#i round the corner and the calf was laid out i thought he was dead but he sat up

[phoenixblack89]

Fera Ingris

Chapter 1 - Dealing with Dixons

It's finally here people! Eekkk! It'll be up on A03 later when I turned my laptop on. Been teasing this for soooo long.

My wonderful tag list:

@lilythemadqueen @boondoctorwho @darylsgirl @autocon23 @browneyes528 @fandomsaremykryponite @writingdeadangel

"Yer take care of yourself lass, don't worry about us."

Phoenix sighed at the man on the other end of the phone, twisting the silver rosary he had given her for her birthday many years ago. The world had changed dramatically for them all since that day. Their history bloody and violent and God sent. 

"Are ye listening lass?" 

"Of course, I'm listening! It's you who isn't! I'm on the way to Atlanta now!  As in I'm already in Georgia! I can't let you three rot in there when we've got things to do!" 

"Lass, we can take care of ourselves. Connor wants to know if ye got our package?" He asked, she stifled a laugh at the noise of the pair fighting over the phone she could hear. 

"Yea I got it. Haven't opened it yet though" she replied, the bike's engine growing colder under her. "What's in it? You guys shouldn't be sending anything. You're lucky Duffy and Dolly got it t' me before I left Boston."

"I know lass but ye need t' keep those safe fer us." She smiled hearing her other friend's voice, clearly having won the battle for the phone. "Look things are getting bad here. You're safe now but things are gettin' weird, we'd never forgive ourselves if anything happened to ye. I love ye too much" 

"I love ya too, you idiot! I'm gonna get you all out. We have a mission! I've got a bag full of your stuff right here on my bike, your clothes, coats, guns." 

"Aye. What?! No? Yea. Let me say goodbye a' least?" Phoenix knitted her eyebrows, hearing the man talking to someone else. A prison guard maybe. "Lass we have t' go. I'll call ye back when things settle aye?" 

"Yea. Just tell me where you are at least?" 

"Sorry lass I got to -" 

The line suddenly died on her and she frowned, shaking the phone and seeing no signal. She ran her hand through her short dark red hair and started the bike up, speeding quickly towards Atlanta and her boys. 

                                                      **********

The sun shined through the thin, flimsy material of the tent, shining directly down into the sleeping pairs eyes. The short, spiky, dyed haired young woman groaned and threw her arm over her face. She sat slowly and yawned. She'd had that dream for weeks, wondering what had happened to her friends. 

Had the prison been overrun by the monsters that lurked in every corner? Were they dead? Or worse... Had they become one of those things? 

She'd slept after her watch shift, which surprised the girl as she had been having a bad bout of insomnia for the last two weeks. Ever since... 

No, she thought don't think about it. 

She glanced at the young boy laid next to her and smiled. When Carl asked if he could sleep in her tent with her the night before she had been hesitant (mainly because Lori rarely let him out her sight) but Lori had said it was okay and she was not going to fight against the long-haired beauty. 

Lori had also said it would be good for her, get her to trust others again. And honestly the boy reminded her so much of her old friend with his boundless energy and smiles. 

A gentle tap to the roof of her tent set her senses on guard. She grabbed her long calf length boots and her Bowie knife and slowly pulled the zipper up. A sigh released from her throat as she squinted up at the crossbow welding man in front of her. 

"We goin' hunting or what?" He snarled at her, obviously still mad at the woman from their disagreement yesterday. It wasn't her fault. He had spooked her... 

Merle approached the dark red haired girl sat by the quarry lake silently. Something was up with her and he was determined to find out what. The sight in front of him worried him slightly, she was nervous and kept flicking her head around. Had she been bit? He was thankful the darkness of the twilight hid him somewhat as he watched. She hissed as she pulled the bloody bandage off her left hand, flexing it and hissing through her teeth. The soft sound of something hitting the surface of the water, made his heart thump. It wasn't raining so why did it sound like it was? 

He came right behind her and watched as she rubbed at the wound, it oozed blood and yellowish white pus as she gritted her teeth. Infection was setting in. Daryl called out his name from camp and the girl spun and noticed him there. 

"Ya shouldn't be down 'ere by herself girlie." He whispered, kneeling and gently taking her hand, examining the injury intently. "Now wha' we gonna do abou' yer hand? Yer can't take what I offered yer."

"Burn it again. Only thing we can do. Not like we can wander to nearest pharmacy, throw my hand on the counter and say fix it, is it?" She hissed as he prodded a sensitive spot, Merle chuckled slightly and helped her to her feet. 

"Nah but China is headed t' the city tomorrow. I'ma go too. I know my meds and I'll get yer what yer need t' be right as rain again, Lil sis." He said with a smirk as they climbed back up the slope to the camp. Daryl and Shane spun round at their footsteps and Merle smirked. Officer ass-hat was on one about something. 

"Phoenix! Where have you been?! We told you to stay in camp until you could fight!" Shane whisper-yelled in her face. 

"Easy there officer. Girl just needed a second by 'erself... Gets a bit loud round here." Merle defended her, placing himself between the well musculared man and the girl who seemed to shrink into herself. "She's fine. I was a watchin' her." 

"I bet you were Dixon." Lori said under her breath. Phoenix glanced at the woman with eyes narrowed. The majority of the camp thought the Dixons were rude, brash and shouldn't be there. Only Phoenix, Glenn, Andrea and Shane knew of the incident that had cemented the brothers in the camp's good graces, well in their good graces. 

Phoenix sat down at the small fire infront of her tent and sighed, her ears picking up on raised voices coming from the Dixon tent. It sounded like Daryl was majorly pissed about something and Merle was defending himself.

Isn't any of your business she thought ignore them.

She gazed deep into the fire, the heat warming her frozen limbs nicely. She hated the cold, not that it was cold but she felt like she was sat on a box of ice in just her underwear. She had experienced working in much colder situations, hell the Irish rain was colder than this. The sweat on her brow made her eyes ache and she closed them, leaning her head back.

"Ahh!" She shrieked, jumping up and thrusting her knife backwards towards whatever had grabbed her shoulder. A deep grunt sounded and her hand was twisted, causing her to release her grip of the blade's handle. 

"Ain't no need t' try t' gut me girl." Daryl growled, his gruff voice instantly calming the nervous woman. She sighed and held her hand out, Daryl raised his chin and regarded whether to return her knife or not for a moment. He relented at her raised eyebrow and dropped it into her left hand. She hissed in pain and clutched at her wrist. Quicker than she could pull away, he'd wrapped his hand around her wrist yanking her closer and pulling the bandage off her injury. He could see how raised and angry it look, grimacing slightly as it oozed at his poking. Tears of pain welled in her eyes as she grit her teeth, he grumbled under his breath and glanced over his shoulder at his older brother. Merle nodded and raised the half empty bottle of whiskey in a salute. "This why Merle is leavin' right?"

"Yea, told him he didn't have to." She whispered as he released her arm, her skin tingled at the lose of contact. Daryl ran his hand over his neck and bit his lip. 

"Ye need meds. Ain't happy a' him, riskin' his neck fer someone like ya." He groaned under his breath. Her mood soured and she shoved him away. He stumbled for a second and threw her a glare. "What the hell is ya problem girl?"

"Someone like me Dixon? Huh? What exactly do you mean by that?!" She folded her arms across her chest. Daryl's eyes flickered downwards for a second to how her arms pushed her breasts higher and more together. 

God she's gorgeous when she's mad he thought, his cock twitching in his jeans. He ducked his head and scoffed.

"Ya know what I mean, can't even hunt without hurtin' yaself." 

"Go away Dixon." She turned on her heel and stormed off up the bank, and climbing up the RV ladder to take watch. Daryl sighed and slopped off back to his brother, who was laughing, finding the whole scene hilarious.

                                                    **********

Phoenix nodded up at the hunter and pulled on her boots and grabbed her bow. She followed Daryl over to his tent where his brother was preparing to go into the city. Merle gave her a once over as she approached, his eyes narrowed at the bow across her back and the stains on the bandage around her left hand.

"Mornin' Firebug." He drawled as the pair stopped. She nodded and heaved her backpack tighter to her shoulder beside her quiver of arrows. "Y'all gonna be alright t' hunt wit' tha' hand?" He questioned, giving his brother a glance. Daryl gave Merle a hooded lidded look and nodded his head up. "Don't wanna waste my time if ya gonna drop down dead on poor Darlena 'ere."

The girl smirked and shoved the older man's shoulder playfully before flipping him off, striding towards the treeline.

"You watch 'er baby brother. She's one of us now."

"Hmm" Daryl said, glancing at the girl as she waited just under the cover of the trees for him. Merle gave a low chuckle and Daryl glared at him. "Stop."

"Come on baby brother, don't be like that." Merle stood and patted him on the shoulder. "Ya been pining after 'er for weeks now. Just give her some of the ol' Dixon charm. If ya even have any!" He barked out a laugh as his brother scoffed and walked away, joining the girl and disappearing into the woods.

                                                    **********

A low whistle drew her attention and she glanced in the direction of it. Daryl raised his hand and pointed off towards the copse of trees in front of him. Keeping her body low to the ground and her steps feather light she approached him. Her eyes darting out at the small herd of deer in front of them, they'd finally found them after two days in the woods. She raised her hand and pointed to the smaller of the two bucks. Daryl nodded and gestured he was going to try and get around them so if they darted he could take a shot. She nodded and crouched lower, using the shrubs to hide her. Daryl wandered away silently as she waited for his signal. 

A loud shriek pierced the air and the deer scattered. Daryl swore and took off after the smaller buck, Phoenix following him at a distance. 

                                                    **********

They stopped by a small creak, Phoenix dipping her hand into it and running it over the back of her neck. She felt like she was on fire, yet icy cold at the same time. The infection in her hand had well and truly set in, she needed to be careful or she'd drop and not get back up.

"We go a littl' further then stop fer the night." Daryl mummered beside her, wiping his soaked red rag over the back of his neck and down his face. She nodded, eyes staring off into the stream. He watched her carefully, the way her hair at the back of her neck was slightly curly, the way her ears twitched as if she was a rabbit or a deer hearing a predator. He found her beautiful and mysterious. A riddle he wanted to solve. He couldn't help his attraction to her physique either, the woman was beautiful. Not perhaps every man's wet dream but he found her incredibly sexy. 

He admired how she wore gothic, all black, metal studded and chained clothes despite the heat, her short dyed dark red hair, the regrowth hinting at sandy blond, spiked with sweat these days that cried out to be tugged as she was kissed, the slight thicker set of her thighs, buttocks and stomach, he much preferred a girl with a bit of weight than the skinny, almost starved look some of the women up at camp had; the ink he could spy under her clothes was calling out for him to discover exactly how many tattoos she had and why she'd chosen them. He had seen a glimpse of the tattoos on her by accident when he'd stumbled upon her at the lake having a quick swim and also when he'd found her in the woods. She kept herself well covered normally, she said she got sunburn easily. He could spy an interesting shaped scar across her collar bone when she wore lower cut shirts, not that she did very much now. 

Not since he'd saved her in the woods a week or so ago. 

He loved how well they worked as hunters together. She knew enough to track decently and was surprisingly quiet on her feet, despite the heavy metal covered, thick platform soled boots she chose to wear. They're only issue seemed to be that they butted heads constantly when not hunting, both taking verbal swipes at each other whenever they tried to have a conversation, sometimes she'd slap him on the arm; Merle finding it hilarious and entertaining to join in. Damn Merle, was his fault she got hurt in the first place. If he hadn't egged her on about her lack of hunting abilities, she wouldn't have been out in the woods by herself in the first place. 

He sighed quietly as she raised to her feet and moved away, eyes scanning the forest floor for the deer's tracks, finding them and leading the way.

                                                    **********

Daryl grunted as he lowered himself down beside the girl, who was turning a stick through the weak fire in front of her. The night was silent except for the light wind. He silently settled down against the log and took out of one of the squirrel for the pair to eat. Daryl made quick work of gutting and skinning the small rodent and shoved it on a stick to slowly roast over the flames. The girl's eyes drifting upwards towards the stars. She looked so peaceful that he didn't want to disturb her. 

