusion, laying the woman's body on the ground and then clumsily pawing at the ragged shawl wrapped around her.

Naero saw the child at the same time as Destrier, his ears twitching in annoyance at the impressive racket the tiny creature was making.

"It's alive." The knight breathed, sounding shattered by the whole thing. "Gods, it's alive. Naero, it's alive ."

"Have you never seen a baby before, Revel?" Fick asked dryly.

"I couldn't find it, I thought the Urgals had eaten it while I was…" Destrier paused. "Gone," he finished awkwardly.

" 'Gone' ? Dare I ask where your flights of fancy took you in the middle of battle?"

"I died."

"Oh, I'm certain of that." Naero huffed. "More likely you've taken more hits to the head than you can recall, you dimwit. Where is that damn helmet you're so proud of?"

"Broken." Destrier gestured vaguely towards a house that was missing a wall. "I was killed, go see for yourself."

"' Go see for yourself ', he says. Like I'm a fool to doubt such ludicrous claims." Naero grumbled, begrudgingly picking his way around the piles of ashen corpses. "What absolute hogwash."

He fell silent upon actually seeing the inside of the house, his brow furrowed. True to Destrier's word there was his monstrously gaudy helm, caved in on one side and entirely missing the cheek plates. Blood and hair were smeared on the inside of it, as well as bits of what Naero could only assume was human skin. He grimaced, mind racing. Was Destrier telling the truth? Had he really been killed? Gany was leagues away though, how on earth had that buffoon managed to return from the grave without assistance?

"You listen here, Revel." Naero hissed, stomping back up to the knight and jabbing him in the chest with his index finger. "What are you playing at? What deals have you made, eh?"

"Just one." Destrier's honesty was, as always, a bit of a shock. "I am to burn the wicked that my king may rule the ashes."

Fick recoiled slightly. "Damn. It's been a while since I've heard those words." He muttered. He tilted his head back, narrowly studying the armored man who was carefully wrapping the squalling whelp in the remains of his cape. "Should I ask what you're planning on doing with that?"

"Leofore's battalion had several midwives in their ranks. I have adopted the same tactics." Naero did not miss the pained expression that flitted across Destrier's face when he mentioned their deceased friend. "I will take the babe to them and ascertain whether it can be saved."

"Pretending that you are as hardened as Leofore does you no favors, Revel." Naero said bluntly as his compatriot turned to depart.

"Neither does feigning indifference to the plight of helpless innocents, Fick."

Naero watched the other man start his long walk back to their encampment, the elf shaking his head ruefully after several moments. "Seems like this war just got a lot more interesting."

Part Two: For Leofore

#paladin backstory #a paladin and his god #destrier revel #backstory #basically every paladin trope I could squeeze in here #angst #character death #resurrection #I love Destrier so much #my big blond himbo #also shoutout to #wearepaladin #@wearepaladin #that blog is so good oh my GOD #conquest paladin #dungeons and dragons #dnd #dnd character #dnd 5e

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blue-honeycomb · 5 years

Text

Quiet Devotion 2 [Hawks x Reader]

Since so many people enjoyed the first and asked for a continuation, I decided to make one since I have the day off today. Be warned though, you know what they say about sequels. Also, beware of a possible (most likely going to happen) trilogy.

Summary: Continuation of 'Quiet Devotion'...

Reader Details: Emotional, humble, loyal, introspective.

Quirk: Unbreakable Silk.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

---

The soft whisper of thread soothed your frantic heart, made calm that which should be a deafening roar. Too soon though, the sharp snip of your delicate pattern work unraveling under your unfocused touch roused you from your thoughts. Too late though, for three hours of work now lie ruined in your grasp, a reminder of your uncharacteristic distraction.

Beside you a crisply folded paper sits unmoving upon your desk, untouched since first you read its contents. Within its perfectly straight creases exists the reason for your distraction, your distress. You'd scold yourself had you the heart to, for though you knew this day would come you still felt overwhelmed by it.

You look around your workshop, taking it in with steady eyes despite the pain searing into the depths of your heart. Silk, cotton and wool creations from generations passed hang proudly along the walls, beautiful and ancient in a way few things are. On their surfaces stories great and small are immortalized, the deeds of heros born before the dawn of quirks, the labors of the common folk. All present, all important, a silent history captured by a weaver's guiding hand.

You look to the paper again, silent. You are not ready, but you doubt you ever will be. There is still so much you do not know, so many things your elders and peers have yet to teach you. Here, you have a life you've just started to live, a place you've begun to make your own: A quiet heaven.

Life moves forward though, as it always has. You know that. You learned that truth years ago in that dark and hopeless place that when life moves forward so must you for there is only one other option. Only one.

Setting your ruined work aside you reach out for the letter and take it carefully in your hands, as though it would burn you if provoked unduly. The first thing to draw you attention is the number sitting unchangingly at the top of the paper, neat and bold against the stark white of the lease notice. Your heart quakes at the sight, but you take a fortifying breath and continue on.

Life holds still for no one after all.

---

Hawk's half-lidded gaze scans lazily over the video footage as it plays mutely before him, head tilting slightly as the object of his attention moves ever closer to the security camera overhead. He'd expected that you'd linger for a while near the mail slot, as most do, but to his surprise you'd merely shoved the package into the slot and walked away without a backwards glace. He'd almost think you felt put upon by how quickly you left, but the smile on your face was more than enough to disprove those thoughts.

His rests his chin in his newly re-gloved palm, enjoying the silken feel of it resting against his skin and stubble. He takes a moment to regret not being able to wear the whole set, but the persistent chill and distracting vibrations that would ensue from it soundly nipped that impulse. Instead, he makes note to be a particularly troublesome nuisance for his support department to encourage them to make his soon-to-be newest outfit their top priority once they receive it.

He replays the video again for perhaps the fourth time that hour because there's something familiar about you he should remember. He's sure of this in a way that strikes him as unusual, concerning even, as he doesn't recognize your face despite his near perfect vision and excellent memory. In his hand he holds a single feather, letting it rest fulling against the glove and watching as it quivers softly against the smooth surface.

That subtle interaction is familiar too, but only distantly so as though feeling a shift of movement underwater or experiencing a phantom ache. It's one of the main reasons he knows he should recognize you from somewhere despite the lack of recognition though, because the sensory input from his wings is not something he's prone to forget or misidentify. Lives literally depend on him being able to control and interpret his quirk.

Leaning back into his chair he props his feet onto his table and smirks, dismissing the concern for now. He'd just have to meet with you in person, simple as that. No better way to get the ball rolling than by just getting it done. He didn't get this far up the rankings by thinking about it after all.

A large, cunning smile crossed his lips, maybe with a bit more teeth than was strictly necessary. Surely, making sure the creator of his newest hero uniform was on hand is what any good hero would do. It's a tough job. You never know when you'll need a patch job. Can't have the Number Two flying around in a tattered costume after all. Wouldn't fit his image.

And so a few calls later and a couple favors shorter, he had your file in hand, flipping through it nonchalantly between bouts of paperwork that never seemed to stop coming.

About halfway through the file he finally comes across what he's looking for, and this time the smile that crosses his expression is fond.

'You really are as pretty as I'd thought you'd be.'

---

Seven Years Ago

---

The feather in your hand has been trying to escape your gasp, likely to return to its originator, but for the life of you you cannot unfurl your fingers from around it. It is your lifeline, your only assurance that there is someone out there, a Hero, who is coming for you even if you cannot see them yet.

The feather tugs in your grasp again and you keen softly, bringing it to your chest to clutch it as tightly as possible in your weakened state.

It could hurt you, you know, slice through your flesh and bone like warm butter with just as much effort. You may not remember the name of the young hero it belongs to but you've seen enough glimpses of him over the news to know that the only reason the feather has not escaped yet is because it doesn't want to hurt you. That the only reason it's stayed this long is because you cannot let go of it. That as selfish as it may seem to an outsider, the trauma and desperation that'd once overtaken you was still there, stayed only by the tangible piece of hope trapped tightly in your hand.

You just cannot let go.

Time passes and the feather still vibrates, soothing your frayed nerves as they try to fill your mind with scenerio after scenerio as to what could have gone wrong up top, each one more convoluted than the last.

Then it happens. The vibrations are no longer just in your hand but all around you, low and quiet as though done with the utmost care. You realize very quickly that it sounds that way because that's exactly what's happening. It takes mere moments for the first ray of light to pierce through the darkness to your far right, followed promptly by the emergence of a helmet cover head you can just make out with your limited sight.

"Is anyone down here?" The voice of the man speaking was rough like gravel and just as grating, but it was one of the most beautiful sounds you'd even heard in all your years of existing.

Once more, for what was beginning to feel like a never ending cycle in your life, you begun to cry.

---

Your extraction was quick, though not nearly quick enough for your liking. Mostly you stayed quiet after your initial outburst of tears, not from embarrassment as some may be lead to believe, but from the sheer exhaustion that overcame you the moment large, warm hands came to help you stand.

After adjusting to the change in lighting you looked to the man helping you and found him dressed in something that looked suspiciously like a onesie/jumper hybrid. Though you suppose such an outfit made sense in his line of work in terms of functionality. Besides, not too many people care about what a person's wearing when they're literally plucking them out of the weckage of what could be the worst day of their lives. You certainly don't.

"Damn. We thought you were a goner. It's a good thing that Hawks kid showed up when he did. Awesome quirk, that one." The strangely dressed hero exclaims with a friendly grin while he supports your back and upper torso, perhaps trying to be assuring or funny but missing the mark on both accounts. "I mean, you were so far down even Radar couldn't sense you! That you survived at all is incredible! You must be a super strong person, no doubt about that!" He smiled even wider, eyes kind and genuinely happy for your survival, but the implications of his words stay with you even as he hands you over to the medics to continue his own hero duties.

'They thought I was dead,' You think numbly as the medic gives you a thorough check up. 'They weren't going to come for me.' Something like panic wanted to crawl up your throat, but you were too tired for it to truly spiral. 'They always recover the bodies last. It could have taken days before they got to that stage.' The implications were not lost on you.

It made sense, really. Why waste effort recovering dead bodies when there were people that needed rescuing and reassuring. Why waste precious life-saving hours looking for corpses that no longer had a time limit when the living had so much more to lose.

It was the right thing to do, you knew. Prioritizing the living was always the right thing to do, but it didn't stop the quiet hurt that settled in your heart. The living have worth, a corpse does not. It stung to think that even if you'd died down there you would have been a low priority issue. That for a while there, you were a low priority.

The feather tugged again and you startled- having forgotten about it in your daze- startling the medic in turn. When they turned to ask you what was wrong you merely shook your head, murmuring softly in reassurance. You knew that had the circumstances been different the medic would have pried, but as it was there was no time for a full Psych evaluation. There were still lives that needed saving and only so much time to do so. In the light of day you could see that well enough on your own, despite both your eyes being nearly swollen shut from the bruising and irritation.

What had started off as a small hero vs. villian battle had somehow devolved into a five block catastrophe of sinkholes and fires. Entire sections of road was missing, likely buried under the untold amount of sand scattered as far as your limited vision would allow you to see. No less than six buildings were near collapsed, some even gone entirely. It was mind boggling just to look at, let alone begin to make sense of.

Still, despite the devastation, one thought remained prevalent above all others.

'They thought I was dead but he checked anyway. He checked because they didn't know for sure and there was still a chance someone had survived the fall. He came when no one else would bother.'

The feather tugged again, and this time you let it go, watching as it dashed away into the chaos.

'I was his number one priority. Not because he knew I was alive, but because there was a chance of it.'

You took a deep breath, and despite the numbing pain all long your body and the hurt that still echoed in your heart, you were lighter for it.

'I'm alive. Thank you.'

#BNHA #Takami Keigo #Hawks x Reader #Takami Keigo x Reader #Quiet Devotion

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heartofsnark · 4 years

Text

This Is Love (Chapter One): Welcome to Hope County

Notes: Soooo, I’ve been talking about this for a bit and it’s time to just take the jump and start publishing my Far Cry 5 fic. I hope you enjoy. Also, i have like a series warning for this that will be on every chapter cause it needs it.

Summary: Dahlia Hale is the youngest person working at the Hope County Sheriff’s Department. Hailing from a small town in Louisiana, it’s going to take her some time to fully acclimate to the new environment and living on her own. Developing friendships takes time even for the most functional of people and for disasters like Dahlia it takes even longer. She gets along with her coworkers and there’s some religious family who’s taken a shine to her, for some reason. It seems like she’s on her way to getting the kind of friends she’s only ever dreamed about, even if it’s going to take some more time.

Then everything goes to shit.

Halfway through her six-month probationary hire and that nice religious family has kicked off a holy war with her becoming enemy number one.

To one side she’s a hero.

To the other she’s a monster. She’s not sure which is right.

Word Count: 9,290

Series Warning: I usually do not like to spoil endgame pairings in my fics, but this warrants being up front. This series is polyseed and involves heavy, recurrent themes of at times romanticized noncon, dubcon, large age differences, and stockholm syndrome that develops into a romantic relationship. The relationship between my oc and the Seeds is extremely unhealthy, toxic, and should never be replicated or sought out in real life. No matter how things progress or how they are portrayed at different points, this fact remains the same. i am comfortable exploring and enjoying these themes in fiction, not everyone is. If you are uncomfortable with or triggered by any of these things, please skip this and take the precautions you feel necessary to avoid this material. If you are an individual who struggles with separating reality and fiction; please do not read this. Otherwise, if you’re comfortable with and enjoy that kind of content, please enjoy.

Chapter Warnings: Bliss flowers, hallucinations, threats of violence (really not bad compared to whats to come)

A shiver rolls down Dahlia’s spine, the chill of the Montana night settling into her bones. A sign welcomes her to Hope County, her motorcycle tire spinning dirt at it as she passes. The moon shines bright in the sky, cascading silver light down on everything. It’s beautiful despite the cold, light reflecting off the lakes and streams that pass through the county.

It’s mostly woods and forests, fields of big white flowers and animals wandering through. The entire county is begging to be put on a postcard, from the animals, to the fields, to the…giant cement statue of a guy with a manbun…

Her tires squeal as she comes to a stop on the thankfully vacant road, she pushes the visor of her helmet up, as if the tint could cause her to see something like this. Sure enough, the white hunk of stone is still there. It’s of a man with his hair pulled back in a small bun, in one hand he holds a book and the other gestures outward.

Hair raises on the back of her neck and goosebumps collect across her skin, the statue is…eerie. It looms across the entire region, a creeping specter. Unnerving doesn’t even begin to describe it, her body has started to lean towards it, almost drawn to it.

Maybe it’s a historical figure for the county? People do that right, build monuments to founders or something. The clothes of the figure seem old fashioned, but she’s not sure about how far back the manbun goes.

She shakes her head and slaps her visor back down, she needs sleep. It shouldn’t be much further to her hotel. Dahlia revs her engine and rushes off that way, finally finding the large wooden hotel with its red roof. There’s a large wooden sign welcoming her to the King’s Hot Spring Hotel, the parking lot is decidedly vacant, and she comes to a stop by the smaller stone black sign that sits close to the larger wooden one, easy to overlook if someone wasn’t looking close enough.

“King’s Hot Spring Hotel

On May 12th, 1902 a 7.6 earthquake struck the mountain south of the hotel. It created a 10 million ton landslide that sliced a deep crevice in the earth and destroyed half the King’s hotel. 16 people were killed in the landslide, their bodies never recovered. To this day, their ghosts are said to haunt the site of the rebuilt hotel.

Built 1866.”

So, from a dirty cockroach motel to a haunted hotel, certainly a step up. She doesn’t really believe in ghosts, they’re cool as all hell, she loves creepy shit. But she doesn’t think any of it is real and if she’s wrong, maybe the ghosts will be nice enough to kill her. She parks her bike and shuts off the engine, unclipping her storage bag from it and making her way to the door.

The inside feels warm and welcoming, rustic. A large stone fireplace with a bear skin rug in front of it, wooden stairs leading to the upper floors. Her eyes scan the room and she finds a registration desk where a woman sits, reading from a white book. She stands out slightly in the old styled hotel, tattoos covering her arms. The woman’s light, almost milky, green eyes, look up to see Dahlia as she makes her way to the desk.

“I called ahead and reserved a room for tonight.”

“Hale, right?” The girl flashes a soft smile as she slides the registration forms across the desk and Dahlia finds herself looking down at the receptionist’s arms, SLOTH and ENVY with strikes through them; half tattooed and half scarred in the woman’s skin. Heavy-handed work.

“Yeah, that’s me, how’d you know?”

“Oh, not many folks check in here anymore, between the ghost tales and the new management.”

“Management?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as she finishes scribbling in her info and handing her card over.

“Here,” the woman hands Dahlia’s card back along with a room key and a map, “I’m sure you’ll find the path.”

“Uhh…thanks…”

She shakes her head as she leaves the desk, doing a double take at the worker, who’s now back to reading the large white tome with a soft smile on her face. Dahlia is entirely too tired to deal with weird cryptic people, maybe she’s trying to play up the creepy factor of the supposedly haunted hotel. Probably intrigues the tourists or some shit. She takes her phone from her pocket, ringing Lloyd as she walks to her room.

“Hey, Stray,” He greets her with the nickname he gave her and she already feels a little better despite the chill and exhaustion.

“Hey,” Dahlia unlocks her room and strides in, there’s a deer head mounted on the wall and a vase of those white flowers on the bedside drawer, “just wanted to let you know that I am officially in Hope County.”

She tosses her luggage, along with the gunk the receptionist gave her onto the bed and does a fist bump for no one’s benefit but her own.

“That’s good, your interview is tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, hopefully it’ll go well, if not it might be another year of me eating cheese puffs on your couch.”

“You make it sound like you’re some sort of bum.”

“I mean…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m gonna be a mess when you go.”

“If I go, still gotta get the job.”

“You’re gonna nail it, I know it, me and Earl were friends way back. He’s not dumb enough to let you go. And if he is, well, I’ll be having some words with him.”

“You can’t fight someone for not wanting to hire me.”

“I mean, I can, uh, yeah, sweetie it’s stray, I was kinda, oh Caroline wants-“

“Stray, did you throw your fucking phone away?” Caroline, Lloyd’s wife, is on the phone in a second, worriedly yelling.

“I talked to you when I stopped off in Denver.”

“Yeah, in a dingy nasty motel and then we didn’t hear a word from you for over twelve fucking hours!”

“I’m pretty sure I could handle myself,” Dahlia laughs and rolls her eyes, the concern is appreciated but unneeded. She’s a cop and despite her short stature, she’s got muscles and knows how to protect her. Maybe it’s cocky and arrogant, but at this point in her life, she’s not afraid of anything hurting her physically, mentally and emotionally is a whole other ballpark.

“Still, what if you were in an accident. Have you ate? Do you know where you’re eating tonight?”

She ate back in Denver and her stomach is growling now, but she mostly just wants a shower and sleep. She’d rather just grab room service for breakfast.

“I’m fine, I’ve ate and I will eat. Stop worrying, now I’m gonna get settled in for the night, I’ll call you after the interview.”

“Wait, ha-”

“Goodbye, mon cher,” Dahlia ends the call after her casual term of endearment, cher and mon cher as normal to her as bud or pal. Maybe it’s just a Cajun French Louisiana thing, or it’s one of the many things she picked up from her dad. She instinctively plays with the ring that hangs from a chain around her neck, he was always so proud of where he came from, teaching her Cajun French from the moment she could talk. Would he be upset with her leaving the state?

She shakes the thought from her head, she can’t concern herself with the opinions of people who aren’t here, as much as they’d mean to her. Dahlia finally has the tools to be independent and make her own way in this world, she needs to seize any and every opportunity. She double checks that her door is locked, before stripping out of her clothes.

Dahlia sets her phone to play music as she takes a shower, singing along to it as hot water eases her aching muscles. Once she’s cleaned, she dries off and starts to make her way to the bed where her luggage is.

The large white blooms on the table between the bed and window, draw her eye, her suspicion confirmed that they’re the same as the fields of flowers she saw on her way here. They must be a common flower here. She’s not a plant person, but she can appreciate pretty flowers when she sees them. The petals are soft against her finger and she pulls out one of the fresh flowers, sniffing at it. It tickles her nose, the soft scent pleasant, but it makes her want to sneeze. She tucks it back in the vase and scrubs at her nose.

Her vision swims for a moment, suddenly light-headed. She hasn’t slept much and has been driving a lot, her eyes must be tired as well.

Dahlia digs some comfy sleeping clothes from her bag to change into. Content in her shorts and tee, the hotel much warmer than the outside chill. She pushes her luggage off her bed and takes a look at the Hope County map.

Her vision is still swimming but she reaffirms where she needs to be tomorrow for her interview. It’s over in Fall’s End at the Sheriff’s Department. Dahlia fishes a marker out of her discarded jacket pocket and then starts to write directions down on her right forearm before tucking the map away.

She rifles a cigarette from her quickly emptying pack, most places don’t like their hotel rooms stinking like nicotine.

Cool air rushes in as she opens the window, she leans against the windowsill, appreciating the view of the moonlight reflecting in the pool of spring water. Montana really is beautiful.

She lights her cigarette, looking away for a second to ignite it.

“Ooooh ooooh~” A soft melodic voice drifts in, piercing the quiet, and Dahlia’s head snaps back to the window.

In the grass, a woman surrounded by green mist spins and dances, singing softly into the night. She’s young, but still older than Dahlia with dirty blonde hair that falls past her shoulders. A white lace dress with flowers across the waist and skirt. Illuminated by moonlight, a heavenly glow, angelic but singing a siren’s song.

Who would be out there at this time of night?

Dahlia’s the only one in the hotel and she doubts the staff indulges in nightly dance sessions.

When did Dahlia start leaning further out the window?

Every fiber of her being screams at her to run to the woman. To jump out the window if she has to, anything to get closer to the hauntingly beautiful woman dancing along the decks before the spring.

Dahlia slams the window shut, quick and hard enough to rattle it. It’s late, she’s exhausted, she��s ridden her bike almost twenty-eight hours straight. Only stopping for a late night in a shitty hotel in Denver before getting back on the road at eight am this morning.

Between ghost stories and exhaustion her brain is fucking with her.

The woman’s singing is still there.

Softer now but still present, still beckoning.

Every muscle in her body is tense, prepared to bolt in order to go find that woman.

She smashes her fist against the side of her head, the impact of her knuckles rattling her skull as she literally tries to knock sense into herself. Her visions seem to clear a bit and she can’t hear the singing anymore, but she also might have concussed herself.

Her cigarette is stamped out before she’s even halfway through it and she’s setting her phone alarm before jumping into the bed.

She buries her face in the pillow, no matter what she hears or thinks she’ll see, she’s not going anywhere until the morning. This interview is the most stressful thing she’s dealt with in years, so much rides on it, and she can’t be exhausted tomorrow from chasing fairy ghosts or what the fuck ever.

Her mind is just playing tricks on her, it’s an asshole, it does that.

She’s not certain exactly when she fell asleep, but the next thing she knows her alarm is going off. Dahlia groans and forces herself out of bed, she hates waking up. Her interview isn’t even late, but god, fuck waking up.

Her head is clearer now, no swimming in her vision and no singing or sirens. She forces her way out of bed, groggily trying to go about her day.

She’s running late, she’s always running late, time isn’t real.

After taking her sweet sleepy time to get herself put together and inhaling a room service breakfast, Dahlia is running down the hotel stairs and scrubbing syrup off her chin. Why does she do this to herself? The receptionist calls out something and she waves her off.

Helmet slapped on and engine revving, she guns it out of the parking lot and makes her way to towards the Valley. She comes to a bridge and pulls her arm from her jacket to read her scribbled directions, remembering too late that she can’t read her own handwriting.

She squints trying to decipher what the hell she wrote, her chicken scratch leaving a lot to be desired. It looks like it might say she’s going to Holland Valley or Halland Volley or Hallard, something to that effect by crossing the Honne…Benne…Rover….Dridge… Why does she do this to herself?

She’s probably on the right track, probably. Dahlia readjusts her jacket, confirming that her mess of directions won’t be getting any clearer the longer she stares at it and makes her way over the bridge. More signs hang from the inner framework of the bridge, half of them bearing a cross symbol with what looks like sunbeams coming from the center, the other half states The Power Of YES; Take The Leap.

Heebie jeebies nest in her gut, those goosebumps from earlier coming back. Religion…

Maybe it was too optimistic, but she had hoped further up North she’d see less of…that. She did searches online and was told based on some statistical thing that Montana was less religious than Louisiana. But apparently religion isn’t completely avoidable in the United States.

The crisp smell of apples manages to break through her helmet as she leaves the bridge. Apple trees as far as the eye can see, bright red fruit gleaming under sunlight, a giant orchard surrounds the road. People mill about the apple trees; couples holding hands and parents hefting their children up on their shoulders to pick the highest apples their little hands can reach. A few people look at her as she rides past, the rev of her engine and the music pounding from her helmet drawing attention. Some looks are judgmental, others unconcerned, a small kid waves at her as she passes by and she waves back, smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. There’s a constructed Apple Statue in the orchard, noting that she’s riding through the Gardenview Orchard.

Over the horizon, built into the hills of the Holland Valley is a giant Hollywood style sign that says ‘YES’. It’s infinitely less creepy than the weird man statue, but far cheesier. Whether that’s better or worse? Who knows, but Hope County is definitely…weirder than she anticipated.

She passes through the orchard and coming up on the left apple trees are replaced with pumpkins on the ground. Fields growing them, some clearly bigger and further along in the growing process, none fully ripe, however. A house is built among the fields, one fence with a sign that says Rae-Rae’s Pumpkin Farm.

There’s a couple walking around, holding hands, but more importantly there’s a dog. A mottled coat of black, white, and blue gray with a bandana around their neck. The dog’s head raises at the rev of Dahlia’s motorcycle engine passing by on the road, tail wagging but he doesn’t run out, a well-trained doggo.

She’s running late.

She doesn’t have time.

One pet can’t hurt.

Dahlia comes to a screeching halt, tires squealing and bracing herself against her handlebars of her bike so she doesn’t fly across the farm. The couple taken aback, staring wide-eyed at her as she kills her music and yanks off her helmet. The doggie is still wagging its tail, eager to meet their new friend.

“Can I pet your dog?”

The couple is older, by Dahlia standards, so probably around their thirties…or forties…or twenties…ages confuse her. A woman with short sandy hair and a man with a knit hat over his head, the woman’s dropped jaw becomes a soft smile, her eyes gentle.

“Of course,” a thick southern accent tints her voice, “Boomer’s doesn’t know a stranger.”

Dahlia stays outside the wooden fence, not wanting to step on crops or something, but she leans over it. Boomer’s big brown eyes landing on her, so cute, she already loves him. A few coos and he’s already rushing over, standing to put his paws at the top of the fence so he can get some much-deserved love. She pets the top of his head, scratching behind his ears and around his neck. He eagerly leans into scritch and pet, licking her.

“Awww, such a good boy, yes you are,” she praises and laughs, soaking it in. Even if she’s running late, this is more than worth it.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman asks.

“Nah, here for a job interview,” Dahlia answers, hugging around Boomer’s neck as she snuggles him.

“Where you interviewing at?”

“Sheriff’s department.”

“You’re kind of young for a cop, ain’tcha?”

“I’m an adult,” she says, shrugging her shoulders through the hug. She is a young adult and that’s all that needs to be said on that.

“They finally trying to fill that deputy position?”

“Seems like it.”

“Sorry, to brush you off so soon, but we have to go pick up some equipment before noon and we’re already cutting it close.”

Shit, right, time. She’s running late too, but the dog was worth it.

“No problem, have a good one, you keep being a good boy, Boomer.”

She gives a final scratch to his head, then slides her helmet back on, waving off the couple as she hops back on her bike. Her nerves have eased slightly at having gotten some time with a dog and even if she’s late, she doesn’t regret it.

Her engine revs and she’s back to traveling down the quiet Montana roads. The sheriff’s department is in Fall’s End. A water tower baring the town’s name lets her know she’s arrived in the right area. It’s not a huge town. Along the main road, there’s the sheriff’s department, a general store, a bar, a church. There’s little streets and roadways showing that beyond those there’s houses and an apartment complex. Not huge, but certainly bigger than where she’s from, which…isn’t saying much.

Dahlia parks her motorcycle outside the sheriff’s department, all those initially dissipated nerves are bubbling back to the surface. Her stomach in absolute knots and her muscles tense with anxiety. She shuts off her bike and pockets her keys then pulls off her helmet, fiddling with her hair. A deep breath, before she finally steels herself to step into the building.

There’s a desk to Dahlia’s right when she enters the building, an older woman with a layered bob of red hair.

“There something I can help you with, darling?” Her southern accented voice asks.

“I have an interview with the sheriff.”

“Really,” the woman’s eyes scan Dahlia up and down, eyebrows furrowed in judgement, “can I get your name?”

“Hale,” she murmurs, once again fiddling with her messy strands of dark hair. She knows she doesn’t exactly look the most professional right now. But professional clothes and motorcycles don’t truly mix. The woman, her desk tag says N. McClure, shuffles through some documents and reads over something.

“Okay, just take a seat and I’ll let Earl know you’re here.”

Dahlia plops down in one of the reception area’s chairs, fiddling with the cat ears on her motorcycle helmet. Her leg bounces up and down, shaking out excess energy as the woman at the desk starts to call back, asking for Whitehorse. It’ll be fine, Dahlia reassures herself, Lloyd and Caroline have been talking her up to their old friend. All she needs to do is be herself, maybe, probably not. She’s kind of a mess.

The clock hand ticks slowly, Dahlia feeling like she’s about to go crazy waiting for her interview to start. Finally, the woman hangs up the phone she was calling back to Whitehorse on, a soft smile on her face that pulls at the wrinkles around her eyes.

“Earl’s ready to talk to you, come on back.”

The older woman steps out and helps show Dahlia to the office door, passing through a bullpen style office area to get there, Sheriff Whitehorse is scrawled on a plaque by the door. Dahlia knocks and he tells her to come on in, she slowly opens the door and steps in. There’s a modest sized quaint office with only a few personal touches. She’s only seen old photos Lloyd had of himself and Whitehorse, from way back in police academy. The man before her is much older than he was in those photos, weathered with wrinkled skin. He looks like an old sheriff pulled directly from a movie; green uniform, cowboy hat, scraggly brown hair, and a mustache.

“You’re Lloyd and Caroline’s Stray, right?” He says, standing up from his desk to shake her hand over it. He’s over a foot taller than her, probably close to a foot and a half. His hand swallows her own whole, it’s probably bigger than her face.

“Holy shit, you’re tall.”

That’s not a good way to start an interview, but he seems to be laughing and smiling. So, maybe it’s fine. Lloyd once said she has a charm about her despite her lack of tact or decorum. She’s still trying to figure out what that charm is, but still.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” he says, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk. She follows suit, leg still bouncing like it was in the waiting room. Whitehorse puts a manilla folder down on the desk, the little tab labeled D. Hale. It’s surprisingly thick for someone who’s never met her in person.

“Lloyd and Caroline talk highly of you, hell the whole town does.”

“The whole town…?” She raises an eyebrow, what’s that supposed to mean? Reinette, Louisiana is a small town, it’s police department has about six people in total and everyone knows everyone. But certainly, they wouldn’t call up Whitehorse to talk about her.

“I swear Lloyd must have handed out the stations number to everyone down there, we’ve been getting two, three calls a day of people who can’t say enough good things about you.”

“Oh god.” Heat flushes up Dahlia’s cheeks, god damn it, Lloyd.

“You’ve left quite an impression on the place.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Dahlia pushes some hair off her face, fidgeting with the locks.

“And you haven’t been working there long, have you?”

“Not counting training, about a year and a half, I know I don’t have much experience.”

“Still making such an impact in a short amount of time, says something.”

“Thanks.” His words soothe her nerves and embarrassment a bit, maybe this will go well.