"We gotta head back in the morning if we don't find the deer." She nodded and pulled her arms around her own shoulders, shivering slightly. "Come 'ere." He said, holding his arms open for her to settle beside him. Daryl usually hated touching others and being touched was a rarity for him but he'd made the exception for her while they hunted. It was simply for survival he told himself. If she got too cold she'd get sick and then the group wouldn't have a hunter when he and Merle left. And he'd feel that guilt all his life, the kids needed fresh meat so he was doing something for the group. Nothing to do with his stupid little crush. Nope, he was doing it for the group. She shuffled closer and wrapped an arm around his waist. Her head found his chest and she sighed, feeling the heat from Daryl seep into her cold bones. Daryl frowned, she felt hot yet she was shivering like crazy. 

That damn hand. 

He pulled her closer and ran his hand cautiously up and down her arm. She flinched at first then relaxed into his embrace. 

"Ya alright?" 

"Yea. Just cold." She whispered, her warm breath causing goose bumps across Daryl's chest. She blinked slowly, feeling sleep call her. The smell of Daryl's warm body lulling her, she had missed falling asleep in a man's arms. It was familiar and comforting. She felt safe, warm and protected despite the dead walking. 

                                                    **********

The sharp whistle drew her attention to the left. She nocked her arrow and let it fly, hitting the deer in the hind leg causing it to run. The two hunters had caught up to the deer earlier and were driving it towards camp. Daryl was in the rear urging it forward, while she made it turn in the right direction when it veered too far to the left. 

She spotted the steep banks that marked the outer edges of the quarry and smiled. 

Almost home.

Taking another shot to steer the deer towards the lower bank she smiled. The group would eat well tonight. She stumbled and shot at the hind leg again. The deer in one last desperate burst of energy slipped out of her sight but it was very close to camp. Wouldn't take long for them to catch up.

                                                          **********

Phoenix paused and braced her arms on her knees, Daryl whistled in question, asking if she was alright as he walked by her. She held up a hand in reply. He grumbled and walked away. She could hear yells and the sounds of stomping as she neared the rocks that hid camp. 

Daryl was knelt on the ground and looking over the deer. 

"Think we could cut around the chewed up part?" He said looking up at Dale and the others. Phoenix's eyes narrowed as she spotted a new face amongst the men. The group of men didn't seem to notice her as she joined Daryl at his side, subconsciously seeking his protection from the stranger. Fear made her heart pound loudly in her ears as Daryl stood. 

"I wouldn't risk that" Shane said quietly, Daryl sighed dejectedly frustrated he hadn't been able to feed the group more. 

"That's a damn shame. We got us some squirrels... About a dozen or so. That'll have to do."

"Oh my god!" Amy gasped as the head of the walker suddenly began to gnash its teeth. 

"Come on people! What the hell?!" Daryl exclaims as he releases a bolt through its undead head. "It's gotta be the brain! Don't y'all know nothin'?!" 

Phoenix smirked, shouldering her bow as she followed Daryl back into camp. She gave a glance over her shoulder at the group behind her, noticing the exchange of looks between them. 

"MERLE! MERLE! Get ya ugly ass out here! Got us some squirrel! Let's stew 'em up!" Daryl calls out, Phoenix swivelling her head to see where the elder Dixon was.

"Daryl, just slow up a bit. I need to talk to you." Shane called, his hands on his hips as the group avoids Daryl and Phoenix's eyes. 

"About what?" Daryl queries, pausing his march around the camp. Phoenix, instinctively, taking Daryl's back with a bad feeling in her gut. 

"DD... Hear him out." She whispers as Daryl narrows his eyes in suspicion. Daryl glances at her briefly before turning back to Shane. 

"About Merle... There was a... There was a problem in Atlanta." The former officer sighs, his hand reaching out as if to pacify the man. Phoenix grits her teeth and reaches for the gun hidden behind her shirt slowly, sensing this was not going to end well. 

"He dead? "

"We're not sure..."

OH shitttt Phoenix thought, slipping the brace of squirrels and her bow off her shoulder. 

"He either is or he ain't!" Daryl stated, his voice raising in anger as his face grew more dark. 

"No easy way to say this so I'll just say it." The newcomer said quietly, stepping into the discussion. 

"Who are you?!" Daryl asked, confused slightly as to what this stranger had to do with his brother's disappearance. 

"Rick Grimes." 

"Rick Grimes?!" Daryl spat aggressively, his face a mask to the hurt and anger underneath. "You got summit ya want t' tell me?" 

"Your brother was a danger to us all, so I... I handcuffed him on a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal... He's still there." 

"What the fuck!?" Phoenix snarled as her eyes narrowed at the newcomer. Her stance widening, readying herself for a fight. Daryl began pacing, his eyes meeting hers, she gave a barely there nod in agreement with him. 

"Hold on... Let me process this. You're sayin' you handcuffed my brother to a roof and you left him there!?" Daryl growled as he paced, the woman edging towards Shane, out of Daryl's path to Rick. 

"Yeah." 

Daryl growls loudly as he throws his rope of squirrels at Rick, who dodges them easily. 

"Hey! Watch the knife!" T-Dog yells as Daryl pulls his knife. Shane dodges Phoenix and gets behind Daryl, quickly putting him into a chokehold. Phoenix steps up behind Shane, her own knife slipping into her grip, her gun giving a low click as she removed the safety and pointed it at the curls of Shane's hair. 

"Okay... Okay..." Shane whispers, lowering Daryl and himself to the ground. 

"You'd best let me go!" Daryl gasped, struggling to free himself. 

"Do as he says!" Phoenix snarls, her Beretta a mere breath away from Shane's skull. 

"Chokehold's illegal!" Daryl grunts, thrashing his legs. Phoenix lowers her gun to Shane's shoulder, ready to pull the trigger if needed. 

"You can file a complaint!" Shane laughs weakly. "Come on man. We'll keep this up all day."

"Like shite we will. I'll shoot ya first mate!" The red head growled as Rick kneels in front of Daryl and Shane, his head tilting to the side. 

"I'd like to have a calm discussion on this topic. Do you think we can manage that? Do you think we can manage that?" 

Daryl grunts, ceasing to struggle, slapping his hand out to the side of him; silently signalling to the woman to stand down as Shane hums in question. 

"Mmm...Yeah." Daryl replies. 

Shane releases him quickly and steps away as the younger man raises himself to his feet. Shane's eyebrows raised as Phoenix pulls herself to her full height, him and Rick giving her a worried glance. She smirks and makes a show of putting her knife and gun back into their places. Rick turns to Daryl and rubs the back of his neck slowly. 

"What I did was not on a whim. Your brother does not work or play well with others."

"It’s not Rick's fault!" T-Dog interrupted, the large man stepping closer. "I had the key... I dropped it!"

Phoenix scoffed, glaring at the man. 

"Ya couldn't pick it up?!" Daryl questioned, his anger disappearing and being replaced by worry and anxiety. 

"Well, I dropped it in a drain."

"If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it don't." Daryl snapped as he shook his head, pacing in a small circle. Phoenix joining him at his side and glaring daggers at T-Dog. 

"Maybe this will... Look, I chained the door to the roof... So geeks couldn't get at him... With a big ass chain and padlock. Its got to count for something!"

"Hell with all y'all! Just tell me where he is... So that I can go get him." Daryl choked out, his voice cracking with tears as Phoenix gently placed a hand on his shoulder. 

"So we can go get him." She declared, daring anyone to argue with her. Daryl gave her a tiny up nod at her and squeezed her hand on his shoulder lightly. 

"He'll show you. Isn't that right?" Lori spoke up from the door of the RV, she looked to Rick quietly awaiting his reply. 

"I'm going back." He stated quietly. Lori sighed and walked into the RV. 

                                                   *********

Phoenix pulled on her long studded leather jacket and secured her axe into the specialised holster on her back. Daryl stood beside her silently, chewing his lip. The Brit have a slight wobble as she got lighter headed and Daryl's mind came to only one solution to a major issue between the pair.  

"Hey." 

"Hey DD. You ready to go get Merle?" She asked, bending to tie her boot laces.  "Yea... Ya not comin' though."  

"What!? You can't be serious DD! You need me with you so those picks don't leave you there as well!" She snapped back as he turned to walk away. 

"Daryl!" 

"Nah. Ya hurt. Too many geeks in the city fer ya axe. Stay here. Keep safe." He argued back, she growled in her throat and pushed by him. His hand wrapped around her arm in a bruising grip.  

"Dixon..."  

"Listen... Stay here. I don't... Just... Fuck." He hissed. "Merle will be pissed. Real pissed." 

"He'll of been baked in the sun ya mean! He is gonna be stir fried from the heat! He's gonna need someone to calm him down. He ain't gonna hurt me DD... He wouldn't hurt me." She sighed, her head beginning to throb. "I have to Daryl. I owe him one!"  

"Nah ya don't!" 

"Yes I fucking do!"  

"No. Ya stayin' here!" 

 "I'm going!" She yelled, hands on her hips.  

"No!" 

"Yes!" 

"NO! And that's final!"  

The pair continued to argue for several more minutes until Shane interrupted them, the pair literally chest to chest and needing to be pulled apart before fists began to fly. Phoenix huffed and stormed away into the woods as the man agreed with Daryl. Daryl glared after the fiery woman before stomping off to the truck, missing her turning back towards the camp and leaning against a tree with her arm crossed against her chest.    

Phoenix glanced at the truck Daryl stood in. She wanted to wish them luck but knew Daryl was still angry with her. He looked in her direction and nodded his head, a small smile gracing the corner of his mouth. She sighed and walked towards him, he knelt down at the open shutter and tilted his head towards her.  "Keep safe in the city DD." She whispered, gazing upwards into the man's sky blue eyes. He nodded and chewed his thumb. "Bring Merle back. Wouldn't be the same round here without that dickhead." 

"Yea. Be quieter fer sure." He chuckled, smiling fondly at the girl. Phoenix reached up and pulled at Daryl, forcing him to brace himself against the ledge as she hugged him with one arm against her chest. Daryl slowly relaxed enough to enjoy her closeness and leaned his head on top of hers.  

"Please come back." She whispered into his ear as he pulled back slightly, his eyes flitting around camp to make sure no one was witnessing the exchange.  He nodded lightly into her neck, his arm coming to loosely hold her waist. He breathed in her soothing subtle scent and closed his eyes to help him memorise thee moment, just in case. He cleared his throat and pulled away, feeling a certain part of his anatomy starting to stir. She smiled weakly at him with teary eyes and walked away.  

"Hey!"  

Phoenix turned slightly, the breeze making her hair wave over her face softly. Thee sun shining behind her making her hair look like flames licking across the crown of her head. The bruises and cuts across her face hidden in the shadows of her face and hair.  So beautiful Daryl thought, smiling slightly. His mind locking the sight into his memory as he stood and waved to her.  

"Stay safe!" He called to her, she nodded and waved back. Her cheeks tinting pink at his loud show of concern as she smiled softly.   

NEXT

#the walking dead fanfiction #PhoenixBWrites #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl x oc #Fera Ingris #DarylDixon #daryl dixon x oc #the walking dead fanfic #daryl dixon fanfic #twd fanfiction

[moskaisley]

thin walls

gif cred: @mrpascals​

rating: NC-17 lol

word count: 3.1k 

warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT!! 18+ !! graphic depictions of sex, auralism, mentions of alcohol, jealousy, dumb oblivious clownery, a lil pining, a smidge of angst at the end u know me

a/n: 

this is a side story for my ongoing series “migraine” !! 

i NEEDED to write something fun since the last part of migraine was so angsty. i really wanted to just explore them having fun together and being bros!!! just vibin!!! being young and dumb!!! and ofc their obvious sexual tension before migraine girl and mando started their romantic relationship. idk when part 5 will be out since i have finals next week, but i definitely dont want to wait a month to post it LOL 

for now, enjoy this fun and sexy romcom bullshit 

summary:

“You’re the worst wingman ever,” You tease as you kick his calf lightly.