“But, there’s the issue of your record…”

“My record…?” She shouldn’t have a record, he opens the manilla folder and she feels bile raise in the back of her throat.

“Between what’s on the books and what everyone was saying, I was starting to wonder if there were two of you, Hale. Runaways, break in, fights, attempted grand theft auto, and petty thefts, the list goes on. Doesn’t exactly scream future cop.”

“I thought records got expunged at eighteen.”

“If you request it.”

“Oh…well then…”

“I know this all happened when you were a minor and you’ve been clear for the past two or so years, but…”

“It still looks bad, I know, I know. I’m not going to try to tell you some bullshit excuse or sob story. I did a lot of shit I shouldn’t have for a lot of reasons. I regret most of it, not all of it, but most of it. Lloyd and Caroline helped me get my life back on track, I know two years doesn’t seem like a long time, but I’m not the same kid I was when I did that shit.”

That what she tells him, but she’s not sure how much she believes it. It feels more like her situation’s changed than she’s changed, but if she just said that she’s no longer a delinquent because she doesn’t need to be, well, it wouldn’t sound as good or employable.

“What made you wanna be a cop?”

“Wanted to help people,” she answers with a shrug, it’s not really anything more complicated than that. Whitehorse huffs out what sounds like a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, I gotta ask, why here? Lloyd and the whole town loves you. It’s a hell of a move and the pay raise ain’t much.”

“Look,” she sighs and folds her hands on top of her motorcycle helmet, calming her body down, “I love Reinette, I love Lloyd and I love Caroline. I owe them and the whole town a debt that I’ll never pay back. But, I’m twenty years old. I’m not their kid and even if I was it’d be time for me to go, I��ve taken enough of their time, money, and everything. Reinette, bless the town’s heart, it’s...dying. There’s more cows than people, our station has more cars than officers. It won’t be long before they do away with the town’s department and just do everything through the Parish. And the parish’s department doesn’t need any more officers.”

Her throat constricts as bile raises in the back of it, her stomach churning. After everything that town and its people have done for her, she’s leaving them. A traitor, betrayer.

“You figure any of those officers will even find work in the parish, at all?” He asks with a knowing, soft look in his eye. If he keeps in contact with Lloyd, he’s already well aware of the trouble in Reinette.

“I doubt it, town’s a sinking ship. Lloyd…he’s willing to go down with it,” her eyes sting and she clenches her jaw, containing herself, “I can’t do that. As much as they all mean to me, I can’t. Lloyd’s gonna retire when it goes under, I’m twenty, the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m trying to help people; I’m trying to make a difference. But my hands keep getting tied because of money, resources, anything and everything. Lloyd and Caroline gave me the means and the tools to make something of myself, I’m not gonna piss that away because some fucker decided we weren’t worth investing in, I…”

She’s clenching her fists and nearly smacking her helmet, anger and frustration welling up inside of her, a geyser of emotions threatening to break through. This is an interview, she can’t do this, can’t be emotional. She needs to stop this, a deep breath before she starts to speak again.

“I can do more here, I know no place is perfect, but I can do more here.”

“Well, no one can say you’re not passionate.” Whitehorse lets out another chuckle, seemingly amused.

“Sorry, certain shit, just winds me up.” She massages the back of her neck, why is she such a fucking idiot? No one wants to hire a cop who can’t keep their cool and throws a fit. She was supposed to tone down her dumbassery, not ramp it up.

“There’s nothing wrong with caring about what you’re doing.”

“Yeah…” She half-heartedly agrees, Whitehorse is trying to make her feel better. Her interview has become him trying to console her, absolutely pathetic. She might as well call Lloyd and Caroline now and tell them she blew it.

“You got any questions for me?”

“Uh…”

Did she just fuck this up as bad as she thinks she did?

“Not really, I just wanna get to work.” That earns her another chuckle from Whitehorse, even if he doesn’t think she’s competent, at least she’s entertaining it seems.

“Full of piss and vinegar, ain’t ya?”

“To say the least.” She lets out a dry laugh, but there’s no mirth of joy behind it. Not a shred of happiness as she thinks about what a fucking idiot she is.

“Well, if that’s all,” Whitehorse stands up from his desk, “I’ll go ahead and show you out.”

Dahlia stands up, the sheriff places a large hand on her back as they leave his office, finding their way back into the reception area.

“It was nice to finally meet you, Hale.”

“Same, thanks for taking the time to talk to me.” She’s sure that he’d rather be doing literally anything else, especially after that beyond trash interview.

“It’s no problem at all, I-”

The doors to the department open, a man and a woman in green deputy uniforms coming in. Another giant, the man is barely an inch of two shorter than Whitehorse, with shaggy dark hair and hazel eyes. More importantly, the woman while taller doesn’t absolutely tower over Dahlia, her long black hair is braided over her shoulder and her olive skin makes her hunter green eyes stand out all the more.

Dahlia’s throat feels tight and her heart race is a little faster. So…that’s a thing.

“We running a daycare, now?” The guy asks, looking down his nose at Dahlia, though that might just be because of the height difference. Either way, she glares at him, he’s been around her a grand total of five seconds and he’s being a dick.

“Pratt…” The woman, her name tag says J. Hudson, rolls her eyes at him. Her voice is warm and rich; why is Dahlia’s face so hot? Is she sick? Has the Montana weather already kicked her ass, what is this?

“This is one of the interviewees. Hale, these are my deputies.”

“Nice to meet you.” Hudson flashes a soft smile and what is Dahlia’s heart doing? It’s like someone’s squeezing it and filled her gut with bugs while they were at it. She fucks up an interview and now she needs a doctor, great.

“Same, I was, uh, just on my way out actually.” She needs to go sleep off whatever the fuck has just hit her.

“Good luck,” the taller woman gives a friendly tap to Dahlia’s bicep, “hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.”

Dahlia is dying.

That’s the only explanation. She fucked up an interview and now she has the heart plague or some shit, hell of a day.

“Uh, yeah, I, um, ‘preciate it.” She’s avoiding eye contact and she doesn’t know why she's stumbling over her words and she doesn’t know why.

“Pssh,” Pratt scoffs, “she’s gonna need it.”

Suddenly, she can talk again. Weird. Hudson and Whitehorse shake their heads, clearly use to his bullshit

“Sorry about Pratt, he’s, well he’s Pratt.”

“Eh, every station has at least one cop who’s just trying to make up for his tiny dick.”

“I assure you, I-”

“Enough,” Whitehorse cuts him off, talking like he’s breaking up a child’s squabbling. Doesn’t really help make her look any more mature or competent, way to steer into the skid, Dahlia.

“For the millionth time, no one wants to hear about your dick, Pratt.” Hudson rolls her eyes, why is that being said for the millionth time?

“Well, that’s certainly my cue to go, have a good one.”

Dahlia quickly waves off the sheriff and deputies, making her escape. She takes the couple steps to her motorcycle with quick rigid movement, making sure she’s away from windows or the glass door, not wanting any of them to see her.

She lets out a low guttural groan muffled by how tightly her jaw is clenched jaw and knocks her knuckles against the back of her head.

Idiot, she fucked everything up by going on some huge ass fucking rant.

Despite the distance, this was a phenomenal opportunity the best she’s had. It’s not like she hasn’t looked into place in Louisiana, but something is always wrong. She’s never made it as far as the interview. Either she never gets a call back, maybe they’d seen her records the same way Whitehorse did and didn’t even bother giving her that chance. Or she’d learn the town, parish, city, whatever was no better off than Reinette. One of the sheriffs she talked to on the phone knew her stepfather and recognized her name, nearly making her puke before she hung up.

This was beyond a shadow of a doubt the best chance she’s had. Whitehorse has the Lloyd seal of approval which is as good as gold. And as much as the distance is guilt inducing…, the fear of betrayal and abandoning people who mean so much to her. But, she needs somewhere far away.

As many good memories as Lloyd, Caroline, and the people of Reinette have given her. There are still too many bad ones, too many people figuring out where she came from, one too many bad memories trying to be more than just that. As much as it may eat her up to leave, it’ll eat her up even more to stay. Between the impending unemployment and her own past, every good moment there has a shadow looming over it.

When she gets back to Reinette she’ll start working to get her record taken care of. Once that’s settled, it’s back to job hunting. A bump in the road, a moment of frustration, but she’ll come out the other end. She always does.

Her stomach growls, burning through a pack of cigarettes and stress binge eating sound like a great way to deal with this. She’ll find some place to stuff her face and call Lloyd once she gets back to the hotel.

There’s a general store, she doesn’t know if the bar lets minors in, so it’s probably her best place to grab some quick snack. She plops her helmet on and makes the short drive to the store, parking her bike outside and pulling her helmet back off to light a cigarette by the dumpsters. Her stressed brain is desperately craving nicotine.

She rips open her pack of cigarettes and lights one up, bringing it to her lips. Smoke pools in her lungs, clawing to her insides and easing her nerves if only for a second. Holding it there for a moment before breathing it out into the air. Her eyes are drawn to the neon sign of The Spread Eagle bar, even bright in the daylight. It also seems to have some activity despite the early hour. Well, early for a bar. A white truck pulls up in front of the building, a man with long grungy hair climbing out of the passenger seat.

Those odd pains in her chest and churns in her stomach fade as she inhales the smoke, looking up at the clear blue sky. A soft breeze blows through, carrying the gray trails away with it. Montana really is beautiful…

“Get back here!” A woman yells out, door to the bar swinging open violent as the man with long hair comes rushing back out, arms piled high with crates of alcohol.

Dahlia drops her cigarette and helmet, bolting towards the bar, as the thief tries to scramble into the back of the pickup truck. He gets the crates set down, but she’s grabbed the back of his shirt before he can climb in. A harsh yank, pulling the tall man back into her and away from the truck. She encircles her arms under his armpits and locks her hands behind his neck, grappling into a full nelson hold that keeps him from running off. The odd angle of these heights and the way he was yanked from the back of the truck leaves him on his knees in his grasp.

“Someone call the sheriff’s department!” She yells out, she doesn’t have any jurisdiction here or cuffs to actually arrest the guy.

He tries to fight back against the hold, attempting to break free, but all he manages to do is writhe and squirm. The door of the truck swings open, the driver jumping out, his feet hitting the ground with a heavy sound. Another man easily a foot or more taller than her.

“Help me, brother Theodore,” the man in her hold struggles to beg for help.

“We have strict orders from John Seed to confiscate this liquor.”

“Don’t know or care who that is, mon cher.”

“Someone like you doesn’t deserve to know him,” the guy tells her, sneering and she sees his finger twitch, brushing over the gun in his belt holster. She can’t have firearms going off in a residential area.

“All you’ll do is end up shootin’ your friend, don’t be stupid. Liquor ain’t worth bloodshed.”

He lets out a sigh and his hand relax, something clicking in his mind. The man, Theodore, chews his lip, eyes flickering as she nearly sees the gears turning in his head.

“What’s going on here?” A familiar rough voice asks over Dahlia’s shoulder, she doesn’t need to look to know Whitehorse has come to investigate. Even if she did, she wouldn’t dare look away from the man in front of her, not until she’s sure he won’t try to shoot.

“These pieces of shit peggies were trying to steal my liquor stash,” a woman explains, somewhere behind Dahlia.

“Liquors still in the back of the truck,” Dahlia tells them, none of it seemed to break, so hopefully it won’t hurt the bar too much.

“If it wasn’t for her, they would have cost me a month’s worth of sales.”

“Pratt, Hudson,” Whitehorse calls the names of his deputies.

“I got it here,” Hudson taps on Dahlia arm, cuffs in hand, and that weird heart thing is happening again.

“Um, yeah, o-of course.” She maneuvers away from the guy, she’s never stumbled over her words like that before. Hudson cuffs the guy and starts reading his rights off.

“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” Pratt barks out at the Theodore guy who's surprisingly obedient as he lets the deputy cuff him.

Dahlia scratches at her nose, watching the scene unfold. She’s finally gotten a good look at the woman who was being robbed.

And, not only is everyone here tall, they’re also apparently beautiful. The woman is than both Dahlia and Hudson, with honey blonde hair tucked up into a bun and soft blue eyes. Her features are soft, cherubic almost, with freckles over the bridge of her nose.

Have women always been this pretty?

When did women start being this pretty?

The fuck is her heart doing?

“Looks like it’s a good thing you were here,” Whitehorse tells her, a soft smile tugging at his lips, “you managed to get Mary May’s liquor back and stopped it from escalating.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess.”

“Someone you know, sheriff?” The blonde, Mary May asks. His smile gets wider and he squeezes Dahlia’s shoulder, a comforting touch.

“This is my new Junior Deputy.”

“I am?”

He’s not serious, there’s no way, he has to be fucking with her.

“Unless you changed your mind?”

“Hell no,” she shakes her head, “I am the new Junior Deputy, wait, Junior?”

“You’ll start with a six-month probationary hire, paid of course, manage that and we’ll take you on permanently.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“You’ll start next, c’mon down to the station Mary, we’ll book ‘em and get your report in.”

“See you around, stranger,” Mary May tells her as she follows after Whitehorse, Hudson and Pratt forcing the thieves along. Theodore shooting a glare Dahlia’s way.

“Look forward to working with you, Rookie.”

“Pfft, I give her a week, tops.”

And with that, Dahlia is left alone on the road of Falls End…with a new job.

She got the job.

She’s got to get through the probationary hire, but she got the job. Holy shit. Holy shit. And she starts in a week. She needs to call Lloyd and Caroline, she needs to find somewhere to live, there’s so much to do.

Dahlia is practically skipping back over to her helmet and bike. She’s gotta start getting her ducks in a row.

She speeds her way back through Hope County, making her way back to the hotel. She has so many fucking calls to make and shit to go through. Before she knows it she’s back in the Kings Spring Hotel parking lot, fumbling to get her phone. As silly as it may be, she’d rather call Lloyd and Caroline in a less populated area. She’s grinning ear to ear, enough to hurt her cheeks, she looks like a dork and that’s not going to get any better. Helmet under her arm, she dials Lloyd as she paces in the isolated parking lot.

“How’d it go?” Lloyd is asking before she even says hi.

“Six months, probationary hire, then we’ll go from there.”

‘So, you got the job?”

“That was the bummer way of saying I got the job, yeah.”

“I can hear you smiling!”

“Shut it!”

“Caroline! She got the job, yeah!”

“I,” she rubs a hand down her face, “I thought for sure I blew it.”

“What changed?”

“Some bar across the street got robbed right after my interview, I stepped in, next thing I know I’m the Junior Deputy.”

“Holy fuck, do you know what that is, Stray?”

“Dumb luck?”

“Fate, Stray, it’s fucking fate! The world telling you that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be!”

“You really are a sap, ain’t ya?”

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m staying another night here, but once I hop off I gotta start looking into where I’m gonna stay. I start in a week, so I gotta start moving, I’ll see you all in two or three days once I make the drive. It’s gonna be tight, but I’ll manage.”

“Man, you’re really leaving.”

“No crying.”

“Seems like yesterday Caroline found you in the barn.”

“No crying.”

“You were so thin, just a little bag of bones…” His voice is choking up.

“I’m hanging up, you cry baby!”

She does just that, smiling up at the sky. It’s happening, it’s really happening. It feels like the start of a new life, a new her. There’s a jump in her step as she makes her way back into the hotel, room service food and she’ll start making phone calls.

“Miss Hale!” The soft lilted voice of the receptionist calls out when she sees Dahlia.

“Oh, hey.” Dahlia walks to the desk, head tilted in question, what could she need?

“A heads up, we’re switching the water in the tank for the shower and bath system to water pumped in from the spring.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

“It’s so much more relaxing than regular tap water, be sure to use it tonight.”

“Uh yeah, thanks, by the way can I order some room service?”

“Of course.”

Dahlia goes through her order for room service, being assured the order will be put in and delivered before she knows it. With that she goes back up to her room, she starts digging through the bedside drawer, searching for a phone book for the area. There’s a white book in the top drawer, with that same strange cross like symbol that was on the signs along the bridge. She throws it on the bed, finding a local phone book beneath it, much more important.

She starts rifling through pages. Hope County is mostly a trailer park town, for people who can’t afford to build or buy an actual home and land. There is an apartment complex in Falls End, but the rent is high for pretty small apartments. The prices probably jacked since housing is so limited. She’d rather get a whole trailer to herself for cheaper and just travel further for work.

Hours pass by her making phone calls, seeing about housing and stuffing food in her face when she’s not talking. The Silver Lake Trailer Park that’s nearest the station has no vacancy or trailers available for rent, but they refer her to the Moonflower Trailer Park. It’s some distance, but with how fast she rides her bike, it’s doable. It’s the only place with vacancy, she’ll drop by with a down payment and check out the trailer tomorrow before she heads back to Louisiana to get her stuff and everything tidied up there. The world outside the hotel window has gone dark, moon hanging bright in the sky.

That settled she finishes off her food and collapses back on the bed. She’s still smiling, grinning ear to ear.

“Wooooooo!” She yells out and pumps her fist up at the ceiling, fuck yeah, she’s got this.

She’ll grab one of those spring water showers and then pass out for the night. She grabs her phone and sets it up to play music in the bathroom while she washes up. Her clothes hit the floor, air conditioner chilling her skin as she waits for the water to heat up. It has a soft floral scent and is tinted slightly green, spring water.

She steps in under the hot spray of water, letting it wash away the sweat and dirt of the day. Her muscles relax under the water and steam, as she scrubs the hotel soap into her skin. She blinks her eyes open once she’s done washing her hair, finding her vision clouding, her body feeling heavier and heavier. Must be the exhaustion of the day. Dahlia quickly finishes washing, the last thing she needs is to fall asleep in the shower again.

Her steps are shaky, her body swaying as the world swims around her. Colors distort and shift in prisms before her eyes. It’s like the night before, but times a million. Her movements sluggish as she dries herself and quickly pulls on her sleep clothes. She was feeling ill earlier, maybe it’s catching up to her? But it doesn’t feel the same. Not panicky and nervous. One of her favorite songs starts to play through her phone, though its eerie tones aren’t as welcomed in this moment.

She grips the sink for leverage, steadying herself as she looks into the mirror

All our times have come.

Her dark brown eyes aren’t dark brown, not quite. She tugs at her eyelids, the iris growing milkier and lighter than she’s ever seen it. What the hell is this? A soft melodic laugh echoes through the room, like it’s near.

Here but now they're gone.

She stumbles out of the bathroom, finding her empty bedroom. Nothing unusual.

Seasons don't fear the reaper.

The laugh rings out again, a flash of white passing by her open door. When did it open? She didn’t leave it open.

Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain...

She’s walking out her door before she can give it another thought, looking back and forth across the hall, who’s there?

We can be like they are

Her feet pad down the hallway, steps suddenly sure and confident as she tries to follow the voice. Like her body is being drawn, pulled, following sheer instinct. She needs to find them.

Come on baby... don't fear the reaper

A flash of white, the swish of lace fabric, that laugh again vanishing into one of the rooms. Dahlia is there, trying to wrench open the door. Then it rings out from behind her.

Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper

A woman stands at the end of a long hallway, the one from the tight before. Long sandy hair and beautiful green eyes. A blue butterfly perches itself on her fingers, the woman looking at it in awe. Dahlia takes slow steps forward, she wants to speak, ask who she is and what she’s doing here. But her tongue is heavy, her throat tight, vocal cords numb, not a sound escaping.

Baby I'm your man...

Green eyes flicker from the butterfly to Dahlia, a soft almost mischievous smile tugging at the woman’s lips. She laughs again as Dahlia nears her, then she runs, childish and giggling she runs towards one of the rooms. Dahlia is chasing her even after she vanishes from sight, legs moving without her permission, instinct driving her to reach this woman. She doesn’t know why, but she needs to reach her, touch her. Be closer.

La la la la la

The laughter turns into soft humming, singing echoing through the halls. Somehow the sound is everywhere, all consuming and right in her ear, but also distant the source too far away for her to find. She walks down the halls, taking turns and climbing up stairs, following her instinct that pulls her in each direction she goes.

Valentine is done

Flashes of white fabric, doors closing and shutting. It’s a game of tag that she can’t seem to win, the small hotel has somehow become a labyrinth as she tries to find the humming woman. Short hallways and few rooms have been traded for never ending paths with room lining them.

Here but now they're gone

Sometimes spacious and open, other times claustrophobic, choking, walls scraping the skin of her arms where she has to fear she might become stuck. More halls and more floors than she’s ever seen, winding paths that make her dizzy. But she can’t stop searching for that woman.

Romeo and Juliet

One more turn, the woman is at the end of a hallway. Standing before a door, softly singing to what is now two butterflies balanced on her fingers. Dahlia starts to walk down the hallway, tight, claustrophobic. She keeps her hands on the walls as if it will give her more space, as if she could force the walls to open wider for her.

Are together in eternity...Romeo and Juliet

Her heartbeat races as she walks closer and closer, the walls threatening to crush her between them. She can hardly breathe, every breath ragged and tight. Dying. She feels like she’s dying, air being stolen from her lungs and heart pounding lie it’s trying to escape her chest. It worsens with every step she takes near the woman.

40,000 men and women everyday... Like Romeo and Juliet

Some part of her brain, the small part that doesn’t have a thick haze of fog clinging to it, tells her to run the other way. That with this feeling only growing with every step towards the siren, with her heart pounding harsher, breathing getting raspier, she’ll die if she keeps going. That this truly is a siren luring her to death, but she can’t listen to that part of her. Her body won’t. She needs to reach her.

40,000 men and women everyday... Redefine happiness

She’s getting closer and closer; the woman isn’t running this time. Just calming singly, like she doesn’t even notice Dahlia. She tries to reach out for the woman, her fingers nearly brushing the woman’s dress sleeve.

Another 40,000 coming everyday... We can be like they are

Then the woman walks through the door, Dahlia could curse and cry if her vocal cords would only work. Once again, the woman evading her, being just out of reach. But this hall has no doors along its sides, no turns or twists. The only two options are going back or going through the door after her. It’s not even a choice.

Come on baby... don't fear the reaper

She wrenches the door open and she’s in another world. No more wood walls and floors, her bare feet touching lush grass that tickles her skin. White petals float in the air and scatter across the ground. Trees curl around the area and when she looks out at the horizon, she sees that large statue of that man looming over the area.

Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper

When she looks straight ahead at the middle of the field is the woman, she twirls, short white dress fanning out around her hips. She stops, turning to face Dahlia, she smiles softly. Delicate and angel like, she stretches her hand out. An offer, a beckoning.

We'll be able to fly... don't fear the reaper

The feeling of impending death lifts the very moment she sees the woman. Her heartbeat and her breathing easing, relief and contentment filling her body. She’s smiling and she doesn’t know why she feels alive. Free, like she can do anything. She’s walking closer and closer to the woman, each step making her happier and happier. Her body lighter and lighter. Calm and peace, she’s never known. She’s right where she belongs, she doesn’t need to be anywhere else.

Dahlia reaches out, finally about to touch her, a touch of their hands is so simple, so minor. But it feels like the only thing she wants. All she’s ever want, like every moment in her entire life has been building up to this, being here with her, whoever she is.

Before skin can meet skin, the siren fades to mist.

No, no, no!

She grasps desperately at the air where the woman once was, her heart racing, her lungs stinging like the airs been knocked out of them. The world is crumbling, falling down, everything going out beneath her feet. It’s falling apart and she can’t stop it, she can’t fix it.

Dahlia takes a heavy gasp, desperately sucking in a heavy breath and she blinks, the world around her has completely shifted. Her vision isn’t blurred, no more prisms of color before her eyes.

Cold, goosebumps raising up on her skin, shorts and tee doing nothing to save her from the Montana breeze. She’s outside the hotel, in the world she knows. That damn statue looming still in the distance ahead of her.

Dull.

The landscaped she was so mesmerized by this day, seems so dull now. She feels dull, after so many emotions, so much intensity both in fear and happiness…she feels so numb. Dahlia rubs her fingers together, her craving for the feeling of another’s hand in her own…there’s an ache. She was so close, but now she’s been plunged back into reality.

She stands out in the field outside the hotel, staring at that cement statue, it still seems to call her. Her heart telling her to go towards that looming structure, but her head tells her to go back inside the hotel.

So, she doesn’t move.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, just staring.

“Miss Hale!” A voice pulls her further back into reality, the hotel receptionist walking out towards her with a large blanket.

Dahlia blinks a few times, she no longer feels numb, the very real emotion of shame flooding in. She’s standing out in public, in her pajamas. Did she just wander out of her hotel room in her sleep clothes? She must look ridiculous.

“Hey…”

“Is everything alright? You just walked out of your hotel, looked like you were sleepwalking.”

“Uh…yeah, I guess.”

That makes sense, she must have went to bed and had a weird dream…yeah.

“Here,” the woman wraps the large blanket around Dahlia, “you must be freezing.”

“Thanks, sorry, I, just, weird dream.” She murmurs as they walk back to the hotel, Dahlia giving one last glance at the hotel.

“Dreams are nice, aren’t they? Sometimes you just wanna stay there forever.”

#far cry 5 #fc5 #joseph seed #john seed #faith seed #jacob seed #deputy oc #This Is Love #Dahlia Hale

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thoughtsoftheantagonist · 4 years

Text

A Song For You

A/N:I know its been a long while but im back. After losing my mother in march then my brother in December of last year it took alot out of me and i had to find a new way to live without them. Thank you all for sticking with me and i hope you enjoy. alot of other things to come as well.

To catch up my A Song For You Masterlist is right HERE

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Juan's Pov

There are many things he has learned in his life, most recently he has learned how to be a man, and how to love a woman like his wife. Strong and wild as a hurricane he remembers one of the best pieces of advice he had gotten the day of his wedding. As his best man Chibs had pulled him aside and gotten him to calm the fuck down, apparently he had been annoying the fuck out of the guys all day with his squirrely behavior and Chibs gave him a blunt and a beer. Once his nerves had released him he stood with his brother and was heading back to the set up area when Chibs stopped him. "Let me tell ya one thing to always remember when it comes to a woman like Joy." He nods and gives Chibs his full attention "Love her but keep her wild. She is a woman and we all want to protect our women but at the end of the day she is a force of nature that granted you the privilege of standing close enough to be in awe of her and live."

When Chibs walked away he stared out across the reservation where he stood, Chibs was right, he wasn't worried about how any of this went. He was more worried about his wife coming to her senses and taking off in the other direction then he was standing but that was his old doubts about himself. But like Chibs said, Joy was a force of nature, and she chose him to pour her love, life and energy within. Why the fuck was he looking that gift horse in the mouth? He grins as he stares at his wife as she throws her leg over her Dyna in their driveway, she doesn't see him move to lean on his bike and looks back at him over the top of her ray bans. "You ok handsome?" He shakes off his nostalgia and walks over to stand at her side, his hands automatic coming up to braid one side of her mane of wild curls while she does the other. "I'm fine babe. Just a lot of thinking. Must be getting old."

He chuckles when his father in law slaps a hand down on his shoulder as he passes him, having spent the night in the guest room "Shut the fuck up you toddler." He puts the hair tie around the bottom of his wife's pig tail braid and kisses her temple as she snickers. Pinching her thigh in retaliation and jumping back as she swipes at him, climbing into his bike he shoots her a wide grin before putting his helmet and glasses on, peeling out of the driveway with her on his tail. Catch me if you can baby.

Joy POV

She heads up the stairs to the second floor with Bobby on her heel. Once again asking the age old club question…..what the fuck are you wearing kid. She speaks over her shoulder to the older man " I couldn't help it that my good taste offends your eyes. But i refused to sacrifice that to the all black of the club colors." Apparently that had tickled bobby as they marched up the stairs to grab their hiding leader. Jax had called them all here and wasn't even down stairs. But she knew where he would be. She knocks on the door and peeks inside with a grin. " everyone is here brother." He nods and stands, she sees him pocket his small journal, walking by her he grabs the side of her head and places a kiss on the top of her head. " Hmmmmm apples. Not bad." She snorts and shoves him, then he gives her a loaded look as his blue eyes scan her face. "You ok? Sleep alright." She knew he meant the nightmares, she sighs with a nod "Yeah Juan had me smoke two blunts myself and I was knocked the fuck out." He chuckles and looks between her and Bobby "Let's get the day locked down. Gonna be a huge one. Bobby anything from Galeen?" She and Jax move to leave but Bobby's voice stops them " Meeting is at two. Something we gotta Handel first." She arches a brow "What's up?" He doesn't look at her, speaking only to Jax "Bringing Clay to the table." She feels her hand twitch at the look on Jax's face. "Excuse me?" Bobby continues "He is gonna admit what he did with the nomads. Too Joy and Tara, all of it and we vote." She is stunned, he went behind Jax's back. Knowing what it could mean he went to Clay anyway. She clenches her fists, hissing through her teeth "Bobby what are you doing?" He glances at her as he moves to go down the stairs "My job kid."

She and Jax share a loaded look, this wasn't fucking good. They practically trip over each other as they head down stairs. She doesn't get time to tell her father or Juan what is going on before they are seated, but the way her husband is gripping her thigh, and the way her dad is trying to get her to look at him and not Clay at the end of the table leads her to believe they have an idea something isn't right. She can't take her eyes off of him as he speaks "I was lying in a hospital bed, thinking about all the shit I lost. I wasn't ready to let it go. I reached out to Frankie Diamonds. He was the one that suggested the home invasions. We figured we could rattle some of the folks close to the club, make it look like the MC was gonna hurt Charming and that Jax couldn't protect his own. Frankie pulled in Gogo and Greg. I promised to split my percentages when I got the gavel back." She grind her teeth, her hand clenching hard into fists at her side she knew her nails were drawing blood as Bobby talked, his eyes on the table " And attacking Unser at your house took the focus from you?" Clay nods, she snarls, her now bloody palms slamming down onto the wood of the table, making everyone jump as she stands, her voice like a sonic boom off the black walls. "And what about me Clay? Diamonds shot me point blank in the fucking stomach. If that had been Rita, her and the life of her unborn baby would be on your fucking head that I would gladly rip off your fucking shoulders given the smallest chance! Juan get the fuck off me!" She struggles as her husband yanks her down onto his lap, his arms locking around hers to keep her from struggling to much as Clay speaks directly to her "I didn't know you were buddy buddy with Eli's old lady, when they picked up the East Dub crew, I thought that was a good way to put the attacks on to Pope. And now with Jax working with him, I figured I could use it to help sway the club my way. I never wanted anybody to get hurt." She knows the sound of her half manic cackle bouncing off the walls isn't helping the situation. But she just can't believe the horse shit coming out of his mouth, Juan grabs her bloody hands in one of his and slaps his hand over her mouth she freezes through as Tig speaks for the first time since Clay started speaking " But they did. You hurt a lot of people." Seeing the pain in Tigs eyes as he looks over at her she lets the fight drain from her body, feeling the change Juan lets go of her mouth and just holds her in his lap. His grip is tight but comforting as Clay replies.

"You know, I-I don't expect anyone to believe this, and I ain't saying it wasn't 'cause of my pride and my greed, 'cause it was, but the main reason I was trying to push out Jax was because I didn't think he was ready to lead. This cartel shit, the pressure with the Irish, I didn't think he could handle it. I was wrong. He's proving to be a better leader than I ever was. I'll be in the garage." She watches him walk out, her eyes narrowed as the door closes. Moving from her husband's lap she yanks a black bandanna from her bag by her feet. Wiping at the bloody crescent shaped marks on her hands she listens to Jax "We heard his story. Vote has to be unanimous. Does anyone else have anything they'd like to say? All in favor of Clay losing his patch?" The vote is a solid yes across the board. She looks up as Jax says his next words "As far as the mayhem goes let's hear pros and cons." She is shaking as her eyes scan the table, her eyes locking on Chibs as she speaks " He's a traitor. I ain't buying this humble, "for the good of the club" bullshit. He's done." She nods, tears welling up in her eyes and spilling over as she grabs her husband's hand on her thigh. "I want to see the life drain from his eyes Jax. I can't fucking sleep at night without doping myself up because of the shit he set in motion almost killed me. If I don't I wake up screaming for my dad and husband because I'm scared they are next. Hell my god damned husband wakes up in cold sweats and shakes me awake just to make sure I'm not dead. I want him dead so this butterfly affect he started can fucking die with him." She rests her head on Juan's shoulder, his lips pressed against her forehead as she tries to slow her breathing.