He kicks you back, “Look, the night isn’t over yet. I bet I can get at least one of these people to talk to you.”

You ponder over his challenge for a moment, and then shoot him a mischievous grin. Reaching into a pouch on your belt, you slap some credits onto the table.

“Spoils go to the winner,” you say with a smile, “You have one shot. Blow it and we both go home, casanova.” 

ao3 link

A rough shove from behind nearly had you on your ass in the middle of the firefight. A blaster shot whizzes by your head, nearly clipping you as you struggle to maintain your balance. Another shot goes off, and you hear a body crumple to the ground. You snarl as you bring your elbow around, only for it to be caught by a strong hand. 

“Easy!” Qin’s voice echoes in your ears, “A ‘thanks’ would be nice.”

You scoff, roughly tearing your arm from his grip, “I nearly sliced you in half, crazy bastard.”

“Oi, don’t get all riled up, sweetheart. If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead.”

“I’m not your fuckin’ sweetheart, Qin.”

He grunts, waving you off in annoyance. Rolling your eyes, you turn around to proceed forward, ready to berate your beskar clad partner for not watching your back. Yet, to your frustration, The Mandalorian is already far down the hallway, Xi’an bouncing in tow.

--

You’re not jealous.

You say it to yourself when you wordlessly slip away from your coworkers upon returning to one of Ran’s hangars, ignoring their confused looks and the “Oh Mando, you’re so in trouble” from Vidar. You say it to yourself when you lazily bonk your head against the shower wall in frustration, and you nearly scream it when you hear Xi’an’s breathy giggles from his bunk. 

This had been going on for weeks now.

A scrap sheet of durasteel could probably muffle more sound than the current wall you shared with the Mandalorian. And while for the most part, he was a respectful neighbor, it was times like these that you wished you could throw yourself into dead space. The first time you confronted him about the noise, it was almost cute at how awkward he was in apologizing to you. That night, amidst the wanton moans and cries of ecstasy coming from next door, you kept hearing him shush the Twi’lek in that gentle, gravelly voice of his. Even then, every noise still drifted into your bunk, but you decided to be merciful and save him any more embarrassment by keeping quiet. (You made a note in your head, though. He so owes you for this.) Instead, you picked up an old busted radio from the market, fixing it up and tuning in during crises like these. It only connected to one station, but you’d take Val Syko’s Quenk Jazz Jams over the sounds of your partner’s pleasure any day. 

But tonight, drowning in the funky sounds of Val’s extensive music collection wasn’t doing it for you. Mando’s groan echoes dully off the walls of your room, and your thighs instinctually press together in an attempt to quell the warmth pooling at your core. You press your fingers to the bridge of your nose. It was unfair, really. Mando was getting action at least once a week, yet your pool kept coming up empty, and you refused to fuck around with any of your current colleagues. Sighing, you check your watch; the night is still young and therefore, incredibly long. Your eyes dart over to your tiny closet, pursing your lips together in apprehension. Another one of Xi’an’s moans rings in your ears.

You know what? Fuck it.

It’s almost comical how the ship falls into abrupt silence when you knock on his door. 

“I’m going out,” you say quickly before he could open the door. Silence follows and you roll your eyes. 

“Don’t wait up. I’ll be late.”

--

You’re not sure why you thought your luck would change tonight. 

You were nursing your second drink, lazily twisting the straw in the glass and scanning around the cantina for anyone who could catch your eye. On your first round, there was a cute redhead who gave you a sweet compliment on your outfit, but your hope died when she slipped into a booth next to her boyfriend on the other side of the room. You let out a long, exasperated sigh, letting your head drop as you squeeze your eyes shut. This was a dumb idea. You’re gonna be listening to those two all night while Val plays that one song from Mooneyes for the thousandth kriffing time–

“Is this seat taken?”

You groan loudly at his stupid fucking modulated voice.

“I’ll take that as a no.” 

Mando slips into the stool next to you, leaning against the bar as he tilts his head.

“I wondered where you ran off to.”

“I can have my fun too, Mando.”

“Clearly,” he quips, gesturing to your lonely exasperated form, huddled over your drink.

“You’re so annoying, you know that?” 

You shove him and he laughs, head shaking at how easy you are to tease. Rolling your eyes, you take a sip from your drink. He shuffles a little, subtly leaning to the right, visor skimming over your backside. You smirk, catching him in the act.

“Hey!” You snap your fingers in front of his helmet, “Eyes up here, tin can.”

Pushing your hand to the side, he takes the hem of it in between his fingers and says, “I didn’t know you had clothes like these.”

“What? This old thing?”

Though your lifestyle didn’t allow for a big wardrobe, there were a few times you would indulge yourself in some of the finer things. The dress was oxblood in color, made of soft velvet with a high neck and open back. It hugged your body snugly, ending just above your knees with a leg slit that traveled up your thigh. It took a decent chunk from your paycheck, and you were so compelled to buy it that you didn’t even consider where you’d wear it. But you loved the way it made you feel, and it was a lovely change of pace from the typical bounty hunter getup you often sported.

“It looks nice on you,” he tells you, nonchalantly.

You swallow hard as his gloved fingers brush against your thigh. Dizzying warmth washes over you. What the hell? Drunk already?

“Thanks.”

“What’s the occasion?” He asks you, releasing his hold on your dress.

You shoot him a sardonic smile as you raise your glass, as if you’re toasting.

“I’m taking applications for a new partner. My old one was too busy getting his dick wet and I almost got shot. Had to be saved by Qin, of all people.”

“I dunno, Qin could be a worthy candidate. He seems to be very friendly with you, too.”

“Are you insane? He’s a kriffing psychopath. Almost as crazy as your girlfriend.”

“Hey, she’s not–”

You cock your brows at him and smirk.

He playfully punches your arm as you take another sip. 

“Alright, alright. I get it,” he says as you laugh at him, “Let me make it up to you. Are you trying to go home with someone tonight? I can be your wingman.”

You snort at the thought, “Yeah right. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mando but you’re not exactly the most approachable person. And besides, no one here is really catching my eye. I think I’m just gonna go.”

You’re moving to stand up and pay until he grabs your arm to keep you still.

“No, wait. C’mon, stay. Lets–Let’s just have some fun.”

You smile earnestly at him; Mando’s insistence to spend time with you genuinely warms your heart, so you lean back to your seat and flag down the bartender.

--

Though a second set of eyes helped in checking out people that you may have overlooked, it kind of defeated the purpose when that set of eyes was known for being one of the fiercest warriors throughout the galaxy. You thought you were able to catch the eye of a particularly dashing fighter pilot, exchanging flirty glances and a little wave. But the second he saw you in an exchange with a Mandalorian, he was quick to dash out the cantina without so much as saying a word to you. Mando kept insisting you both stay, denying that his intimidating armor had any effect on your chances of getting laid.

“Mando, I’m telling you this in the nicest way possible, but you’re scaring people off.”

“Maybe they just like what they see.”

“You’re the worst wingman ever,” You tease as you kick his calf lightly.

He kicks you back, “Look, the night isn’t over yet. I bet I can get at least one of these people to talk to you.”

You ponder over his challenge for a moment, and then shoot him a mischievous grin. Reaching into a pouch on your belt, you slap some credits onto the table.

“Spoils go to the winner,” you say with a smile, “You have one shot. Blow it and we both go home, casanova.”

Needless to say, he fails. Miserably. 

The first person he goes up to must’ve been guilty of something. Because as soon as the Mandalorian stalks around the corner to his seat, the poor soul tosses his drink at him and dashes out the door. The metal man stands for a second in shock, and you see his shoulders slack as he lets out a defeated sigh. He rounds the bar back to you, Corellian rum dripping off his helmet and all over his beskar. Your stomach hurts trying to suppress the laughter building inside you, but you couldn’t help it. Your hand flies to your mouth as you snort loudly, laughing so hard that tears almost form in your eyes. You didn’t expect the night to go this way and your endeavors for a hookup had failed terribly, but it still made you happy to spend time with your friend all the same. 

“That wasn’t fair. Let me try again.”

You struggle to form a response between your laughs, “No–no way! I–I can’t watch that again.”

“C’mon, I didn’t even get to try. Gimme another chance.”

You shake your head, taking your credits off the table and slipping them back into your pouch. 

“Nope, rules are rules, Mando. Let’s just get outta here.”

“No way, I refuse to give up so–”

“She asked you to leave, buddy.”

You turn to look at the new voice, confused and a bit irritated for interrupting your exchange with Mando. You’re met with green eyes, strong shoulders, sexy scruff, olive skin, and a very dashing smile. Your retaliation dies in your throat, and your lips curl into a smile. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Mando didn’t pick up on this though, “No, it’s not like that. We were just–”

“He was just going, actually. Right, Mando?” You look back at him and give him a wink, “I think I’ve had enough of you today.”

His helmet tilts upward in surprise, and then he chuckles lightly.

“Okay, then.”

He slides off his stool, gesturing to it for your new friend before walking out of the cantina. You watch Mando walk out the door, and the man takes over his seat.

“Was he bothering you?”

“No, actually,” You give him a sweet smile, “He’s a friend.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, “Friends with a Mandalorian, eh? What’s that like?”

“Well, they make awful wingmen,” you joke. 

“Is that so?”

“Why? Looking to take his place?”

“No, I’m here to buy you a drink.”

Catching your bottom lip with your teeth, you smile and your heart flutters.

“What’s your name?”

“Deo.”

--

He presses you up against the wall of the cantina outside, hands snaking up your waist and lips pressing hard against yours. Deo grabs and pulls at your flesh, slipping his tongue in your mouth and you moan against him. It’s been so long since you’ve felt someone this way, and it makes your skin sing in pleasure. When he pulls away, he keeps his forehead up against yours, breaths labored and heavy.

“So, mine or yours?”

A devious grin crosses your lips, “Mine.”

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

You take his hand into yours, clinging to his arm for balance. The drinks have finally caught up to you and there’s a pleasant buzz warming your body as you try your best not to stumble through the streets. As you make it back to the Razor Crest, you stop in front of the side gate, opening the hatch as Deo’s hand meets the small of your back. You pull him up into the loading dock, and he digs his face into your neck, biting at the skin as you press buttons on the door panel. When it shuts, he pushes you up against the wall of the ship, sucking at the skin beneath your jaw and grinding his pelvis up against your ass. You try to suppress a mewl, as you push off the wall and turn to him. 

“Not here,” you whisper.

“Why not here?”

A muffled whimper comes from further away, and both of your heads abruptly turn to the source of the noise coming from behind Mando’s door.

Deo looks back to you, brows furrowed, “You sure this ship is yours, honey? Looks occupied.”

“Roommate. He won’t bother us, though.”

You shove him off of you and saunter over to your own bunk door. You turn around and beckon him to come with a single finger.

“C’mere.”

--

Your dress, along with Deo’s clothes, was left forgotten on the ground of your tiny room. He was quick to the draw, pulling your legs up so they wrapped around his hips and holding your ass for support. He pressed you up against the wall, pushing his cock inside you. You moan loudly, relishing in the feeling of his length filling up your pussy and the pressure of him crowding you against the metal. 

And that’s when you realize–

Deo is fucking you up against the wall you share with Mando. 

The mere thought of it makes you clench tighter around him and the smile on your face is downright devilish. Your partner can hear every lewd noise you make, just as you’d heard his, and it drove you crazy. Your body flushes with heat, wetness pooling at your core. Your arms pull Deo tighter against you, burying him deeper inside and mewling against his neck.

“Maker, you think he can hear you, honey?”

“Probably,” You let a breathy laugh against him, “Thin walls.”

A distinctly modulated groan echoes from behind you and you can’t suppress the grin that spreads along your lips.

Bastard.

You pull at the base of Deo’s neck, and guide his head to your chest. He nips and sucks at your collar bone, leaving another mark along your skin. Lifting a hand from your ass, he brings it to your breast, kneading it in his hands and running his thumb over your nipple. You whine as he begins to pinch it in between his fingers while he fucks up into you. Coincidentally, Mando’s moans reach your ears again only seconds later. 