Jax stares at her for a moment and nods "All in favor of Clay Morrow meeting Mr. Mayhem." Six yea, she looks to Bobby and her whole body goes numb as he speaks "No." She stares at him for a moment as Jax's bangs the gavel, barely hearing Chibs as he goes to get Clay. She stands. Bobby turns to her, his mouth open to speak but her hand claps against his cheek, some blood she had missed on her hand now on his reddened cheek.. She shoves him out of the way. Not realizing Jax was right behind her along with her husband, she almost runs into Clay as him and Chibs come back. She feels more then sees Jax move past her and fly into Clay, watching the two men grapple she feels her blood pump, standing back she doesn't move to help Chibs as he tries to yank Jax off Clay, the dull thud of Jax fist against the side of clays face gives her a sick kind of satisfaction. But it's cut short, she curls her lip as Chibs and Tig successfully yank Jax away from Clay. She walks over to Clay as the others are preoccupied with Jax, standing over the man she sees blood dripping from his temple and arches a brow "Looks like it hurts." Before he can speak the heel of her boot comes down and the sound of his nose breaking makes her smirk before she is yanked up off her feet by her father. " Enough Mija." She nods, she got her lick in, and the way the bastard was clutching his face made her anger levels drop somewhat. She feels Jax's hand on her arm, she lets him yank her away from the others and back into the clubhouse, looking back she gives her husband a look as he tries to follow. Jax needed her, only her it seems. He releases her as he shoves the doors to church back open, he all but collapses into his chair, she watches him with narrowed eyes as she closes the double doors behind her gently. The sound of her docs on the floor almost painfully loud as she makes her way to her seat.

Sitting she stares at Jax as he twirls a gold lighter between his fingers. She doesn't speak, and neither does he for the longest, but as she feels the silence about to swallow her and him whole the door opens. But as the person enters she wishes they would have stayed out if she was honest. She feels her whole body tense as Jax's chest starts to rise and fall rapidly, his body tense as his voice sends an uncomfortable chill down her spine. "You made a deal with him behind my back." She almost jumps as Bobby tosses Clay's jacket onto the table, she watches him with a heated glare. He refuses to look her way, keeping his eyes on Jax "We couldn't prove shit. We both know that. And there's no way that you could let Clay sit at this table. Me either. The shit he's done. He needed to go away, and if I didn't make this deal, you would've killed him as soon as we were finished with Gaalan." She slams her hands down, making their gaze jump to her "Wrong Bobby. You seem to think you're the only one who is looking out for Jax. I would do it because I want to watch his insides bake on the concrete outside." Bobby sighs " But kid Do that once, next time just becomes a little easier, and before you know it, this thing that we have is pointless. I stopped jax from becoming the guy that you both wanted to kill. All your doing is being his god damned dog on a leash like Tig was for Clay." She almost leaps over the table to get at Bobby's throat, no one talked about Tig infront of her…..no one. But Jax's hand on her tattooed arm stops her. "You think this vote protects Clay?" She moves her arm out from under Jax's hand. Bobby looks between her and Jax, and for the first time she really looks at him. He looks tired, worn down and her anger slowly drains from her body. "You want him dead. Seems like the only choice today. But I know you, Jax. The right thing settles in."

She jerks as Jax's voice echos off the wall. Making her grind her teeth "And how is letting him walk the "right thing"?" Bobby holds Jax's gaze "I know you see it as betrayal." She feels her nose wrinkle and her eyes sting as he looks at her across the table "i know you both do. And I took that risk because I love you, both of you. And this club needs you two. We're broken." She clenches her eyes shut, trying to stop the tears, but Jax's next words rip a gut wrenching sob from her lips, " I've had a hard time feeling any love or brotherhood since Opie died." She slaps a hand over her mouth, her other hand resting on her stomach as she tries to keep it together. "You're just lost your way a bit, brother." She angrily swipes at her eyes, not caring if she looks a mess now, she sees Jax's eyes, bright and wet as he locks eyes with her and shakes his head "No, I found it, finally." She sniffs as he turns to Bobby "Opie was right. The gavel corrupts. You can't sit in this chair without being a savage." She feels like her world is crumbling as Bobby stares a Jax, tears in his eyes as he sighs "I know." She reaches across the table, her hand gripping Jax limp one as he sniffs. "You don't know shit." His grip slowly tightens on hers as he continues, the tears falling from his eyes make her heart break for him. "You counsel from fear. You want me moving in comfortable, cozy circles, and I can't do that." By the time he turns away from Bobby and releases her hand his grip was painfully tight on hers, turning the skin of her hand ashen gray from lack of blood flow. She turns her damp eyes to Bobby, staring at him hard for a moment she clears her throat, still flinching slightly at how raw her throat feels. "You should go."

She watches Bobby as he leaves, turning her eyes to Jax once the door clicks shut. His cheeks are wet and his eyes red. But he has no more tears now, she reaches into her bag, grabbing the pack of make up wipes she yanks one from the pack and scrubs at her face. Seeing Jax watching her with an odd look she glares and tosses it at his face, making him jerk a little and toss it off his chest where it fell. She couldn't help but chuckle, locking eyes with him again and she fell silent, her hand coming down to rest over his for a moment. "I'm with you brother." He nods, moving his hand out from under hers he pats it and turns to the door as it pushes open. Seeing her favorite Scott's men she gives him a weak grin, he nods to her and leans his hand on the chair in front of him. "Jackie boy. Sorry to bother you but August just called, and Pope wants a Meeting at Charming Heights." Jax turns to face Chibs. "When?" The Scott sighs "Now." He nods and turns to her "I need you to stay, chibs is going to come with me. I want you to get the guys ready for the deal later with Lin. He is closer to you than me so I want you at my side for this. Not Bobby." She nods, getting to her feet she leans down pressing a kiss to the top of his blonde head she pat Chibs on the arm as she passes. She needed to see her husband.

He wasn't far, she found him on the swing set. She leans against the gate as he stares off to the side, a blunt hanging from his lips, his hand grip the chains on either side of his head as he swings slightly, the sun gleaming off the multiple rings on his fingers, she glances at his eyes, seeing them already low lidded so she knew it wasn't his first one. He doesn't even notice when she takes the seat beside him, but when her fingers glide along his forearm to his hand he grips it tightly, letting them fall between them to swing. Turning to her he gives her a small grin. His dark brown eyes scan her from head to toe and she felt it like a warm caress. He brings her hand in his up to his lips, using his other hand he hands her the blunt while he kisses the back of her hand. " You've been crying." She nods, taking a deep pull she holds it, holding it back out to him he shakes his head, keeping her hand by his lips he presses kisses to her wrist and fingers. Making her smile. Her sweet husband, trying to heal her pain with good weed and kisses. What a man. She giggles and he smirks, his teeth biting down on her thumb playfully. Making her rip her hand back with false and over dramatic out rage, forgetting she was on a swing she shrieks as she falls back into the wood chip ground with a grunt, her calves resting where her ass used to be in the swing "Jesus Joy!" Her husband scrambles to get to her, kneeling on the ground next to her he lifts her head onto his lap. He calms when he realizes her body is shaking from laughter, he grins and picks wood chips from her hair as he tries to not wheeze as she starts to snort she was laughing so hard.

"I sometimes forget how much of a klutz you are until you do shit like this." Her giggles intensify as her free hand comes up to smack at his shoulder. The other one bringing the blunt she somehow managed to not drop to her lips with a smug grin. "Didn't drop the blunt though that's talent " his eyes locked with hers for a moment and he gave her a leering grin. "No what you do with your tongue that's talent." She stares at him gobsmacked before she is on him, forgetting about the blunt she drops it and starts smacking at her husband, cursing in rapid fire Spanish. And that's how her father found them when it was time to go. Never a dull moment for the Ortiz/Lowman bunch.

Henry Lin's Warehouse (Joys pov)

As her bike pulls to a hard stop in the Lin warehouse she grins, she remembered so many deals here. She also remembered unloading a good amount of the legal shit here as well. Everything she ever did before the club was to be ready for redwood. Every odd job, everybody she dropped had been to be here, standing full circle with Henry across from her this time. She accepts his hug and waves to the others behind me, receiving nods and grins in return. She steps to the side as Jax beings Romeo over "Henry Lin, Romeo Parada and his associate, Luis Torres." She take her place against the far dock door, pulling a pack of cigs from her her back pocket she watches Henry work, letting out a whistle of appreciation at the hardware his men were uncovering not being able to stop herself for speaking along with Henry "Russian Kornet with articulating tripod. Thermal sight, 9M133 missiles." Everyone turns to her, she shrugged, her guys grin and turn back to the deal. She stares off to the side, her mind wandering, keeping her focus somewhat on what was going down, until she hears two words that made her want to throw shit. " Three months." She tilts her head back, tossing her cig out the open dock door. She didn't even have to look at Romeo to know that was not what he wanted to hear.

She sighs, her eyes watching Romeo's back from behind her shades as he speaks lowly to Torres for a moment before turning to Henry "Ten Kornets. Hundred missiles. Two dozen Brownings, two dozen KS-Vs with quick-release silencers." Henry nods, everyone turning to watch Torres as he speaks, a black duffle in his hand "Once you figured out the Hamas express, we'll want drops every two weeks. Mayans MC will handle the transport. 250 down payment. Just let us know the balance." Henry shakes bother their hands " Absolutely. Looking forward to doing business with you." Romeo nods "You should. We're gonna make you rich." She is about to get on her bike as Romeo and Torres head towards Jax, Bobby and herself but Jax's hand grabs the back of her cut, keeping her in place. Asshole. Romeo locks eyes with herself for a moment then Jax "Galindo's getting pushed on two fronts by Lobo Sonora. We just lost Tubutama; we can't wait three months for them Kornets. We're gonna need another shipment of RPGs from the Irish before we kill that tie." She sighs, her hands on her hips, she stares past the guys, plans forming in her mind, possible outcomes of how this could work. That Irish fuck head will not be happy to hear about Clay being out, and when he does he might not give them what they need. She is shaken from her thoughts when Romeo's voice shakes her "Is that a problem? " She is about to yell yes but Jax beats her "Shouldn't be. I'll ask Gaalan at the pickup." Romeo shakes his head, a hand coming down on Jax's shoulder, making her hand twitch for her glock "Don't ask him. Tell him."

As the two men walk out and away she drops her mask of indifference and curses, her head falling back as Jax combs his hands through his already slicked back hair, his eyes wide and moving around rabidly as he thinks almost as if he was seeing his own thought process before his eyes. Her husband comes to stand next to her, his hand going up the back of her shirt to rest on her lower back. His warmth was a slight comfort. Jax finally nods and turns to the rest of the group. "All of us need to head back to the shop. I want Chibs and Bobby to get this shit rolling. Joy, can you go check on Tara for me let her know what's going down." She nods, turning to her husband as the guys head for their bikes, wrapping her arms around her husband's narrow waist she sighs, her cheek resting on the warm leather of his vest. His chin rests on her head. "You ok baby girl?" She nods, leaning more into him as one of his hands brushes down the back of her head in soft swipes, over and over again. "I'm ok. Just thinking about it all. Once I get it all cleared in my head I'll give you a peek inside. Ok?" She feels his chin brush her head as he nods. His lips pressing to the top of her head before he releases her reluctantly. She gives him a half hearted wave and sighs as he and the other drive off, turning to Henry as she sees them heading out as well. She nods her head and moves towards her bike, time to check on Tara.

The Hospital

She is laid back in Taras office, her body draped across the beige couch as she scrolls through her phone waiting for Taras break. When the woman in question sees her she smiles. "Joy. I see your making yourself at home." She smirks at her phone screen. "I have the amazing power of not giving a fuck where I am. I'm always comfort." Tara chuckles and walks over, gently pushing the other woman's legs from the seat so she could sit next to her, joy shoves her phone into the inner pocket of her cut and grins at Tara "So Jax got the deal locked down with henry and the cartel." Tara nods but she see the slight pinch in joys face and sighs "I hear an invisible but in there." Leaning back into the couch she sighs, closing her eyes she blurts out everything, just ripping it off like a band-aid. "But the guns won't be here for a while so now Jax has to meet with the kings and get them to drop a load of guns out their tight freckled fists one more time. And with clay not here that means Galaan will bitch so this might not go well."

When she doesn't hear a groan or even a sigh she peeks one eye open seeing Tara looking at her blankly she opens them both. "Don't look at me like that. The past few days haven't been exactly conductive mentally for either of us so forgive me if i expected a violent reaction….ass." Tara snorts and looks off to the side. "Sorry to disappoint you with not having another mental break down. My body just doesn't have it in it right now." She snickers and nods, but stops when Tara gets a nervous look on her face. "I know that look. Talk. What's wrong." She is surprised when the normally stand offish woman grabs the hand closest to her and holds it tightly. Joy is more worried than ever, her other hand resting on top of the on gripping hers. "I have still been working on the papers for the other hospital. And through all this and talking to the club lawyer today something occurred to me. If something were to happen to me or….to jax."

The hitch in Taras voice makes her pat her hand, as much and no one ever wanted to think about their family or partner dying that sadly never helped. All it did was make you more lost when it happened. "If that happened i don't know who would have Able and Tommy and Joy that scares me. I have no other blood family and I won't let Gemma raise them i won't. And with blood Wendy could possibly take Able and I don't want that either Joy. " She nods. No Gemma might have the deepest love to give like any other mother but hers had long been tainted by something inherently Gemma….something wrong. And wendy would have to take Able from her cold dead arms. When Tara turns her face to joy she sees tears in the woman's eyes and she yanks her hands from taras, her fingers wiping at the woman's pale cheeks, not understanding how to help. Until Tara's next words make everything click into place. "So talking with the lawyer i have named you and Juan as the people who will be their guardians." She feels the hot tears as they glide down her cheeks. Her hands move from Taras face to her own as she swipes at her cheeks roughly. Looking over she sees Tara watching her closely and she realized Tara actually thought she wouldnt want them. She sniffles and shakes her head. "I already love them like they were mine without overstepping. I would open my house and heart to those boys and Juan would too Tara. They would need or want for nothing because both of us would do anything to keep them happy. So if this gives you peace, do it. I already know Juan would be overjoyed, shocked but overjoyed." The woman's smile is bright and right there She sees the woman Jax sees all the time. As stern and logical as Tara was she was warm and beautiful when happy. Leaning over joy kisses her cheek with a nod. "Yeah. I have not one objection to that. But just know. Me and Juan might never leave here hun. Your boys would grow up here. Are you ok with that honestly?"

Tara stands, turning she leans back against her desks and sighs. "I know that. And if i'm honest it was one of the reasons i hesitated, and if i'm honest the only reason. But then i remembered how you grew up. Knowing about this life, it was never hidden like a secret or something shameful. And despite what you say about yourself your not a monster. Your good to my boys and everyone in that club who deserves it. And you dont shield able from it you let him know this isn't for him right now and send him on his way like the morning after Otto. So no.....i wouldn't mind them growing up here with the right mother and father besides Jax and myself." She stares at her rings as she twirled them around her fingers. She didn't realize the others knew she struggled with her nature. Sure Juan and maybe her father but to know on some level it was plain as the nose on her face made her want to hide away. Like a piece of her armour had been knocked off in battle. She speaks to Tara, her eyes still on her rings. "I struggle everyday with what i do for this club and to survive. Im not exactly martha fucking stewert. I don't know shit about kitchen knives but i know what blade to use to flay a man…..but i swear i would always love those boys and do right by them. Not manipulate but always have my hand out for them to grip on for balance. And thank you….it means alot to me." Tara is about to continue when her burner goes off, pulling it from her cut she sees Jax's name. Opening it she speaks "Im coming." Into the phone before hanging up and standing. Walking over to Tara she presses another kiss to her cheek." I love you Tara." She doesn't give the woman time to answer as she leaves, she had to slam down the gates on her emotions. The day isn't over yet.

The Barn

She gets to the barn just as the truck pulls up, she almost falls off the bike as shs skids to a stop in front of Jax and the other. Her prez was obviously worried she wouldn't make it, He practically yanks her off the bike as he hugs her. "Cutting it close sis." She pats his side as she hooks her sunglasses in the collar of her shirt. "I know. Got caught up talking to Tara." They make their way inside, she winks at her husband as he passes behind her. Smirking when his hand pats his ass as he does. She moved to follow him but Jax grips the back of her cut, keeping her on his left with bobby on his right. She sighs. She should have just kept the god damn patch at this point. "Where's Clay?" She and Jax both turn a sharp eye to Bobby. Clay would fucking be here and useful for once of bobby hadnt done what he did this morning. Bobby tosses the duffle of money on the ground between themselves and Gaalan. "He turned in his patch.It's been coming for a while."

Gaalan arches a salt pepper brow, his eyes bouncing between her and Jax. "He's out of the club?" She sees Jax sigh before finally speaking, her hand coming to rest on his back out of sight from the group before them. But very visible to their club behind them. "Look, Gaalan. I know you blame me for Kellan's death. And you're right, events in Belfast spun out of control.I just want to say, I liked the priest. He loved my dad. He sacrificed himself for my son-- I know that." She nods. She was proud of how level jax sounded. She tilts her head, a teasing lilt to her voice as she speaks makes Gaalan zero in on her. "And after you and our dear prezs little game of grab ass and your rambo impersonation i was personally hoping it might ease some of this tension." The man chuckles, she sighs. Her hand falls from Jax's back and she speaks plainly to Gaalan.

"Look Gaalan dispite what you might think about me i fucking hate the cartel. Mexican or not they are fucking up our day to day we all hate them.Romeo wants this shipment, one more. We give him that and we're done. No more them and everyone in our shit. Just The MC and the IRA can go back to business as usual. Sound?"

She wasn't surprised at his look of surprise at the use of irish slang. Her mom might not have raised her but she did her own research about the other half of her heritage. And as much as she might dislike Gaalan as well, a part of her felt kindred to him, his and chibs heavy broug as different as they might be, made her want to watch the old videos of her mother when her father would pick at her about her strong accent. She is shaken from her melancholy as the older man nods "Aye. Tis sound lass. For a little halfling your not all bad are ye." She opens her mouth to curse him but the doors on either side of the bar open. Both glocks are aimed on either side of her before they fully open and she starts cursing internally as Jax speaks to Romeo, his hands gently pushing her arms down. She doesn't put her guns back though. "What is this?" Romeo sighs "Talked to Damon Pope. Heard all about Clay. Thought we should come by and make sure the deal was moving forward. “I told you I would handle it." Jax’s tone was very obviously pissed but neither irish or catel cared as they glared at each other.

Luis eyes Gaalan with a curl of his lip "We know how stubborn the Irish can be." Gaalan turns to look at the other man with a wide wicked grib "And we all know how ignorant you muppets can be." Romeo practically growls as he points to the gun crates "Put the guns in the truck." Gaalans voice echoes off the wooden walls "Don't touch the bloody guns." She grunts as she elbows jax back behind her towards her father and husband. Knowing if shit got wild they would yank him behind cover. Her voice is practically a hiss as she speaks pointedly to luis and romeo “We all want the same thing here! You two pendejos aren't helping for shit. We had this under control until you put your size twelves in it pulling this macho man shit." Having not listened to shit she said Romeo instructs the man closest to Luis to grab a crate. She sees the gun in Gaalans hand just as he fires it. She doesn't think, turning to Jax she rams into his chest. Knocking them both back into her father and Juan. Her father yanks Jax down next to him. She presses tight into her husband's side as bullets fly over his head. She sees her father and Phil book it outside to safety. She sees a blur running towards bobby and jax and she roars "Bobby get down." The man hits the floor as she lays out one of Galindos men. All fire stops and she looks over to see Gaalan at gunpoint. She shoves her guns back into their holsters and watches with narrowed eyes as Romeo snatches up the duffle of money. Yelling for the man to put the crates in the truck, he grins at her and Jax who was radiating pissed off like a furnace. "This buy is on the MC. For killing my guys, and the inconvenience of our wait. We'll call it even." Jax yanks her back as she lunges for Romeo. He had no idea what he had set in motion, the kings won't let this slide.

As luis yells for Gaalan to get his pasty white out of there Gaalan passes her and Jax. Giving Jax a loaded look he stops "This is on you, boy." Jax just nods, as prez it was his mess. Didn't stop her from moving to shoulder herself between him and Gaalan. He wasn't an ally anymore. He turns his jade eyes to her, his gaze grows harder. It wasn't in her favor that she looked so much like the men currently holding him at gunpoint "Sons are gonna feel this on both continents Lass. Know that." She nods as he leaves, her body slightly shaking from the adrenaline drop as she and Jax turn, both of them coming face to face with a wary looking bobby. She cant help her angry at him, a part of her doesn't want to put it all on him. But if clay had been here. If the meeting had ended moments before the cartel showed. Maybe things would have been different. But they weren't. Like Jax she shoulders her way past bobby outside. The guys following behind closely. She and Jax glare down the men loading the truck for the next ten minutes, a cig hanging limp between her lips as she locks eyes with Romeo. Dead eyes. She inhales deeply for the last time and tosses it to the side. Turning as Jax marches back behind them to the group of men she turns to watch as he paces for a moment. Walking closer she leans against the precut logs chibs was sitting on as he too watches jax. When he sees everyone is close,he starts pushing out orders, his eyes bouncing between her and chibs. "Lock down the shop and alert families." She and chibs nod. He would take care of teller morrow, all she had to do was send a text to one person and the phone tree would set on fire. She had spent months making plans for anything. Deaths to club threats but this was the most ambitious, she made sure everyone involved in the club only had two people on speed dial. The person next on the list and her. Once each call was made she would get a text to confirm until the last person on the list confirmed the texts kept going. Opening her phone she sends a message to Lyla a simple phrase 'Start the fire.' She puts her phone away as jax turns to Tig his voice raising the more frustrated he gets "Get Tacoma down here." Tig walks off without a word and Jax steps closer to chibs and herself. "Gaalan is gonna try to hurt us." He was right. Gaalan didn't seem the kind of man to make idle threats. Jaxs puts his hand on chibs shoulder "I need you find Gemma, you have her call me. Ok everyone roll out and get packed. Be in by lock down or be locked out. She quickly heads for her bike her husband and father hot on her heels all of them stop as Jax calls Juice back. "Juicy, I need you for something. Sonshine go get his shit packed, we will all meet at the club house." She hesitates for a moment as her dad heads off with a nod. She lets her husband pull her tight to his chest as he kisses her forehead. "Go baby. You know what to pack. Get sonny ready and i'll be there before you have time to miss me." she snort, pressing a kiss to his shirt covered chest. "Too late." She pulls away from him and locks eyes with Jax. "Keep my husband safe." He grins "always darlin." She rolls her eyes and walks off as the man laughs. These guys wouldn't know safe of it gave them head.

Clays house (Juan pov)

He and Tig had decided to give Clay, Miles and Rat and escort back to the shop. Well Tig wanted to do it and Juan didn't want him alone. As they make it to the cabin Tig knocks, he hangs back his shade covered eyes watching their surroundings. The irish were sneaky bastards. Once the door is open he and Tig quickly file in and lock the door. Walking over to rat and miles he sighs "Fuck the rest of his shit. Galindo fucked up the Irish deal and no Son is safe anywhere. Get his clothes and ill pack his guns, i know what he uses. Get moving we don't have much time until lock down." He watched the guys split up and he looked around as Tig and Clay talked about what happened. Seeing Clay's gun bag he opens it up and freezes. He sees the reaper holster, the nine and he grins. He is shaken from his memories by Clay's voice "You always did like it." He nods, watching clays large hands pull the gun from the holster. Bright silver with the black reaper handle. Shit was as beautiful as he remembered.

He watches clay aim it towards the wall before putting it back in the holster. "Piney gave it to me for my five year. I always thought I would give it to opie." He nods, his throat closing up, he clears his throat to fight back the sight of opies face. Not now, stay focused. He sees the gun being held out to him. "Clay come on." He shoves it back but the man passes his hand and presses it to his chest. "I get I'm not like a dad to you no more kid. Things i did to joy and you destroyed any of that but least i can do is give someone something i cant use anymore. So take it. Hell give it to the kid. She might put it in a shadow box with the day i died on it." He smirks and shoves the gun and holster into his inner pocket. "Or kill you with it." The older man chuckles. "Looking forward to it." He snickers and grabs the gun bag, and heads for the van. Making sure everything is in he heads for the bike. Lock down was approaching fast and if he knew his wife he knew she would shoot anyone who tried to close it with him outside of it.

Teller Morrow Garage

She volunteered to watch the outside as her father, Chucky, Unser and her father got the grill hot, with the amount of people here best idea was to have a potluck and bbq. Old rap plays from her phone next to her, her head bobbing and lips moving as her eyes scan the still open gate and full parking lot keeps her hands on the table under her, both her glocks next to each hand. She hears the bikes before she sees them. She smirks as Tig and her husband pull up in front of the van holding Miles and Rat. As Tig and her husband pull their bikes into the line. She nods to the guys as they pass her and go into the club house. When her husband and tig walk up with clay not too far behind her smile drops. Her husband kisses her cheek with a chuckle, his lips brushing her skin as he whispers "Down cujo. Gaalan called him on the way here." She arches a brow over her husband's shoulder to clay as he passes them without a word. "Fine….but he breaths wrong im playing baseball with his kneecaps." She lets her laughing husband pull her inside as miles and rats come back out to take over her watch duty.

Everyone had been here for about an hour now and despite the reason for being here it was fun and everyone laughs all around. She hugged a few of the Tacoma boys she recognized, Kozik being one of them. She had missed him when he went back but he seemed to be keeping on the straight line where drugs were involved and she was so proud of him. She was watching her father talk to Lyla with a grin, he was leaning back against the pool table as Lyla lined up a shot. When the ball hits the pocket she smirks at one of the Tacoma prospects who thought she had been an easy target, poor kid. She bumps fists with Nero before turning back to talk to Happy. She feels her husband come up behind her, his hands snaking around her waist to rest low on her stomach. She turns her head to the side, kissing the side of her husband's stubble covered cheek as he rests his chin on her shoulder. "Why are you grinning like that beautiful?" She giggles, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. She places her hand on the side of her husband's face, making his gaze line up with hers. She knows he sees them too when he hums. "Now that's different. But oddly enough would make sense." She smirks. "exactly. I doubt much will happen for now. With Opie and all which i agree with, grive fully and never rebound. But i see something….something good in that possible future." She closes her eyes as her husband presses kisses to her cheek. "Look at you. Little miss matchmaker." She snorts and turns in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck she gets on her tiptoes to press a kiss high on his cheek. Beaming up at him she says "Matched myself up with you didn't I?" He nods with a grin, his hands rubbing her ass before he surprises her and yanks her up by the thighs. She shouts as he heaves her body up his torso, her thighs clinch his sides as he carries her through the crowd of laughing sons, her protests and threats of body mutilation falling on deaf ears. When he plants her on the pool table she goes to swipe at him with her nails but he catches her wrist and holds it to his chest as he catches her lips.

All the fight leaves her body, her free hand gripping the side of his cut she yanks him closer. The world falls away as he surrounds her, his hand gripping her now limp wrist moves to the back of her neck. But their moment is short lived as one of the balls from the table hits her left thigh making her jump and look that way. Seeing a smirking Lyla with a chuckling nero and Happy over her shoulders. She nero's her eyes at her father. "Et tu, Brute?" Her father shrugs and grabs the pool cue from Lyla as Nero pats her shoulder "We're currently hiding the corner pocket Leona." She smirks at the nickname, Lioness. Well played Nero. She slides off the table Jax walks by them but she clenches her eyes as he freezes next to her, the venom in his voice makes it obvious who he is speaking too. "Why is he here." She pecks Juans lips one more time before turning to plant herself next to Jax. Clay looks even more broken than she remembers. Hunched over be tilts his head at Jax "Gaalan reached out to me. He wants the guns or the money or wendy is dead." She whips her head around to stare wide eyed at chibs, he makes a snatching motion and she sighs. She must have been at the hospital, she would grill him about it later. "Does Gaalan know wendy isn't Jax's wife?" Clay chuckles "Believe me kid i could hear wendy in the back shouting that and a lot of other stuff about Jax to prove as much. He says do it anyway or Able will be going back to Belfast." She snarls, jax holding his arm out in front of her to calm her. But her anger and frustration builds as Bobby chimes in "four hundred and seventy five thousand dollars. We pay back the Italians and Nero we ain't even close." She moves to stand behind chibs as Tig adds on "And there is no way we are getting the guns back from Romeo." She plants a hand on Chibs shoulder, his hand comes up to pat her. Chibs always knew how to center her, help her pull herself out of panic. Even without a word. Forever her mentor and guide.

She looks up as Nero clears his throat, pool cue in hand, his eyes bouncing around to lock eyes with them all before settling on Jax "I'm sorry. Couldn't help but overhear and I may have a solution." She locks eyes with Jax. She sees him tossing thoughts around and finally his eyes clear and he nods his head to the door before looking at Clay, she heads for the door as Jaxs tells Clay to get out. She sees her husband off to the side, headphones in his ears as he works on a few hard drives on the table before him. Leaning against the far wall she watches him from afar. He was deep in his tech mode and she refused to break that trance. She smiles as his lips move rapidly as he raps along to something she can't catch from how fast his lips move, but his grin is amazing. She feels someone at her side, the scent of clove and sandalwood makes her arch a brow. "Tiggy. Do you trust me?" Tigs arm lands around her shoulder as he leans on the wall next to her. A beer in his hand he takes a deep pull before replying. "Without question kid. Why?" She tilts her head to the side to look up at him. "I know none of us but Clay will be delivering that money when we get it." Tig nods, people doubted him so much but he was quicker than people gave him credit for. "Go with him. I don't trust him alone, let alone around Gaalan. So if he goes. Go with him. If not for the club or Jax. For my peace of mind?" Tig thinks on it for a moment before pressing a kiss to the side of her head and heading off into the crowd. She knew he would, she hated putting him so close to Clay so soon. But Tig was Clay's right hand for years. Clay wouldn't think twice of Tig going with him. She scrubs her face with her hand before pushing off the wall she sighs. So much to do and only so many hours.

Many hours later (Teller Morrow)

Wendy had been rescued and left twenty minutes ago in a huff, muttering to herself about fuck knows what. The last of the Sons from the lock down had hit the road and she was currently restocking the bar and her husband and father talked behind her. Something about new ink for Juan. Tara and Jax had yet to come down and that worried her. Turning to grab another bottle of turkey she sees Jax and the look on his face makes her pause. He speaks to Nero and Chibs for a moment before locking eyes with her. He shakes his head, she nods and gets back to stocking the bar as her father speaks to Jax. She feels someone at her side a moment late. She knows its jax from the scent of Marlboro and that damned hair gel he used that was a little too spicy for her nose. Once the shelf is stocked full she turns to him, he is leaned next to her and watching everyone. "You know I believed you earlier today." She arches a brow and chuckles "I said a lot of shit i meant earlier today. Refresh my memory brother."

She leans her upper body down on to the bartop. He stands next to her and copies her, their arms touching as he stares at the movement around them. "When you said you were with me. I know you are Joy. I don't doubt you on any front. I just…" She wants to look at him, but she knows it won't help. Bless these tough men they didn't understand how to communicate without showing fierce emotion. "I just don't know how to work this all out without Opie. I could say any idea or do any dumb thing and he would be there to help me realize why it was dumb in a way that would get through to my thick skull. And now that he is gone. Im worried about the gavel joy…." It took her a moment to understand what the last part meant. Then she remembers in church with Jax, Bobby and herself. The Gavel corrupts. Saying a mental fuck it to pretending this wasnt a serious conversation she turns to Jax, even as he refuses to do the same she speaks direct at him.