So we’re playing this game, are we?

You squeeze Deo’s shoulder, the knot in your lower belly getting tighter and tighter the more you focus on the noises coming from the next room over. You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help the image of your partner holding you like this, fucking you relentlessly against the wall you shared. You wonder if he looks anything like Deo; does he have the same green eyes? Or are they brown? What about his lips? How do they feel against yours? Your neck? Your cunt? You imagine that it’s his hands clutching and squeezing your soft flesh, his cock stretching you open, his stupid fucking voice whispering praises in your ear. 

“F–Fuck! I’m gonna cum,” you panted, pressure building up inside you, aching for release.

You swore, you heard Mando’s breath hitch behind you.

“Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum all over my cock.”

You nearly scream as you come undone around Deo, waves of pleasure washing over you. In your haze, a single thought crosses your mind: Mando was chasing his own release as well.

You know it, you feel it.

So you moan again.

--

“I had a good time tonight.” 

“I did too.”

You hug your body tightly, the air of the hangar was cool against your skin, and you were clad in only a thin shirt and shorts. Deo is holding your upper arms, smiling softly at you as you shivered.

Brushing a strand of hair away from your face, he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“We should do this again sometime,” he whispers against your skin, “Maybe, somewhere without your little roommate?”

You giggle, warmth heating up your cheeks.

“We’ll see.”

He bids you goodnight, and you walk back into the Crest, shutting the ramp behind you. You’re turning to go to bed when the sound of your partner’s door makes you freeze. The Mandalorian emerges, free of his beskar armor save for his helmet. He stops when he sees you, surprised by your presence at this hour. You stare at each other in silence for a few moments. 

And then you snicker, and he does too.

A pleasant feeling blooms in your chest at the sound of his laugh. You take a few steps closer to him, letting your arms fall to your sides.

“So,” he begins in a low voice, “You didn’t hear any of that, right?”

“Hear what?” You ask him, innocently, “I was a little preoccupied.”

“Really? I didn’t notice.”

You hold a hand against your mouth and giggle. 

“So,” he murmurs, “Who was he?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Mando cocks his head to the side, and you swear you see a glint of mischief flash along the t-shape of his visor. 

“Well, if I’m not mistaken,” he starts, taking a step closer to you. Your heart picks up in pace.

He gently pushes aside the collar of your shirt to reveal deep red marks blooming along your neck. Your stomach flips at the feeling of his bare fingers along your collarbone. Your throat goes dry.

“You owe me some credits.”

He stays still like this for a moment, and you take a deep breath, his touch feeling electric against your skin. When he goes to remove his hand, it’s instinct when you reach for it, clutching it and holding it in place. You feel him tense beneath you as your fingers wrap his palm. You swallow hard, drinking him in beneath the lowlight of the ship: the shine of his dumb helmet, how he towers over you, the warmth of his presence. 

You squeeze his hand, and to your surprise, he squeezes it back. His thumb traced over your fingers, and in your boldness, you gently pull it towards your cheek. 

“Mando?” you hear Xi’an’s voice call from his room. 

You shut your eyes tight, heart dropping to your stomach. Her call felt like ice water dumping over you, killing the warm, fuzzy feeling that engulfed you only moments earlier. You drop his hand quickly. You hug yourself, fingers buzzing so wildly with nerves, you need to hold it close to keep your hand from shaking. You clear your throat and shoot him a weak smile, avoiding his gaze. Bristling past him, you stop in your doorway and whisper.

“Goodnight, Mando.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

-

i imagine deo as jake gyllenhaal when he played mysterio just less of a crackhead. :)

taglist

@bella-ciaao @tiffdawg @peggers-n-beggers @sinnamon-bunn @adlerorzel-blog​ @theocatkov​ @paryl

thank u for reading, space cowboys <3

#migraine #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian/reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #din djarin/reader #IT'S ALMOST 5AM WE WILDIN OUT HERE #I DID THIS INSTEAD OF DOING MY FINALS WOOO HOOOO #ok gnight i have class in like 5 hours

[xxlittle0birdxx]

Every Story Has a Beginning

Read on AO3

'Erp!' The training droid's lightsaber slipped past Obi-wan's defenses and tapped the back of his calf. The jolt of energy temporarily seized his muscles in the grip of a painful cramp, and he fell to his knees. He waved a hand at the droid, shutting it down, then collapsed onto his back, panting for air, and lay gazing up at the dojo’s high ceiling, criss-crossed with several rafters. Karking stupid mistake, he moaned to himself. It was the sort of error a youngling would make. He’d allowed his concentration to slip for a tiny fraction of a second. He swiped his face with an already-sodden sleeve and sighed, acknowledging the source of his lapse of concentration.

Anakin.

Obi-wan sat up and rested his forearms on his bent knees, letting his hands dangle between them. What had the Council been thinking to let him take Anakin as an apprentice? True, he’d done his share of baby-tending in the crèche, but infants weren’t nine year old Padawans. And Obi-wan had little experience with being solely responsible for the well-being of a child.

And Anakin wasn't a mere child.

It had nothing to do with any of the Chosen One prophecies. Anakin's life experience made him far more jaded than his age would suggest. He was, what Rael would call, street-smart. The years of toiling for that Toydarian on Tatooine made him more proficient that most adult Jedi with machinery, and he was forever neglecting his studies to tinker with something. The few times he’d casually offered his perspective as a child slave in one of his classes resulted in shocked, horrified silence, so heavy with disapproval, that it took Obi-wan days to reassure Anakin that no, he had done nothing wrong, and the disapproval wasn’t aimed at him. The concept of play was an alien concept to Anakin. For all their supposed solemnity, Padawans played hard in their leisure time, with their chosen pursuits ranging from dejarik to the rather odd game from Chandrila that involved a stick and a ball, with a great deal of running, throwing, and catching. For a child who'd spent most of his days working, idleness of any sort was anathema. He struggled to find the stillness within him to meditate. He struggled in his classes. Not with the material. He soaked up everything like a sponge, analyzed it, and applied it to the next lesson before it even started. He chafed against the expected behavior of the more typical Padawans. 'He's fidgety!' one of the instructors had sniffed to Obi-wan, like it was a disease. His flight instructors, though… One of them had already quietly informed Obi-wan — with no small sense of awe — that Anakin had already passed the qualifications to fly starfighters and small shuttles, and was well on his way to the larger vessels. The flight simulators were one of the few places where Anakin felt truly comfortable. That, and the dojo.

Obi-wan shivered as the sweat on his body evaporated, but he didn't move.

He felt he was always chastising the boy. Eat your vegetables. Fold your tunics, don't just wad them up in the drawer. Have you finished your homework? You must calm your thoughts. For Ashla's sake, Anakin, where the hell are your socks? Slow down; no one's going to take your food away. Anakin, you must go back to your classroom.

Obi-wan was completely over his head, and he didn't dare ask for help. It would have just reinforced Yoda's doubts about Anakin’s suitability as a Padawan and Obi-wan’s as a master. Obi-wan had initially thought the Council would let Anakin ease into the Order with the rest of the younglings, but they’d plopped Anakin the Apprentice into his unprepared and gobsmacked lap. He heaved a pitiful sigh. 'Be mindful of the past and future, Obi-wan, but not at the expense of the present,' he reminded himself, imitating Qui-gon's burr.

'That wasn't half-bad.' Obi-wan's head swung up. Rael Averross leaned against the doorframe. He still looked as scruffy and rumpled as he did when Obi-wan first met him on Pijal nearly seven years ago. Perhaps his robes were slightly less shabby. 'Time honored tradition to mock your master's voice,' Rael laughed. He took in the glowing holocron, the training droid, and Obi-wan's disheveled form, then pointed to the holocron. 'Form III?'

'I… Yes.'

‘Suits you.’

‘I suppose.’ He picked up his fallen lightsaber. Three months ago, he would have argued that he could master Ataru. Even two months ago, he would have still said as much, and used its aggressive style to defeat the Sith on Naboo. And then he started replaying the final moments of the duel at odd moments, thinking of all the ways it could have gone so horribly wrong, had the Sith used a good defense. But now… He'd started to wonder if the best offense was indeed a tightly-woven defense.

Real merely grunted and walked into the dojo. ‘You know what time it is?’

Obi-wan waved a hand at the holocron to close it, then sent the droid back to its charging dock. 'I honestly don't know.'

‘After twenty-three hundred.’

Obi-wan’s stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly in the otherwise quiet room.

‘Sounds like you missed dinner, too,’ Rael observed.

‘I’ve got some ration bars stashed somewhere.’ Obi-wan pushed himself to his feet and ran his hand through his shaggy, sweat-soaked hair with a grimace. 'After I've had a shower.' Preferably a long one with water as scalding as he could stand it.

‘Might want to find your Padawan first. It's why I came looking for you.’

Obi-wan’s shoulders slumped. Not again...

‘He wasn’t at dinner with the rest of the Padawans,’ Rael continued. ‘Thought he might be eatin’ with you, but he never made it back before curfew.’

Obi-wan bit back a curse. It wasn't the first time Anakin had disappeared between his last class of the day and the Padawans' dinner. The first few times, Obi-wan had found him in one of the rooftop gardens or in a hidden corner of the Temple, his round cheeks wet with tears, feeling the press of resentment and antipathy from the other Padawans, their disdain for his lack of knowledge about the finer points of the Jedi or the Force. Or he'd crossed paths with Mace Windu, who seemed to have a special glower reserved just for Anakin. There were thousands of nooks and crannies where he could hide. And Anakin was very good at making himself small when he didn’t want to be found. He hooked his lightsaber to his belt and glanced at Rael. 'Does it get easier?'

'What? Havin' an apprentice?'

'Taking care of a child,' Obi-wan retorted, letting the weariness creep into his voice.

'Honestly?' Rael scratched his scraggly beard with both hands. 'No.' He sighed. 'Be a damn sight easier if they came with instruction manuals.' He squinted at Obi-wan. 'The Code doesn't help, either. No attachments, it says, like we don't get attached to them or them to us.'

Obi-wan closed his eyes, and massaged his temples. 'Brilliant,' he muttered. He let his hands fall to his sides, and breathed deeply, letting his consciousness fly through the Temple on the swift wings of the Force. Anakin wasn't in the gardens, or in one of the pools. He was endlessly fascinated by so much green, even limited as it was to the gardens, and with the sight of all that water contained in one place, just so the Jedi could swim. He wasn't in the kitchens sneaking food, nor was he in the flight simulators or the Padawans' dojo. Obi-wan didn't bother with the archive. Anakin disliked Jocasta Nu on sight. Where are you, Anakin? He despaired that the boy had left the Temple and was somewhere in Coruscant, boasting about his podracing or piloting skills in some flea-bitten hive of scum and villainy that didn't care that a nine year old boy's life was in danger. Something flickered in the corner of Obi-wan's mind, and he took a sharp turn toward it.

There.

Anakin was in his quarters. Just as Rael had suspected.

Obi-wan blinked. Then broke into a dead run. Something was terribly wrong.

The thick carpeting that lined the corridors muffled his footfalls as he pelted through them, panic making his heart pound in his chest. Why were his quarters so far from the dojo? He smacked the control panel of the door to his quarters with the Force and skidded to a stop just inside.

Anakin lay on one of the meditation platforms, bundled into the duvet that he'd apparently dragged from Obi-wan's bed. Despite the warmth of the duvet, and Anakin's tinkering with the climate controls to make the room as warm as possible, the boy shivered. Obi-wan laid a hand over Anakin's forehead. Kriff me… Anakin burned with fever. He scooped the sleeping child into his arms. Anakin mewled a weak protest, but wrapped his arms around Obi-wan's neck. Obi-wan balanced Anakin’s bottom on his crossed forearms. 'I'm going to take you to the infirmary,' he murmured. 'You'll feel better soon.'

Anakin's head lolled on his shoulder. 'You stink,' he rasped.

'My apologies.' Obi-wan rolled his eyes. If Anakin could comment on his current lack of personal hygiene, he must not be terribly ill. Then Anakin spoke again.

'Hurts,' Anakin complained.

Obi-wan peered at him. One thing Anakin never complained about so far was physical discomfort. 'What does?'

'Head. Throat. And I'm cold…' He burrowed into Obi-wan's chest, who grew more alarmed. He was most definitely not cold to the touch. Obi-wan could feel the heat radiating from him and walked faster.

The infirmary was just ahead. Obi-wan's strides lengthened, and he burst into the dimly lit space. The medical droid rolled up to them, and scanned Anakin before Obi-wan could so much as speak. The droid returned to a workstation, and retrieved a small bottle that it shoved into one of Obi-wan's hands. 'Give him these. Two pills every six hours until the fever breaks.'

'When will that be?'

The droid didn't shrug, but the pattern of blinking lights suggested one. 'As long as it takes. Could be as few as two or three days. Could be six.'

'What's the matter with him?'

'Nerf-pox.' The droid turned away. 'Nothing to do but ride it out.'

Obi-wan felt outraged on behalf of his apprentice. Surely there was more to be done then ride it out. 'Are you joking?'

'It's not in my programming to make japes about illnesses,' the droid retorted sharply. 'Pills every six hours to help with the fever. Put him to bed, and let him rest. Keep him hydrated.'

Obi-wan refrained from sticking his tongue out at the droid, even though he dearly wanted to, then left the infirmary. He stopped and let the relief course through him. Nerf-pox was a common childhood illness. He took a few steps toward the Padawans' dormitories, but stopped and pivoted toward the Knights' barracks, returning to his quarters at a much slower pace than he'd left them. The Padawans' sleeping cells were barely large enough for one person. He couldn't imagine trying to care for a sick child in one. His own quarters were quite modest, but he did have his own 'fresher and a minuscule kitchen area.

Rael waited on one of the meditation platforms. He stood when Obi-wan entered, and lifted a bundle of clothing. 'Nerf-pox?' At Obi-wan's nod, he sighed. 'Figures. Most of 'em have it when they're in the crèche, where he should be.' He motioned to Obi-wan to follow him, and went into the small bedroom and laid out a set of small pajamas. 'Musta had chores in the crèche this week. It's runnin' through the three year olds…'

Obi-wan set Anakin on the edge of the bed and began to peel off the layers of his clothing. The boy was barely conscious, limbs heavy and limp. 'How did you of all people end up in the crèche?'

Rael sighed and handed him the pajama top. 'Fanry. To make up for what I didn't do with her.' Obi-wan glanced up at him with an upraised eyebrow. 'See her as a person. I only ever saw what I wanted to see. I kriffed it up on Pijal.' He shrugged and passed the pajama bottoms to Obi-wan. 'So when I came back… I asked the Council if I could work with the crèche masters.'

Obi-wan tucked Anakin into the bed and stood. 'And now you're one of the resident advisors for the Padawans.'

Rael snorted, gathering Anakin's clothing and folding it. 'Not sure how well I advise, but I do look out for the Padawans whose masters have to leave 'em behind.' He cuffed Obi-wan on the back of the head with a muttered, 'See ya 'round.'

'Rael?' Obi-wan's head ducked. 'Thank you.'

''M not the best one to ask, but if ya need help with your Padawan… Y'know where to find me.' He left with a wave.

Obi-wan found the small bottle of pills and scanned the label. 'May be administered sublingually,' he read aloud. He glanced at Anakin, sprawled on his back. 'There's a relief. I won't have to try and wake you.' He shook two tiny pills into his palm, then poked them into Anakin's mouth, belatedly thinking he should have washed his hands first. Too late to bother now. He grabbed a clean set of clothes and headed for the 'fresher, trading his much-desired hot water shower for a sonic one. He intended to spend the night in the single armchair in the other room, but a scratchy whisper halted his steps.

'Don't go.'

He turned. Anakin was awake, his blue eyes glassy and bloodshot with fever, silently pleading for Obi-wan to stay. Obi-wan hesitated. The others would insist he must be firm with Anakin, teach him true Jedi detachment. But he couldn't say no. Just as he couldn't say no when he woke up in the middle of the night, and nearly tripped over Anakin, sleeping on the floor next to his bed. 'All right.' Obi-wan slid onto the bed, bracing his back against the wall. He lifted Anakin's head and pillowed it on his thigh, just above his knees. He wasn't going to sleep anyway. He could meditate in here just as well as the other room.

Anakin sighed and coughed, his breath rattling in his lungs. 'I miss my mom,' he murmured.

'I know.'

Anakin turned on his side and curled into a ball. 'Why is it bad to miss my mom?'

Obi-wan felt this was a serious philosophical question from Anakin, and not a querulous complaint. He was silent for several minutes, trying to think of an answer, and not just quote dogma at him. 'I'm not certain I'm the best person to ask,' he finally said. Anakin's only reply was a soft snore, for which Obi-wan was grateful. He was still grieving Qui-gon's death. It had left a gaping hole in Obi-wan's life. Rael was right. For all the Code's admonishments against attachments, masters and apprentices did form emotional attachments to one another. How could he not, when he'd spent the past twelve years following in the formidable footsteps of Qui-gon Jinn? Two months on, and the memory of Force leaving Qui-gon's body still made his hands twitch. He leaned his head against the wall and slowly exhaled. Satine Kryze likewise occupied a corner of his heart and soul, even more than seven years after he'd left her on Mandalore. Leaving had been the correct decision — and a mutual one — but he often wondered if they'd been in the right to close the door their friendship as well. He could do with her counsel right now. He called his datapad to his hand and entered the codes for his personal data archive, then pressed his thumb to the indicted location to read his thumbprint. Then an iris scan. One can never be too careful, he mused, tapping on the message from Satine for what was probably the hundredth time. She hadn't sent it directly to him, but to the Council. Master Plo Koon then passed it along to him.

Please offer my deepest condolences to Obi-wan. Nu kyr'adyc, shin taab'echaaj'la.

'Not gone, merely marching far away,' Obi-wan muttered. For a Mandalorian saying, it hewed rather close to the Jedi way of viewing death. He glanced down at Anakin to assure himself he was still asleep, then switched to the HoloNet, and searched for a tidbit about Satine. It was never a regular habit of his. Just when he needed to feel good about something he'd done. Truth be told, he seemed to look her up nearly every night lately. He felt like he was failing Anakin, and by extension, Qui-gon. Seeing Satine flourish made him feel as though he had done one thing right with his life so far. A holovid appeared of her touring a new hospital on Kalevala. Mandalore seemed to be thriving under her leadership.

Time unspooled around him, while the miniature image of Satine moved through the sun-drenched room, over and over.

Anakin stirred and squinted at the blue-tinged hologram over his head. 'Who's that?' His breath whistled through his clogged sinuses.

'Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore,' Obi-wan told him. 'An old friend.'

Anakin watched her for a few moments, the blue light from the holo making his pale face even more pallid. 'She's pretty.'

‘She is,’ Obi-wan agreed, although he felt he was terribly biased. He switched off the datapad.

Anakin yawned and blinked a few times, eyelids growing heavy. 'Not as pretty as Padmé,' he sighed before falling asleep once more.

The corner of Obi-wan's mouth tipped up with a rueful grin. Anakin was rather taken with the young queen of Naboo. The Naboo penchant for pomp, and the queen's correspondingly elaborate wardrobe did little to dispel the notion that they were in some sort of fairy tale. Obi-wan had little doubt that Anakin dreamed of defending Padmé Amidala against Star Dragons, the bold and fearless Jedi Knight wielding his trusty lightsaber.

Hours passed before Anakin stirred again in the peculiar light before dawn that leeched the color from the room. 'They think we're gonna fail,' Anakin remarked, pushing the duvet away. 'Hot,' he mumbled.

With a few gestures, Obi-wan brought a cool, damp cloth to his waiting hand, and draped it over Anakin's forehead. 'Oh?'

'Mmm-hmmmm.' Anakin gazed up at him. ''M too old to be a youngling an' too young to be a Padawan. An' you're too young an'…' His brows drew together as he groped for the word. 'Inexperienced.'

Obi-wan wiped Anakin's cheeks with the cloth. 'Who told you that?'

'No one. But they all think it. All the other Padawans… Master Windu…'

Obi-wan smiled grimly. Why am I not surprised? He ran his hand over Anakin's hair. 'Well, I suppose we'll have to succeed beyond everyone's wildest dreams.' Anakin started to shiver again, and Obi-wan tucked the duvet around his skinny shoulders, struck anew by how small and frail he felt. You will be a Jedi, even if it kills me, he thought.

#obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #obi-wan & anakin #padawan anakin #master obi-wan #post-star wars: the phantom menace #a few months after phantom menace #early padawan anakin #obi-wan trying to parent anakin #mentioned qui-gon jinn #mentioned satine kryze #implied obi-wan/satine kryze #rael averross #trying not to fail #obi-wan doesn't feel ready to be a master

[stealinghero]

Okay so imagine this! The Lupin crew are relaxing at a cafe after a successful heist. The s/o says they have to use the bathroom and they leave. But after about five minutes, the s/o comes running out of the back door with a dehydrated body in their arms yelling that they need to go, there’s no time to explain and it’s not their fault, all while some shady looking people chase after them.

Finally.... after losing my first draft (about 4 pages) because of my stupid self overwriting it, it’s finally done!!

I did it a bit different than before to get the vibe of an episode, showing a few more aspects than just the view of the reader.

I hope you all enjoy it!!  It’s under the cut for length.

It had been a busy week. But now it was time to finally relax and come down. You were sitting in your favourite café, surrounded by your friends.

“I dare you to eat a whole Sundae in under 5 minutes.”

“Do you think I can’t do this?!”

“Hundred bucks against it.”

You snorted and had to laugh out loud when Jigen showed you the Sundae in question on the menu. It was huge!!

“Excuse me for a second. Don’t start without me!” You had to see Lupin try this dare, but nature called you with an urgency you seldom had.

“If I win, I’ll get a kiss!”

You turned around to your boyfriend and grinned.

“And if you lose, I get a kiss from Jigen!”

The gunman snickered and nodded. “Deal.”

“No deal! Don’t touch my precious love!”

You let the guys bicker while you made your way to the restrooms.

 A moaning was heard as soon as you entered. Some people had no shame! But something was off with it. Didn’t it sound painful? All stalls were open but the last one. Another moan, this time a man, more breathless but also kind of… breathless?

Curious about those sounds you got into the stall next to it and thought about taking a peek over the wall into the next cabin.

“That’s a good girl. Die for me.”

With a jump you pulled yourself up the wall of the stall and looked into the next cabin, only to see a black dressed guy with a syringe on the neck of a young girl.

“Unhand her, you freak!” you demanded.

He was quicker than you, already running out of the restrooms when you got down and hurried into the stall with the girl.

“Are you okay?!”

She was unconscious and very pale. The small holes at her neck almost looked like a vampire bite. Who was that freak?!

An uproar let you just get the girl out of the stall and run. Not a second too late as you could see the black dressed guy and a couple of his friends drawing their weapons, aiming for you.

 “Get up! We need to run!!” you shouted at your friends as you hurried past them with the still unconscious girl in your arms.

“What did you do?!” Lupin asked, already on his feet and fumbling for the car keys.

“No time to explain!!”

You heard a shot and felt the pain when the bullet hit you in the calf. Those guys were serious! Limping, you made your way to the car, followed by your friends, Jigen already shooting back and Goemon protecting you from a hail of bullets.

 Breathlessly you had told them everything on the way to the hospital where you had laid the girl in front of the emergency room. Just like the rest of the gang you were wanted so you couldn’t exactly just walk into any building without the fear of being arrested.

During the dressing of your wound, Jigen questioned you about the scene.

“This is crazy. Tell me again, did you recognize anything?”

With a huff you told him the story once more. You knew it was crazy! A side-glance towards your lover made you aware of the mess you had brought yourself into. He had decided to call Inspector Zenigata to get some information. It seemed quicker than to get into a disguise and just get to the nearest police station.