"The gavel will change you Jax. It's a hard and heavy weight that can crush a weaker man or woman. And you werent ready at all and didnt fucking want it. But jax the way you're doing this. Getting it spread out among the other groups so everyone can get some food in their mouth. It's amazing Jax. Be proud of that." He nods, having enough of him not looking at her she moves around the bar to stand before him, grabbing his face between her hands to stop him from moving. Hazel meets blue as she makes sure he understands her "And trust that I will keep one of my last promises to Opie. Too keep you grounded, to be a solid wall to slam against when you cant fucking stop yourself. Always know that i have no issues stopping you." She gives him a grin "Even if i have to break a few bones. You'll live to redeem yourself in my eyes." he gives her a very weak grin and pulls her hands from his face. Grabbing the back of her head he pulls her in to kiss her forehead. "I'm sorry in advance for breaking your heart sonshine." She remembers what she said to Tig and Chibs. "But you all wouldn't be mine if you made it easy to love you." He nods, looking past her she turns to see Chibs with a phone in his hand. "Heres Tig Jackie." Jax grabs the phone from him and heads towards the doors to church. She sighs as Bobby goes to stop him, she leans back against the bar as Bobby calls to him when he refuses. "Jax we gotta talk this shit out." The way Jax halts his steps set her on edge. And the face that turns to greet bobby isn't Jax. It's their new president, a man she is only just beginning to learn was a whole other man all together. "I said no." He closes in on bobby and she shakes off chibs as he goes to stop her. She wasn't letting shit slide anymore, she was done running. As she closes in on them she hears Jax loud and clear "Im sure the right thing will settle in. But right now if i'm alone with you VP i'll tear your goddamn head off." Getting next to them she places a hand on Jax's arm holding the phone. Keeping her eyes on Bobby who is currently watching her with dark narrowed eyes "Go talk to Tiggy jax. I got this." She felt Jax's arm tense under her hand but didn't ask why. It wasn't the time. She makes sure the door is closed behind her firmly before she speaks to the older son before her.

"Did you honestly fucking think he would want to talk? Not hours after your screwball set a shit ton of butt ugly on our heads?" The man just stares hard at her, refusing to reply. "You are obviously not thinking through shit bobby. You want this club to be better, I get that but the way you did it. Behind his back out the gate fucked up any possible trust in you as his VP." She expects him to see reason, if not the main reason Jax is angry. The new prez had fought his way through the lies of his family, the people meant to never wish you harm, found a plot to kill the mother of his children and also the possibility that his father was also murdered. By the same man. He had hoped to find a new family, build from us a family that wouldn't l harm him. That would support and the first act of his new VP is a plan behind his back. Another scheme. It was the act and the person it saved that was the hardest part to swallow for Jax. She got that, maybe Bobby just couldn't. He steps into her space, his voice the angriest she heard directed at her before. "Don't presume to tell me what I should do, Joy. At the end of the day you gave this patch up willingly to me. So stand down."

Pressing her pink nailed hands to his chest she shoves him back hard, he didn't expect it and falls back into the pool table. Her husband and Chibs make their way over as she speaks directly to Bobby. "Don't speak to me like a goddamn child Elvis. I gave that patch to a man I thought would do right by not just the club but the man who stayed to keep us all out of jail at not just his expense but his wife and children's as well. Man the fuck up and speak your fucking mind next time you have opinions. Don't pull that shit again Bobby or I swear to god I'll take you back to the table for my god damn patch back and to save trouble I'll tear it from your cut while it's still on you!" Her husband, having heard enough, wraps his large arms around her middle, locking her once waving arms to her side. She wasn't done though. "Because I'll be damned If you hurt him or this club again." She lets her husband drag her out, the cold air makes her overheated skin break out into goosebumps. She stands next to her father's ink station in the garage. Juans hands rub her upper arms as she watches her father pull on his black gloves, her body slowly losing its tension as the machine comes alive and the buzz is a soothing note in the air. She sees two guns and arches a brow, looking at her father again she sees him holding a pair of gloves out to her and she smiles. She had learned to do tattoos by watching her dad do them. Her first tattoo she did on a body was on her father. Around his collar bone area there was a phrase "I live, I die, I kill for my family." The letters were blocky and some funny looking but he let her do it without thought and she loved him more for it then he would ever know.

Pulling the pink velvet scrunch from her wrist she holds it behind her to her husband as she grabs the other low roller chair next to her dad. Pulling on a pair of gloves like her dad he points out things and asks her to name it just to make sure her knowledge on the subject hadn't slipped. Once she proved herself to her father he goes back to setting up the ink cups. Everyone looks up as the garage office door opens, she hadn't realized the guys had trickled in during the pop quiz her father gave her. The garage was filled with sons. All eyes on Clay as he makes his way to the chair between her father and herself. When he plops down he glances at her, looking down at the black kabar on her thigh before locking eyes with her again. With a roll of her eyes she slides the kabar from its sheath and flips it mid air, grabbing the blade loosely she hands it to Clay and watches as he slides the strap of his black tank, revealing the reaper on his shoulder blade, he stabs her blade roughly into the wooden table top and she arches a brow but says nothing. No one spoke as she and her father went about roughly blocking out the reapers on the older man's skin. Blood and black ink leak onto the black gloves on her hands, making the once matte latex glint in the light. Once her part in all this is done she put the gun down, her body felt as if it had been drained, any rage or possible sympathy she felt for the man before her was gone. Seeing the once proud man reduced to a black ink splattered shell soothed a lot of the pain she carried around recently. Pulling the gloves from her hands she stands, walking over to her father she kisses the top of his tattooed skull, locking eyes with Bobby she stands to her full height. Now that the rage wasn't pounding in her ears like a heartbeat she could see the conflict and lost look in Bobby's face. She walks over, knowing her husband wasn't far behind she kisses the older man's bearded cheek and walks away. As good a sorry as she could give knowing that everything she said had truth to it. She had a sinking feeling that another change was coming. How big would that change be? Only time would tell.

Next morning (Joy Pov)

Warmth, that's the first thing she feels as she wakes, and when she finally reaches full consciousness she realizes why. Looking to her side she sees Juans pillow is missing its namesake. But looking down she sees a lump where her stomach is, it makes her grin. For a moment she looked pregnant until the lump moved and she pulled the covers up slightly and could not help but feel her heart melt a little. Her husband's head was resting below her breast, his arms curled under her back as he clutched her in a tight but comfortable grip. Watching him sleep she takes in the beauty of him, his soft skin being revealed bit by bit as she pushes the covers off of them. Making her husband curl into her more to steal more of her warmth. She brushes her fingers along the tattoo on the left side of his scalp, she knows he is slowly waking because he is nuzzling his face into her stomach. A poem comes to mind and when he looks up at her with sleepy, heavy lidded eyes, a small smile is his gift to her. She smiles as the words spill from her lips. "You're next to me and I'm half asleep, wondering what I did to deserve this moment - to deserve you. And while you're here, breathing easily. All I can think about is what I can do tomorrow to be better for you then I was today."

He gifts her with open mouth kisses along her belly button and hips over her boy shorts, his hands having pushed her sleep shirt up to her chest to get access to more bed warm skin. "Fuck i love when you do shit like that." She giggles as he speaks into her skin, his hands sliding under her lower back, forcing her to arch and her legs to fall open more as his kisses move upward. His hands shove her shirt over her head. Tossing it off the side of the bed he hovers over her as she tries to get her hair out of her face. Looking up at him she sees his once sleepy eyes are watching her. The smile on his face is blissful and only for her. Reaching her hands up she holds his face between them, the way he leans into the gentle touch pulls at her heart. Her beautiful strong husband was such a gentle man, she hoped this life wouldn't rob him of that. She would give up her humanity to protect him if she had too, as long as he was always going to be here, like this. His lips on her forehead wash away her dark thoughts like rain water.

Her eyes, which she hadn't realized had closed to prevent him seeing the pain in them blink open, seeing him watching her. "Welcome back." She cant help but sigh, which quickly turns into a gasp as he rolls them, his strong grip on her hips keep her from toppling over as he now lays with her straddling his lean hips. The way he folds his hands behind his head and smirks up at her makes her bite her lip and her cheeks flushes as his eyes take in her bare chest, even after living with and being with him he still made her body heat with a look. Moving her hair over one shoulder she lays her chest flat against her husband's, her head under his chin. His hands are now combing over her head and curling her hair around his fingers. For a moment they are still except for his fingers curling into her hair and her body rising and falling as he breathes deeply. She is slowly falling back asleep when the chest under hers vibrates as her husband speaks "Jax is up to something involving clay." Curling a fist under her chin she uses her other hand to grab the discarded blanket and pulls it back over her now naked back. "What makes you think that." He isn't upset she questioned him, in fact it made him grin. "When Jax asked me to stay behind the other day after the irish he only wanted to ask me a favor. 'I need clays gun. No questions right now. I need it.” she lifts herself up enough to get more comfortable, stretching her legs out she moves to his side to rest her head on his shoulder, looking into his eyes she arches a brow. "The one currently at the shop wrapped up in a shirt." He smirks and kisses the tip of her nose. "Yes nosy shit." She snickers and smacks his chest, he laughs and rubs the sting away. "He wanted me to get it to you. I don't know why but he wants you to put it in his side saddle on his bike." She sighs, he was plotting alone again. She was getting so fucking tried of this behind closed door shit that had been going down since the cartel popped up. She can't say Jax wasn't doing good things but the way he was doing them was gonna make her go grey. "Your right. I'll see whats up but if i'm honest we won't know much until shit pops off and we all have to drag his ass out of danger." She cups her husband's cheek and pulls him in for a kiss when her phone rings from the nightstand. She growls under her breath and reaches back for it.....let the games begin

Time Jump

Once she got to the shop things had been crazy. She barely had time to do what jax asked her but she did it. And now hours later she stood beside Nero as he spoke to the shop owner "Nero they fuck up my shop, come in and take anything they want and now Dante says we have to pay triple two for protection?!' The pretty hispanic woman sighs "I mean we all know you split but what are we supposed to do now?" Nero sighs and holds up his hands “Okay. I get it, Carmella. I'm sorry I let this happen but i'm here now. I swear." He grabs her hands and holds them "We will handle Dante, Mi vida." She tosses her cig to the street as Nero walks over to them. "So what's the plan boss man." He brushes a hand down his face. "We need to cut off the goddamn head. Dante, he's running out of a rag warehouse, two blocks, at the end of Palm. Fights are in progress." She nods, Juans hands squeezing her shoulders. "Is he there now? Anyone scooping him out?" The man next to Nero shakes his head"Not sure. All of our faces are too well known around here to play double o seven" she snickers, looking over to Jax when he taps her arm as she is the main one next to him. "Ok let the white boys and slightly tan girls." She hisses at him and smacks his shoulder. "Tan!?!? I am a light sepia goddess. You redneck Tarzan." He grins but ignores her, he continues on. "let us go in, just a few fight fans. We'll see what we're dealing with."

Nero nods and she walks over to her bike, she strips off her cutte, her black lace up side high waisted jeans cover her lower stomach, but the cute pink halter crop top with the words 'brat' shows enough of her stomach to keep her cool on this hot day. bobby asks "How big is this crew?" Nero tilts his head for a second before replying "Last i knew fifteen." She is shooting off a quick text message as the man next to him shakes his head. "Nah they have been busy. More like twenty." She is pulling off her thigh and chest holster as hands her guns to her husband since her outfit wasn't loose enough to hide anything. Nero replies "If that's true with just us it's a little light." Her phone goes off and she yanks it from her back pocket with a grin. "Think again." Everyone turns to see her waving her phone with a grin "Cholo Calvary is inbound." Her husband smirks and reaches over to pat her on the ass. "That's my girl." Making the guys chuckle as she smiles brightly, her hips doing a little wiggle at the praise. Her father reaches over to yank her head close enough to kiss her temple.

Once they get to the place and on the lift of the building the sound of dog barking makes her reach out for the closest hand. Tig grips her hand back just as hard as Bobby opens the lift door. The others scatter to different corners but she and Tiggy don't release each other as they watch with Horror as the poor dogs tear each other apart. Her mind flashes to sonny. Her sweet little prince in the dog's place and seeing the raging bloodlust on the shouting mens faces makes her stomach roll. The fight is over quick and she watch a dark skin man lift the wounded white dog and walk away. She knows what happens next. Tapping tig are rapidly she whimpers "Tiggy. We can't let him." He nods and he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze and they both follow behind them man. Not realizing the others saw them. They make it to the back and her legs give out as she sees the trash cans filled with the bodies of precious dogs. All torn and slaughtered. She doesn't realize Alex has left her until she hears him say "I'll blow your goddamn head off." Her husband and father see her on the ground and rush to her. She points to the trash cans and her husband curses and helps her off the ground. Standing between her and the trash cans he holds her face in his hands "I know baby. But we can't help them now. But you saved one. Come on." She nods and lets him drag her around the corner as Tig points behind her and Juan as Jax grabs his head to make him focus "Look at this shit its so wrong." Jax nods "I know but it's not what we are here for." Walking over she grabs Tigs gun from him gently. He locks eyes with her and she nods to the beautiful dog in the kiddy pool by her feet who was licking her father's hand as he spoke softly to it. "Watch her." He nods and she walks over to the man knelt on the ground. Pressing the gun between his eyes she arches a brow "One question dickbag. Dante. Where is he?" The man points behind him "Through there. Uses the supply room as an office." She nods and hands the gun to Tig. "Piss off. And leave the dog." The man takes off as she kneels down to gently hold the dogs face in her hands. Smiling as the dog licks her cheek. "Hello love. My friend phil here is gonna carry you to your ride ok. Your not gonna fight anymore." The dog keeps licking her face and Jax taps her arm "Let's go mother pupresa. We got work to put in." She nods to phil and takes her glocks from her husband as she stands. Making her way in she sees Chibs break the lock and all hell breaks loose. Her father levels a man rushing them and she holds her guns on Dontae as Jax yells. "Put the guns down!" Dante just stares and she smirks, getting in front of him she holds one gun to his head the other to his dick. "Cough wrong. Give me a reason." He curls his lip but tells them to lower the guns she hears Jax yell and she naturally runs, smart move on her part as the room floods with Dantes crew as he yells

"I WANT THE BITCH. KILL THE OTHERS!" Making it outside she sees the gate bust open. And moves to the side as Nero and his crew take out of a few of the men following behind. The remainder of Dante's crew are quickly held down by the Mayans. She laughs and they roll through on their bikes whooping and shouting. "Fucking love you crazy bastards!" Her joy is short lived as Dante and another man run back inside and lock the door. She takes off at a full sprint as she yells over her shoulder "Dantes running. TAKE DOWN THE REST." It's quiet as nero,chibs, jax and herself move around the high stacks of boxes. All of them take different paths she is just about to turn down another way when the sound of a punch makes her take off back behind her she sees Chibs as he stabs the man who was with Dante. Using all her body weight she shoves him against one of the boxes, her fists crack against his cheek and temple. He grabs her by the hair making her shriek but the pain is short lived as he is yank off of her by Jax. She watches with glee as the man's face is shoved into a bag of nails. His screams making shudder at the agony in them, but her mind flashes back to the trash cans of dogs and she feels nothing again. They all jump into action as Nero's voice fills the warehouse "He's running!" They take off towards the sound. Shs stares at Neros back as he takes off after Dante and finally catches him at a window. She releases a short burst of laughter as Nero laughs as he pushes Dante through the window. Mother fucker was nuts. Once they all get through the window she sees a woman yanked from her van. But lucky her own dog was inside. And currently using Dante as a chew toy. Nero holds the door with his body and she leans next to him with a smirk. "That's gonna leave a mark." She leans down to watch the dog as Jax chuckles, punching her arm as she coos at the dog "Whos a good protector. You are. Good doggo." Nero heaves a sigh, his lip twitching as he tries not to laugh "We should probably let him out yeah?" Chibs smirks "That would be the good catholic thing to do." She snorts and shakes her head "I'm neither good nor Catholic so i guess he is puppy chow." All the guys around her laugh.