“A vampire? In broad daylight?” Goemon seemed incredulous.

“It wasn’t a vampire, Goemon! It was a man with a syringe. I saw it,” you replied.

“But where was all the blood? Even a kid her age should have at least 4 litres of blood. And she lost at least 2 of it.” Sometimes Jigen scared you with his medical knowledge.

With a grim face Lupin joined your round.

“You disturbed a serial killer. Pops says there were at least 5 different cases of this vampire. It’s always the same. A kid is lured away from its parents and sucked dry.”

You suddenly felt uneasy but you had to know.

“They survived, right?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“The girl is the first to survive. All of them had marks like a vampire bite. All of them sucked dry.”

Jigen spat and lighted a cigarette. A sure sign he was getting irritated.

“This is a disgusting thing to do to someone,” Goemon decided and grabbed his Zantetsuken. His own form of irritation.

“Pops is thankful for your information, but he also says there aren’t enough facts to get to a clear culprit. To think there were 4 of them...,” he left it unsaid, but you felt his uneasiness as he watched you.

“I will be okay. It’s not like they followed us.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Jigen slowly raised his hands, followed by Lupin. Both of them stared at a point behind you.

“I hate this,” you mumbled and turned around to find yourself surrounded by black dressed men, all of them aiming their guns at you.

 “I still don’t get why you don’t simply kill them.”

“It’s an order from above.”

“Fuck this. I know a bit about them. They can be dangerous.”

“Do you doubt your superiors?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your work.”

“Yes, Sir!”

You looked around in the dark cell to find something to get a clue where you were. After getting threatened you had to follow their orders. A blindfold, different cars, you were separated from the others. Were they in the same building as you? Were they already dead?

You swallowed your tears. Lupin wasn’t that easy to be killed. He would come and rescue you, right? He would hug you and kiss all those fears away. He would… maybe… surely… no! You had to get out of here! Think! What information do you have?

A dark cell, 3 metres long, 2 metres wide. A bucket in the corner. The door was solid metal, a small flap in the middle. No lock to be found. It had to be outside on the door. Maybe something simple as you hadn’t heard a key turn when you were thrown into this cell. You didn’t have a window. No blanket to cover yourself with. And it had to be soundproof, because the only things you could hear were the guards directly in front of the door even if you pressed your ear to the other walls.

 ~~~~

He gasped for air and coughed when he chocked on his own breath. Water ran down his face, soaking the bag over his head, making it harder to breathe.

“You will do as we say.”

He shook his head and tried to fight the strong grip on his neck as it pushed him down, into the water, once more. He was a good diver and counted the seconds with a clear head. But it was longer and longer, his lungs started screaming for air and he was still under the water. Two minutes had passed when he was pulled up again, again gasping for air in a desperate fashion.

“You will kill Lupin the Third.”

Again he shook his head. He was a stubborn idiot, getting drowned for his convictions.

 ~~~~

A sharp pain rushed through his whole facial nerve system as the wound opened and the nerves were exposed to the fresh air. Still, he wouldn’t admit it with a sound. It had be a short hit but still hard enough to rip open a huge gash on his cheek.

“It is easy, Lupin. You will steal the disc and we won’t hurt your little lover.”

He watched his partner through a monitor. They were collecting information on their cell, listening to sounds, checking the stability of the door.

“No.”

He had known it from the start. The whole day had been spent with an uneasy feeling. Why had he proposed a visit to the café?! By now he should know to trust his gut. But the face of his partner had been so gloomy and he had wanted to cheer them up… and he had endangered them with his recklessness.

“I will kill them,” the shadow promised.

Lupin shook his head. He had to trust them now. And he had seen a familiar face around those guys. What was more important to this person? Friends or the job?

“You’re right! I won’t kill them. He will,” the shadow laughed a bit while saying this, showing Lupin the familiar face getting tortured.

“Let them go!”

“Get me this disc and I will let your friends leave.”

The disc in question was unknown to him. Surely it was dangerous enough to destroy the world if people like the shadow wanted it. He had calculated the outcome and still hadn’t found a way out of it. Normally he would swap the disc with another, fooling those idiots. But with his friends in their hands? He would risk the death of his beloved ones. Manipulating the data on it was also out of the question, he had seen their work before. One or two skilled hackers were in this team, he knew. They would know any tampering before he could get away.

He had to trust his friends to save themselves. How could he gain time for them?

“Still no answer, hm? Fine. Then you’ll get to know the consequences,” the shadow threatened, pushing down a button.

Jigen appeared on the monitor. He was bound and gagged and seemed to be seriously hurt. Lupin snorted. It was likely the gunman had given his captors a rough time and got himself into trouble.

“Kill him.”

A gun was pressed to Jigen’s head. Lupin wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t.

The trigger was pulled and Jigen fell out of the reach of the camera.

 ~~~~

Was that a shot?! It had been too loud to be far away. Some clattering. You pressed your ear harder to the door but couldn’t hear anything. Silence fell. Maybe your friends came to your rescue??

After 5 minutes there was still silence and you fell down into sitting opposite of your prison door, staring at it, willing it to open with your thoughts alone.

 ~~~~

They had enough of drowning him. Wet and cold he was submitted into a cell, next to their other prisoners. He knew those cells. They were constructed specifically to be escape-proof. What a bullshit.

They had broken two of his fingers and this made it harder for him to work on the small gap between door and door frame. He was sure they watched him through the camera system. It was a game of time to get out of here.

A jolt of electricity rushed through his fingers and threw him on the floor, muscles cramping from the current. Damn, they had upgraded the security system.

 ~~~~

“One down, two to go. Get me the disc.”

He still couldn’t believe it.

“Your answer?”

They had shot him. Point blank, no room for tricks.

“Do you prefer to see the next death?”

“Don’t.”

“Get me the disc.”

He let his head hang and swallowed. They would kill the rest of his gang with him watching.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let me give you a gift before you go.”

Another button was pushed and he stared at the monitor. A hand, a leg…. A severed head staring back at him.

He threw up, emptying his stomach on the floor before him. He couldn’t stand the accusing stare of Goemon’s lifeless eyes.

“Please…,” he begged in a small voice.

The monitor went black.

“You have 24 hours.”

 ~~~~

You rubbed your temple as the flap in the door opened and a small tablet was shoved through, falling down, spilling all your food on the floor. A harsh laughter was heard and the flap closed. At least the water was bottled and didn’t spill.

You crawled towards the door, smelling iron. Blood on the other side of the door? You placed your face on the floor, trying to see through the small gap between the door and the floor. With a scream, you scrambled back to the opposing wall, shaking with fear. Did you… the… hi… you couldn’t understand what you just had seen. Lifeless brown eyes staring at you.

 ~~~~

It had been a matter of time until they had grew bored with him sitting in his cell, doing nothing. He was prepared when three of them came to get him. Two of them were entering his cell, getting him up on his feet, the third pointing a gun at him, ready to shoot without a warning. A really good work and he felt a small pride. He had been one of their instructors after all. And they were doing a good job, he had to admit.

“Are you ready to kill?”

He spat into the face of the man before him and earned a fist to the face for it. Blood dripped from his broken nose.

“Lupin is on the way already. There’s no need to be so hostile, old man.”

Damn. How had they made him go?!

The man before him laughed and hit him again, this time the fist hit his solar plexus, making him throw up in pain.

“You still have a chance to kill him if you’re fast enough.”

“I won’t.”

“I gave him 24 hours. And there is no rush.” A short gesture and the two men dragged him into another room, making him dread the things he and the other instructors had taught them, when he saw the instruments.

 ~~~~

Interpol headquarters. It would have been easier if they had allowed him to disguise himself as Zenigata!

Cursing he checked his uniform he had taken from a passed out officer. Well, passed out wasn’t that right, he admitted with a grin.

He would get the disc, bring it back and take his partner and get out of there. Far away from those maniacs.

“Officer, what are you doing there?”

He snapped back into reality, donning a smile and saluting in front of the captain.

“I was checking the premises as I was asked to do,” he answered.

A nod from the other man and he was free to go. He would need to be fast to get to the right floor. The shadow had told him the exact coordinates of the disc, making him suspicious. Why did the ICPO hide a disc with nuclear codes in their best guarded safe? Why did they have something like this in the first place? Something wasn’t right.

He thought about it the way through the building. Maybe the disc was something else? Briefly he remembered a different disc, containing the secret identities of all the MI6 agents. Maybe the ICPO had something similar?

No time to think. He had to get to the right floor and find a way to get into that safe, guarded by a difficult security system.

 ~~~~

You had enough! There had to be a way to get out of here?! Those bastards had killed Goemon! You threw yourself against the door for the fourth time when it swung open.

Shocked you couldn’t even react and fell to the floor, surprised by the sudden change.

“You wanted to get out?”

You blinked, silent – were you dreaming?

Zenigata grinned at you with a bruised face, missing two teeth.

“We need to get you out of here,” he told you, grabbing your arm.

You blinked again, and then the memories came back. Frantically you searched the floor for the head you had seen.

“It was a puppet. A scheme to break you. And Lupin.”

You shook your head. How!?

“Interpol’s special unit. They are specialized in anti-terror… well, I thought that.”

“Interpol?!” you had found your voice and were now eyeing the Inspector in front of you. He was a bloody mess, shirtless and bruised. Several deep cuts were on his body and you thought that a few fingers of his must be broken.

He growled before answering.

“I had a feeling about that case you were involved in. Seems I was right.”

“Inspector!”

You and him turned your heads towards the voice, seeing Yata dragging a half-conscious Jigen with the help of a hurt Goemon.

With a heavy weight falling from your shoulders, you rushed to your friends, hugging them and carefully looking over them for injuries.

“I found them where you told me. Inspector, what is going on?!” The young assistant seemed distressed.

“Doesn’t matter. Get Jigen and Goemon out of here and keep them safe,” Zenigata ordered, taking a short glance at you. “And you will need to help me here.”

You nodded. He had saved your friends and there was no sight of Lupin.

“They told me Lupin is on his way to steal something they want. We need to know where he is. And what they want.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Your brain was too slow to catch up.

“What bad feeling with the case I was involved in?!” you asked him.

He began to walk and you followed him, curious.

“After the second dead kid I had a hunch and followed a trace. A man of the Special Unit had been sighted near the crime scene.”

“They were 4 men,” you told him.

“Five. A sniper to keep trouble away.”

“But he didn’t shoot.”

“Then why are you limping?”

You stopped and stared at him. You were a sniper yourself and knew the priorities.

“Why didn’t he shoot me then?”

“He wanted to be found out.”

You shook your head in disbelief but Zenigata grabbed your hand and dragged you with him.

“His brother was the one to come to me after the fourth case. He was killed before he could confess his crimes. The sniper was the younger brother, I think he wanted to end the secrecy of this.”

“Why kids?! Why the blood?”

Zenigata dragged you into a room full of monitors and flicked through the different cameras, searching for something.

“To sell it to some rich guy. They all had the same blood type. Some special thing from India or something. I am not a scientist.”

“The Bombay Blood group.”

He turned around and looked at you surprised.

“Lupin is the same. He can give blood to anyone but he needs a donor from the same group to receive blood from.”

“And how do you know that?!”

You grinned a bit, remembering him telling you one evening and your search for a few pints of this blood group to have a stash safe if he would ever need it.

“He’s my love after all.”

Zenigata rolled his eyes and turned back to the monitors.

“Stupid love-bugs,” he grumbled.

 ~~~~

There hadn’t been a problem so far. The guards were wearing masks but he still had gotten around them and used the sleeping gas he preferred. Right now they were in the land of dreams, leaving him the peace to deal with the security system.

Modern electronics, an elaborate laser system and an old fashioned safe that was safe from the newer generation of thieves because it was too outdated to be used anymore. Luckily his grandfather had taught him his first steps in cracking a safe with a similar model. Even then this model had been old.

“Show me your secrets…,” he said to the computer as he was cracking the codes and disengaging one system after another. The instructions of the shadow had been precise and worked. He must be an insider. But still the main thought of the thief went to the disc. What was on it?!

 ~~~~

He had found a camera in front of a door that he wanted to investigate.

“If I’m right this is the main office. And we will find our…”

His voice was drowned in a siren.

“Don’t tell me we were discovered,” you said, growling. He said he knew the Unit! Then he should know their security, right?!

A gun was thrown into your hands.

“You have the permission to kill.” His voice was toneless and you knew how heavy this decision was on the Inspector.

“Because they won’t hesitate to o the same to you,” he explained and loaded another gun.

“Are you really okay?” you asked him, eyeing his still bleeding wounds.

“I won’t back down now.”

 ~~~~

“My, aren’t you a beauty…,” he purred and let his fingers caress the metal of the safe. A quick glance on his wristwatch told him he still had 12 hours. He would need 5 to get back to his captors. 2 hours were planned for escape and getting on a plane or hijack a helicopter. Something like this. This left him with a good few hours to crack this safe. And he would need them.

Kneeling in front of the safe, he got out his equipment. Those old models were often rusted but this was clean and cared for. The lock would be easy to pick, but any mistake would reset the code of the safe, making it harder to crack each time it was resetted. Those old safe makers sure were a crazy bunch.

A brief thought to his lover made him smile. He had to be extra gentle with this lock, just like with them.

 ~~~~

So far you had killed 3 men and still hadn’t left the floor. The office was still far away and those men pestered you with their skills.

“Trained by the best.”

“Didn’t you say you trained them?”

He had the nerve to grin at you.

“I taught them…” his grin vanished as he remembered who he was talking to.

“We should hurry.”

You nodded and took cover in another room, watching out for any guards. Gaining metre by metre you made your way to the stairs, followed by Zenigata.

 ~~~~

The door swung open without any sound. He whistled by this care. Whatever was in there must be really important if they took such good care about the safe and the security. Maybe his theory on the missile codes was right after all?

He stopped in his tracks when he saw the contents of the safe. There was nothing. Just the disc. No money, no important documents, not even a weapon. What the hell was on this disc?!

He took it and turned around.

“This is as far as you go, thief.”

He grinned at the guards in front of him.

“I am not a thief. I am THE thief,” he told them as he activated a button on his shirt, enveloping them with a smoke screen and slipping past them.

“The great Lupin!” he added as he activated the security system behind him and trapped the guards inside the safe room.

 ~~~~

Zenigata pointed to the door in front of you and you nodded. The plan was simple. Storm the room, get as many hostages as possible and try to find Lupin. Or at least a way to communicate with him.

After counting down, you two moved as one as Zenigata kicked in the door.

A single man lifted his gaze from the papers on his desk, watching you two.

“I underestimated you, Zenigata,” he simply said as a shot cracked through the room.

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t move much. He just broke down on his knees, falling forward, leaving you to catch him before he hit the floor.

“Zenigata!” His name escaped your lips as you held his heavy body. The blood flowed from the wound and in a few seconds there already was a pool of it under him.

“Do you care to follow him?” the man asked you. You stared at him. He hadn’t even flinched!!

“Who are you?! What do you want?!”

“Of you? Nothing. But I need your lover to get me something that is mine.”

The way he spoke the word ‘lover’ was disgusting. He seemed emotionless.

“My friends will come back and you will….”

He snapped his fingers and a huge curtain was lifted behind him, revealing a cage with Yata, Jigen and Goemon inside of it.

“Will do what exactly?” the man asked with a raised brow.

“Fuck you!” You raised your gun and shot at him without properly targeting. Even if the magazine was empty and the gun just clicked at your efforts, you couldn’t stop yourself to pull the trigger time after time at this unmoving man.

“I spared you from torture in order to get this stupid thief to move on my will. But now that he’s moving, I don’t need you anymore. Do you know what that means?”

You growled.

“Your men are dead!” you told him.

“Do you really think I need help to deal with you?!”

He got up and walked around his desk towards you, pointing the gun at you which he had use to shoot Zenigata with.

“You pissed me off. I won’t give you a quick death. And there won’t be tricks anymore.” He turned and shot in the direction of the cage, hitting Goemon in the shoulder.

“I will deal with you properly.”

You screamed your frustration out of your system and launched yourself against him.

 ~~~~

The whole building was in high alert and he had to change his disguise three times to leave it without raising any suspicions. What a work! He scratched the Interpol headquarters from his list of buildings for a planned heist. He would never get into there again if he could avoid it. Too much trouble.

By now there had to be a warrant for him to all the officers on patrol, right? He should avoid the crowded streets and stick to the alleys to get away unnoticed. This would cost him another hour at least! Slowly it was becoming a hassle to work in such a short time.

He cursed and quickened his pace. From a man he stole the hat, a woman lost her scarf while passing him. A new shirt was snagged from a clothes line and he changed while running though the streets. He would need to steal a car to get to the airport on time.

 ~~~~

Everything hurt. You had trained with the gang on most days and you weren’t weak either, but still you were struggling to keep up with a trained soldier. He was fast and stronger than you, but you used your quick reflexes to avoid the heavy punches. He had lost his gun during the fall and had resorted to a fist fight with you.

A punch hit you on the side on your head, making your ears ring and your head spin. This would leave a bruise… or worse. You felt the nausea and tried to ignore it.

A knee to his side had him grunting in pain and you threw your weight on your side to roll him over and get him under you.

His fist punched your side and left you breathless while you worked on his face, landing a few hits there.

Was he a monster?!  You were sure you had broken his nose and most of his ribs and he was still beating at you like a fresh man!

“Kill him.”

You heard the order from behind you and nodded. There was no other way anyway!

Slowly, with a bit hesitation, you placed your hands on the throat of your enemy and pressed them into the flesh.

 ~~~~~

He had seen the roadblock from far away and decided to test his luck. After all this would bee the fourth time he turned the stolen car around to find an unblocked road. He would never mess with Interpol again, Lupin swore. How could someone like Pops join such a stupid thing?! He would need to talk to him about that.

He accelerated and held the steering wheel in an iron grip with the eyes glued to the roadblock. Hopefully the officers there would get out of the way of his car… he closed his eyes in the last second and broke through the roadblock.

 ~~~~

He didn’t move anymore and still you pressed your hands on his throat until your knuckled turned white.

“He’s dead. Let him be.” A bloody hand reached for yours and when you looked up you could see Zenigata’s pale face mere centimetres away from yours. Slowly he eased every finger each away from your victim. You had shot people. You had seen them die at your hands. But you never had killed someone so closely. It changed you and you could suddenly understand why Jigen had sometimes scoffed at you for saying killing was quite easy. You would never say that again.

“The others. Help them.”

Blood ran over the Inspector’s chin and you wiped it away with your bare hands. He flinched a bit, leaving it to you to judge the reason.

The nausea had started to push into your consciousness and left you crawling towards the cage to free your friends. Where was the key…?

 ~~~~

From then on it was easy. Get to the airport, steal an unguarded helicopter, start it. He still had enough time to make it back to them, to give them the disc and just run. He felt like shit. What would happen if he came back? His partner would hate him for obeying those terrorists. For letting his friends die… Jigen’s execution and Goemon’s dismembered body came to his mind and made him sick to the bones. He was scum for letting this happen. The lowest point in his life had been reached today.

With numb fingers he tipped the coordinates of the hideout into the GPS and let out a sigh. He had seen Zenigata on the monitors. At least the Inspector was still alive to arrest him for his sins.

 ~~~~

You watched the sunset with a cigarette and the hip flask of Yata while the man himself cared for the injuries of the others. You had seen enough blood for today.

The alcohol burned its way from your mouth into your stomach, making you feel alive and to warm you from inside.

You got up when you heard the helicopter and strolled back to the makeshift sickbay.

Yata looked at you and you had to stifle a laugh. His hair was a mess and his clothes had stains of blood and grass.

“Seems like the missing thief is back,” he said, also hearing the helicopter.

You nodded and kneeled next to Goemon, placing a hand on the bandage around his shoulder. The Samurai huffed and said nothing. He was ashamed of being caught like that and had a puppet made of him to make Lupin believe he was dead.

“How’s Jigen and Zenigata?” you asked the officer opposite of you.

“Jigen’s stable and I stopped the bleeding of the shot wound of the Inspector… what about you?”

He had offered to take care of your wounds but you had dismissed him to care about the more severely injured.

An engine roared and several cars appeared on the horizon.

“And here’s the cavalry,” you said surprised at how slow Yata’s colleagues showed up after his cry for help before storming the secret base of his former associates.

“Better late than never,” he replied but you could see the disappointment clearly written on his face. He had to be saved by someone of Lupin’s gang instead of the police. That must have hurt.

 ~~~~

He was surprised to see the small group on the ground after landing. And two of them were supposed to be dead…

Not caring about the police cars coming at him, he went straight for his friends. He wanted nothing more than to hug his partner and never let them go. He would never let them go again. His walk broke into a run and he closed the distance to them.

 In the end the Police let them go. There would be no case regarding this slip-up. The disc was safe with them again and they had other problems than to deal with a third-class thief and his band of misfits.

All of you were checked into a hospital with completely false names and history, courtesy of Interpol. The cracked skull of yours would need some time to heal up, but when you saw Lupin standing in the doorframe to your room holding a huge get-well-basket, you had to smile. The time would fly faster than you would like.

#lupin iii #lupin the 3rd #jigen daisuke #goemon ishikawa xiii #zenigata

[daydreaming-nerd]

The One Thing I Can’t Live Without (Kylo Ren x Reader)

Yep, you read that right. KYLO REN. I watched the Star Wars movie this weekend and they rekindled my love for my little Kylo so I hope there are some fellow Kylo Ren fans out there. You will be seeing a little more of him on this blog now!

Plot: When the Starkiller base is under attack from the resistance Kylo Ren has to save the one thing he can’t live without and that’s you.

Warnings: None 

The floor under my feet shook causing me to grip the wall to stay upright. Those damn resistance fighters. As I regained my balance I continued my search for Kylo down the corridor. It wasn’t until I turned the corner that I saw him. Panicked and searching for what I assumed to be me.

“There you are!” He said running to me.

“Kylo what are you doing shouldn’t you be out there shooting down X-Wing fighters?” I said.

“I will be soon. I had to make sure you were safe first.”

“I’m just fine, same as I was last time we were under attack,” I said not understanding why he was making such a big fuss.

“Y/n they’re here. They’re on the ship if they find you they’ll take you. They know you’re my weakness.” He said with his hands on my shoulders bending down slightly to look me in the eyes.

“Then I’ll go back to our room and lock the doors,” I said beginning to turn away.

“No, it’s not safe there,”

“Then I’ll stay by you,” I said hopefully.

“No, I have to get you out of here,” He grabbed my hand and started pulling me towards the pods that were down the hall and to the right.

“What are you doing!?” I asked hoping that I was being mistaken.

“Protecting the one thing I can’t live without,” He said turning at the entrance of the pod and looking into my eyes.

“I won’t leave you,” I said with tears in my eyes.

“I can’t protect you y/n, if they take you...” He pauses to recompose himself. “If I’m not looking for even a second they could take you from me and then god knows what. I won’t lose you,” 

“But what if something happens to you? What if-”

“Nothings going to happen to me,” He said pressing his forehead to mine. “You have to leave now before they notice.”

“I love you,” I said placing a hand on his cheek.

“I love you too,”

The words were sealed with a kiss and I climbed into the pod. He set the location and the door slid shut. I placed my hand on the small circular window and he did the same. I looked at him one last time before I heard the pod release itself from the ship. 

I stared at the ship for as long as I could. Watching the madness unfold in front of my eyes. The father I got from the chaos the more I wondered if I would see my precious Kylo again. I knew in my heart that his skills wouldn’t betray him but I suppose I’ll always have that tiny fear in me. 

Starkiller base got smaller and smaller and everything was quiet until a rogue resistance fighter smashed into my pod sending it off its course. The velocity of my sphere like ship spinning round and round until I felt the impact of my misadventure. I felt coldness grace my skin before I blacked out.