Back at Teller Morrow

When they got back to the club house phil, tig and herself went straight to the pool table with Dr.Chibs. She laid on her side on top of the pool table as the dog rested next to her, she gently brushed a hand over her ears and head as Chibs worked on the animal's leg wound. Her husband's hands grip and rub her thigh as he stands behind her. He knew she was shaken seeing so many dead animals. Killer his wife may be but when it came to animals. She was so sensitive to them. Thats where her and Tig bonded alot. She reaches down to grip one of her husband's hands in Silent thanks as she coos to the dog as it whimpers. "Its ok baby. Chibs is just gonna make you all better. I know it hurts." Tig pats her arm as Jax walks over "So that was one of Nero's boys. He found the breeder who is supplying the dogs. Wants us to shut it down." She nods and sits up as Tig replies "I'll gut that bitch." She grabs her bowie knife of the coffee table "i call his balls." The guys all shifted a little at that, knowing she wasn't joking. She and Tig grab their weapons of choice on the table and head for the door. Just as Chibs speaks "Lets go." Jaxs stops him "I'm gonna take Tig and Joy." Chibs shakes his head "Notta chance. You don't know what your walkin into." Jax stands firm and soon enough they are pulling. Up to a warehouse. She and tig strip off their helmets and walk ahead of Jax just as she hears a gun be cocked.

She reaches for her own but Jax's voice stops her making her turn to see the one thing she never wanted to see. One gun trained on her, another on Tig....and Jax holding both. Her face pales as Tig tries to move towards Jax and Jaxs hisses at him "Dont fucking move. Either of you." Her hands shake as she holds them up. He locks eyes with hers and nods "All weapons down. And kick yours away Joy your aim is too good to trust." She and Tig follow instructions. She keeps quiet as Tigs breathing picks up and he finally yells "What is going on Jax!?" She hears the approach of a car and her eyes narrows at the unmistakable Rolls Royce kicking up dirt and it all clicks into place. How they got out, how tig made it out with them. Jax was gonna go in but Opie some how did it first......Tig was always the chip. Because of what happened with clay. Forcing Tig to take action and kill Pope daughter. To do what he thought was right. Once again Clays lies were catching up to them.

Her rage is violent as she yanks Tig back behind her and Snarls at Jax "I'll kill you if they touch him. Ill fucking kill you all." Tigs arm wraps around her shoulder as she shakes, Gripping his arm she eyes the men getting out of the car as Tig groans. "Jax no. Come on man." Jax shakes his head "I'm sorry." She seethes "No. But you will be." Pope snaps and two men appear next to them. She and Tig are ripped apart and she shrieks, she is held back as the other man searches Tig. She is then searched herself before being tossed back at Tig. She wraps her arms around his middle. Gripping onto the man for dear life, her body shakes as Tig combs a hand over her head. Trying to calm her in a moment when she should be comforting him "Your really gonna give me to him Jax? After what he did to my Daughter. Its could have been Able, fuck it could have been sonshine here if hap had done it you bastard!" Jax yells at Pope to shut tig up and she crumbles to the ground with Tig his kidney is hit from the back. Using her legs she kicks out at the man who hurt Tig "Leave us alone you Bastard i swear to god ill bathe in your entrails for this." She is dragged away from Tig by her legs, she lands a kick and crawls back to him sobbing. He holds her on the ground with him as Jax speaks to Marks. He rocks her "Don't cry kid. Please kid don't cry." She grips a hand into his cutte. Whimpering when she and Tig are both pulled up from the ground. "Tie him up on the garage." She shrieks as he is being pulled away but Jaxs stops him "I want the Cutte." She growls and jerks in the arms holding her back. "Have you not taken enough from him Jackson for Christ Sake!?" The man approaches Tig and she struggles more "Please." The men stop, staring at the shaking and sobbing woman, for once looking her young age and her Golden eyes lock with Pope. "Let me take it off him. I'm all he has left." She was surprised when pope nods. Walking over on shaking legs she looks at the two men on either side of Alex. He reaches up and holds her face in his hands. Giving her forehead a hard kiss he whispers. "i love you kid. Best friend i ever had." She whimpers and slides the Cutte from his shoulders. He is instantly jerked away from her and into the warehouse. Her legs give out and someone catches her, apart of her knows it's Jax and she wants to struggle but she can't. Crushed under the weight of losing another brother all she can do is sob "Alex......Tiggy." Jax buries his head into the side of her hair and she hears him talking. She tries to stop sobbing and shaking to hear him "Trust me. Its hard but trust me ill fix it i promise." She pushes him away and stands. Clutching tigs cutte to her chest she watches Jax with narrow and tear swollen eyes as he walks over to his saddle bag and something clicks. Clays gun. As tumblers fall into place she watches Jaxs in slow motion as he paints the side of Popes car red with brain matter. Seeing him race into the warehouse she uses the hand not clutching the cutte to grab a silenced glock and runs after him. Seeing him take out one of Pope men she kills the other. Tig, who was thankfully alive, rams Pope as he tries to shoot them. Falling his gun lands at her feet, holding her gun on him she grins wildly "Do it. I dare you." He jerks and Jax appears at her side to grab the gun on the floor. She watches Jax as he hands Clays gun to Tig. Pope growls at Jax "You redneck bitch. Do you have any idea what will happen to who ever kills me?" A small smile ticks up Jaxs lip "Im counting on it."

She moves away as Tig blows Pope brains out the back of his skull. Walking over to Alex she wraps her arms around him. His arm not holding the gun grips her cutte. Hearing movement next to her she lifts her head, her gun held between Jaxs forth and fifth rib. "Give me one reason not to kill you prez. One." He holds his hands up "I couldn't tell either of you. He would have picked up on it if Tig was off or if joy wasnt like she was. You know that." She did but the Image of Jaxs holding a gun on her still made her gun hand shake "He could have shot him right away Jax. Then what!?" Jax nods "But he didnt. I know that's not the best thing to say but he didnt and the plan worked. Im so fucking sorry to do that but i had to be done. We would never be free. Tig wouldn't get closure." Logic, sense, it was shooty but planned out. Pope dies at the hands of a man she and Jax want dead more than anything. And with Pope being an OG the bounty would be set and Clay would be dead before his hearing. Releasing Tig she lets him hug Jax, their eyes locked over the man's shoulder. Today something changed. Today she saw how far Jax was willing to go on his own. And she didn't know how to feel about it

The club house

Sitting across from her husband in their old room he stares in wild eyed shock as she nods, her wet hair dripping onto the sheets. She had felt so dirty when they got back that she had passed everyone and went upstairs to shower. Now dressed in some cotton shorts and a hoodie she lights up a blunt, inhaling deeply. She told him everything, her father would be next but she needed Juan right now. "Jesus baby. I didn't know he was going to…..i.....i never would have let you go with him alone if i knew." She lets him yank her onto his lap, her legs thrown over the side as She held out the blunt for him, he tilts his head and lets her hold it for him as he inhales. His hands to busy rubbing and gripping her legs, sides, her face as he tries to calm himself. Holding his inhale he replies "I love you baby. Im so fucking sorry you had to live that. Fuck i could strangle him. Was Opie not enough?" She exhales the smoke along with him. Filling the room with the smell of gas and apple wrapping paper "Apart of me knows he was right. Pope would sniff out a fake performance for a mile. But i feel so hollowed out. I know tig is alive, i know Jax didn't really betray either of us but i still feel it." She waves a hand "Maybe it's that i feel used by him. And that alone makes me feel dirty." He nods and presses his lips to her forehead. Taking the blunt from her he takes another hit. "And your allowed to feel how ever the fuck you please. Jax knew what might happen if he did this. Trust and loyalty only go so far until the broken pieces just don't fit right anymore. So your going to heal from this. And i'll be right here if Jax has anything to say i'll handle him." She cant help but grin watching her husband blow smoke off to the side, his jaw tight and sharp she cant help but draw her tongue along its shape making him look at her with wide eyes. "You have no idea how hot you look when your angry daddy." he chuckles and shakes his head, taking in her low lids and dopey smile. "And you're cute when you're a high and horny baby." She snorts as his hands and rests her head on his shoulder as he takes the last deep hit from the blunt before tossing the roach into the ash tray to break down later. She uses her hand to turn his head as he gets ready to blow the smoke out. He smirks and fists a hand into her hair, his other hand palms her bare breast over the hoodie as he blows the smoke into her mouth.

*She couldn't hold it as she moans, her skin was sensitive and her mind was only focused on his hands. She scrambles out of his lap and crawls up the bed, but she doesn't get far as quickly grabs her ankle and yanks her back with a chuckle. "Where do you think your going?" She takes her bottom lip between her teeth as she tries not to smile. He yanks his shirt over his head and crawls over her, her fingertips ghost up his sides as he claims her mouth. She could taste the weed on his tongue, and that ever present mint. She groans as his lips leave hers but she arches as he pushes the hoodie up to expose her bare chest to his eyes. Leaning down his tongue circles one nipple before blowing on it, making her still shower warm skin break out into goosebumps. He presses his face into her sternum and drags his tongue along the anarchy A that rests there as his hand slides down onto her shorts, she feels his grin when he finds no panties in his way. She is hot and slick as he slides two thick fingers inside. "Yes touch me!"

He lays on his side, his arm propping his head up as he watches her writhe and moan as his pace picks up. Pressing his nose against her temple his lips brush her ears as he speaks lowly. "Do you have any idea how sexy you look like this?" She shakes her head, her eyes wide and glazed as she stares up at the ceiling, one hand rolling her own nipple, the other gripping his forearm, the feel of his muscles moving under his skin as his fingers fuck into her driving her higher. "Legs spread wide for me. Wet little pussy gripping my fingers like you never want me to stop." She shuddered and groans "I don't want you to stop. Please daddy. Fuck me?" He smirks and removes his fingers much to her dismay. As she turns to pout her mouth falls open as she watches him suck his cum covered fingers into his mouth. She quickly strips off her shorts and reaches for his pants and belt. He chuckles at her enthusiasm and she swats his stomach making him curl up and laugh harder. She giggles and stops trying to strip him. "Your such a dork Juan." He nods and reaches down to quickly undo his own pants, sitting up he leans his back against the headboard and shoves his pants down enough to free himself and yanks her onto his lap. Holding his cock steady he lets her slide down onto it, watching her face as her eyes fall closed at the stretch. Her hands gripping his neck and shoulders as she grinds down onto him. "Jesus you feel so good."

His hands slide up the sides of her smooth thighs to her waist, the hoodie pulls up with his hands until her lower half is exposed, her rocking hips in full view, using his hands he slowly starts to set the pace. His eyes taking in the image she made. Sun streaming through the window made her bronze skin glow, her wet curls bounced as she rode him. Lips red and kiss swollen from his lips. One of his hands leaves her waist to grab her jaw making her blink her eyes open.. "Open your eyes baby. I want to see them as you cum." Her brow is drawn and she can't control the sounds falling from her mouth, but she nods. Her hands claw at his shoulders and he gives in, needing to hold her closer, his arms wrap around her yanking her to fall into his chest. She places her hands on the wall next to his shoulders and starts to quake over him. Her lips trimble and he releases her hips and grabs her face in his hands. "Your close aren't you baby." She nods, a whine falling from her lips. She watches him watch her as she rides him as hard as she can. Her body was so close but she couldn't reach it. "Juan.....can't."

He grins and moves a hand down between them, his thumb strokes her clit and she shudders with a cry. "Come on baby. Want that pretty pussy to come. Come Joy." She groans and her bodie tenses, her thighs quivering against his hips as she arches. His thumb keeps up its circling. Making her jerk and dig her nails into his shoulder, with a growl he jerks up into her hard. Forcing a breathless cry from her.

"Do that again I'm gonna get you pregnant." He says it through clenched teeth and closed eyes but the way her fingers freeze for a second before digging harder. His head jerks up and he stares at joy. Her eyes were glazed and her lip was between her teeth as she slowly rolled her hips down onto him. Her body jerked every once in a while as his thumb pressed down hard. He watches her for a second and he smirks. "You want my baby inside you Joy?" She nods and he growls, his hands hold her waist as he pushes her back. Keeping himself inside her as he gets her on her back. His forearms hold her legs back as he pounds into her, her head is tossed back as she screams. The thought of pumping her full, watching her stomach grow. Fuck he was close. Looking down at her he he groans "Look at me." She whimpers and forces her eyes open. The hazel eyes staring up at him look so gold in the light from the sun outside and he pants. "I want my baby to have your eyes."

Her back arches violently off the bed as her whole body quakes under him, a flood of her juices soak his cock and her grip is so tight he can't hold off as it milks him. Shooting inside her he groans, laying on his side he rolls her to join him.* His lips brush her forehead as they both pant, he watches the light slowly fade from the room. His mind clear and his body lax he barely hears his wife as she whispers. "I want them to have yours Juan." He grins, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Guess we are spending the night. Good thing Tig got Sunny from the house. He will be good for Tigs dog i think." She nods, looking down at her body and his she giggles at his boot clad feet on the pillow. "No shoes in bed you street rat." He chuckles and slowly pulls away from her, his limp cock sliding from her making her hiss and narrow her eyes at him. "Don't give me that look. No shoes in bed." She rolls her eyes and reaches over the side of the bed to get her discarded shorts. Pulling them on she shoots a text to Tig to feed Sonny for her and plugs up her phone to charge.

Curling up she drifts until Juan returns and from the smell of his skin he showered, but she doesn't have much time to think more on it as she finally slips under. She jerks what she feels isn't a moment later but when she opens her eyes she sees nothing. Pitch black and the sound of Juans snoring and her phone going off. With a groan she grabs it and rolls onto her back. "Hello?" She sits up straight at the voice on the other line, making Juans arm draped across her stomach fall off. Waking him with a grunt as he looks around. "We have a problem Joy." She feels a cold feeling settle in the pit of her stomach as she replies "Jax what's wrong?"

Jax's House

Their bikes couldn't move fast enough, she barely puts down the kick stand before running towards the house, she stops short as she hears her name being yelled. Looking over she sees Tara and she races for her, her eyes stinging as Tara looks up at her with bright wet eyes. "What do you need me to do." Tara looks past her for a moment, she was worried she might have gone into shock but when Tara looks back at her she is all there. Her lips move and Joy focuses on them to read her lips and her face hardens as she gets what she says "Protect them from her." She nods and brings her fingers to her lips to press a kiss to them before smacking them on the window and walking towards the house shouldering past officer's as she went, hearing Teddy stop them from grabbing her. She pats his arm as she passes into the house. Finding Jax sitting at the kitchen table, Able rushes to her side and she lifts him up and sits him on her hip as he presses his wet face against her soft hoodie. Juan presses a kiss to the side of Ables head before going to get Thomas who was crying in the back room.

She bounces on her feet to rock Able, the hand not holding the child up is rested on Jax's shoulder as he holds his head in his hands. "She gave me papers...naming You and Juan guardians of our kids, if something happens. I signed them as they knocked to come get her. What are we going to do Joy?" She sighs, resting her cheeks against the child's cheek. "What you are going to do is leave this to Lowen. This is her area, do what the fuck she and Tara ask of you. Tara isnt stupid, she knew what this life meant when she stayed Jax. All you can do is stand by her like me and her did for you and Juan while she is inside. Stay the course, and get the fuck out of Charming the second you can. You hear me?" He nods, his hand reaches up to grip hers. If he had looked up he would have noticed her eyes weren't on him, but the door. Locked in the gaze of another woman. Gemma glares at her and she stands her ground, she wasn't scared of Gemma. But Gemma should be scared of what she has just done, because karma is a bitch. And she was its Messenger. Gemma would answer for this if it was the last thing Joy did.

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That’s this new chapter. Im working on the next one as we speak. again thank you all for hanging with me.

#a song for you #happy lowman #juice ortiz #juice ortiz x oc #plus size oc

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