-KYLO’S POV- 

The battle was long and hard but in the end, the casualties were few and Starkiller based remained intact. It was a few hours before everything was back in order, but I finally felt as though it was safe enough for me to bring back y/n.

I approached one of the officers who was lulling about,

“Inform our secret base that I will be arriving shortly to collect y/n and assemble a few of my men to go with me,” I said walking past him.

“Commander, there were never any reports that y/n arrived at the base,” The officer said. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to him. Using the force I began to choke him.

“Then I suggest you find her,” I said my helmet somehow making my voice sound even more enraged.

“Sir we’ve been, scanning for her,” he said barely able to audible what he wanted to say due to the pressure on his neck.

“Look harder!” I said throwing him across the room. 

Anger coursed through my veins as I started once again for my ship. I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to her.

-Y/N’S POV- 

I woke up to frigid cold. All around me was a frozen wasteland, ice, and snow everywhere, howling winds. I must've landed on Hoth, a frozen planet. I knew I could only survive for so long dressed the way I was, but if I could just make it to the hidden base I would be okay. I attempted to move my right leg but I felt a weight on top of it. When I looked back I saw that the pod had landed on top of my calf, I tried to move my arms to attempt to push the debris off but my joints were frozen. I knew I physically couldn’t move the ship off my leg anyways but now I can’t move at all. The wind rushed over my skin and as I continued to wake up the more I realized the hypothermia had started setting in. I must’ve been here for a few hours. I started out at the infinite field of ice and snow. My breathing slowed and my vision blurred but I knew I couldn’t let the fatigue give in. If I closed my eyes I might never open them again.

-KYLO’S POV- 

We had been searching around planet Hoth for two hours now. I suddenly felt a disturbance in the force. 

“Land here,” I said abruptly.

The second the ship touched the ground I ran off into the winter storm. I saw something round in the distance. I took off my helmet not wanting to believe it was y/n but as I continued to trend closer I saw her dainty hand limp in the snow and it was evident that it was her ship. Pain immediately struck my heart and I feared for the worst.

“NO!” I cried as I began a sprint to the wreckage. I slid on my knees and there she was. My precious y/n. Her eyes were shut, her lips were blue, hair froze, and her cheeks were beginning to be covered in frost. I felt tears well up in my eyes.

“No,” I whispered barely audible. I snaked my arms around her and tried to pick her up. But something pulled her back down, I looked at her leg. It was crushed by the pod. I heard her groan, she was alive.

“y/n my god I thought you were dead, I’m going to get you out of here,” I said moving around to lift the pod off of her. It took all the strength I had but I had every motive to do it. The second she was free I scooped her up, her joints making cracking sounds. It was apparent that she was more frozen then I had assumed. I ran back to the ship and ordered the crew to take off immediately. I laid her on a crappy bunk bed that was on the ship and covered her with every blanket I could find, I even went as far as to take off my cape and drape it over her frozen body. 

The whole ride was completely silent, the crew on board had never seen the infamous Kylo Ren in such an emotional state let alone seen him without his helmet. But I have everything to lose right now. I fear she won’t make it. Perhaps they see things for the way they are. Kylo Ren, Master of The Nights of Ren, is about to lose the one thing he can’t live without.

-Y/N’S POV- 

I woke up to the sound of a heart rate monitor beeping at a steady pace. The room felt like a sauna but my fingers and toes were still freezing. Reluctantly I opened my eyes. I was in the medical room in the Starkiller base. I scanned the room and found Kylo in a chair, slumped against a wall, with his hand draped over his lightsaber as if he was ready to attack any intruder who dared come in the room. 

“Kylo,” I said in a hushed tone, my voice not able to project yet. He awoke and looked right at me.

“Y/n thank god,” He brought his chair over to me. “When I found you I thought I had lost you.” He took my hand in his.”You’re still so cold,” He stated all the sadness in the world in his voice.

“Am I going to be okay?”

“Yes, you’re going to be just fine. You have a broken leg and your body is still warming up and recovering from the hypothermia,”

“You know, I would be a lot warmer if you slid in here with me,” I said suggestively. Without a word he crawled his way in so I could lay on his chest. It was silent for a while until I heard him sniffling. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought I could protect you, I thought I was doing the right thing by sending you away so they couldn’t find you, but you could’ve frozen to death. The doctors said that if I had found you an hour later you would’ve been dead. And when I found the wreckage and saw you all frozen and covered in frost-”

“shhh, shhhh, I’m fine. If the Resistance had gotten me I would’ve been in much worse shape than this. You can’t protect me form everything. Had that stupid Resistance fighter not hit me I would’ve been fine, but even you can’t control something like that.”

“I’ll die trying though,”

“Not on my watch mister. Now hush, let’s take a nap,” I said getting comfortable on him.

Never again did he let me out of his sight during a fight or any othe time for that matter. 

#kylo ren #kylo x reader #kylo x you #kylo ren fanfic #star wars #the last jedi #the force awakens #ben solo

[unmeanings]

JEAH

TWO HOURS PRIOR

( TXT / Jeyun ) “Your best suit is at the dry cleaner’s” ( TXT / Jeyun ) That one was from Mom ( TXT / Jeyun ) “I’m already home and I’m not fetching your clothes, so figure it out like the big kid you are now” ( TXT / Jeyun ) That one’s from me. Don’t be late 👋

NOW

She’s chasing time, if not by her limbs, then by the way her eyes dart from the hands of the antique cherry grandfather clock in the foyer to her lap and back again. There could be metaphors of perpetual restlessness here, spun pretty to the imagery of beating wings, a blur of dove feathers and whatever else. But there’s nothing inherently lovely about her deep lack of patience, which only ever keeps Jeah on the constant edge of her seat, nude ankle strap heels tap-tap-tapping against the tiles.

Tonight’s game plan: a clean sweep of handshakes, backhanded compliments, handed off flutes of bubbly before it’s hand over hand at the wheel with the car driving the hell out of there. Funny to think back she’d been of the belief that these gatherings would be the last of her troubles, only to find they’re at the very forefront.

With the baby to thank for all of this, naturally.

Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, or something. In other words, responsibilities that most certainly don’t count in her track record.

The whine of the door hinges has Jeah standing, the sigh that escapes her lips something along the lines of Finally. “Awesome.” She grabs the keys and her purse. “Kim’s off for tonight, so it’s on us to get there.” Pause, curious glance over her shoulder. “You got everything?”

JEYUN

( Outgoing → Noona ) Thanks ( Outgoing → Noona ) I’ll see you in a bit

Jeyun is the disciple and fifteen minutes is the monkish chant cycling in his head. Fifteen minutes. He clasps onto a handle on the bullet train. Fifteen minutes is all he needs to get a suit on his person and get his person out the door. He swipes out of the underground. If he arrives home at seven thirty and they leave at seven forty-five they will make it to the venue fifteen minutes before eight thirty. He steps off the escalators and onto the sidewalk just as the sun is beginning to set. It looks beautiful today, shining onto the glass doors of the dry cleaner’s in feathered cuts of silver.

He exchanges receipt for hanger and with suit folded neatly over forearm he walks the full five blocks back to the family apartment, each leggy stride longer than the next. He is greeted with exasperation, but there’s no reason for it. He’s fifteen minutes early.

Still, one can’t afford to dally. “Whoop,” he zips past her small frame and makes a beeline for the bathroom, but the hallway is narrow and his attempt ends up clumsy at best. “I’ll be right out!” Jeyun calls, his voice and frenzied disrobing muffled behind oak.

The baby reemerges, trail of cologne following him like a halo, into the foyer where Jeah waits with lips pressed into a thin line. He slips into the calf leather derbies she’s laid out for him at the door with a sheepish smile, “Sorry, you were saying—” and looks down to the crown of her head as she gathers the keys. There’s a piece of lint by her ear. He picks it off and keeps it between his fingers so he can dispose of it outside. “—joyride?”

Like every time before it, the joke earns him a chilly wave of the hand.

—

The family vehicle’s passenger seat is, at this point, perfectly molded to his sitting form. This too, is part of his fate as the youngest. But there’s another perk—he rests a hand on the volume knob and with one tweak Elgar in E is coursing through every material surface of the car. He pays no mind to his sister. With his other hand, Jeyun browses through texts to confirm the address and inspect the first few restaurant reviews.

“Japanese? Didn’t we do kaiseki last time, too?” He scrolls further down. “Ooh, on second thought. Egg walnut tamagoyaki for dessert. Fall offerings are the best, aren’t they…”

JEAH

Clocking in a little after eight o’ clock, traffic has lightened up significantly.  At a red light, her grip loosens from the wheel and the turn signal is left blinking, fingers drumming idly in wait. This particular concerto conjures memories from the summer of ‘37. Sixteen, sullen, and suffering because of those god-awful scales, and finishing solid in second place. The 2015 Garavaglia is sitting in the corner of her old bedroom, virtually untouched since high school graduation. Selling it? Out of the question.

The light flicks green and the car slows back into motion. “Did we?” With Jeyun’s impeccable habit of tracking minute details, chances are he’s right. And after a good minute, she says, “Oh. Well. All I remember is the sake.” Junmai-shu flooding over her tongue by the cup as it’d been passed over talk of inter-generational politics, nostalgia beyond her years, and the plight of current economy. Big talk for big people, with the matching shoes to step into. "Think it’d kill them to do fusion for a change?”

An afterthought: it actually just might. Guess you can never be too careful with the conservative type at these things.

They veer to the rightmost lane. The digits on the dashboard flip to 8:10. According to the GPS screen underneath, their destination is the second to last building, straight down. “At least I can count on you to spice up the menu when you become head honcho or whatever.” She grins, and there’s that characteristic glint in her eye. “Matter of fact, that should be your first course of business.”

JEYUN

Jeyun had played accompaniment for her, of course—his sister’s trusty steed, finely trained and black coat of fur thick with pomade and brushed back just so. He likes to think that the reason for Jeah’s drop to second that summer had been a result of his absence, as her finger slipped on one of the cadenza’s double stops. However smug the recollection may make him now, his heart had nearly dropped out of his body then. Du Pré moans and groans through the speakers. “You were better,” Jeyun looks straight ahead. “Than first. Choi something.” Choi Kyungil. Current principal cellist of the Berlin Philharmonic. Not that Jeyun was ever the sort of person to search for a person’s whereabouts out of sheer pettiness and over a decade after the fact. “Maybe even better than Jacqueline.” He turns the volume knob up.

“We did,” Jeyun nods. “I’ll have to learn from your example this time around.” Not the drinking part. “And keep myself to a steady nibble.” There’d been so many courses over the course of three hours that he’d barely made it to the okayu without falling backwards for a digestive snooze. Just conjuring up the image of a bowl of porridge is enough to get him queasy and he winces at the possibility of it appearing again on tonight’s offerings. “If it doesn’t kill them then it might kill me,” he says with a bitter laugh. Some years ago a craving for sea urchin had backfired horribly and he’d never been able to look at another risotto the same way ever since. Perhaps all rice dishes had a personal score to settle with him. He should have never let that pot go unattended all those years ago.

The vehicle slows, approaching the valet at the back of the restaurant. A cheery bucktoothed attendant comes to take their place and Jeyun hands him a few of his crispiest bills, ironed last week. He waits for Jeah to join him at the curbside and they round the corner to the front. “You have a point.” Jeyun grins. It’s a known fact at the Oh’s that dad doesn’t have the most refined of palates—courtesy of his outer city upbringing. “I’ll make sure it’s the spiciest so you won’t have any excuses to skip.” They step through the courtyard, greenery abundant and fragrance potent. Then through the first set of doors, wide open. The next set of doors slides quickly open and the proprietress is already there folded over ninety-degrees.

“Ha, ha. Excellent word play, sis.” He steps a slight ways in front of Jeah before the woman leads them past a maze of corridors to their room. It’s something he’s tried to get used to doing but it still feels unnatural and he’s certain Jeah has noticed every time. “I’m sure there will be more pressing things calling for my attention when the time comes.” He lifts his wrist. 8:15 on the dot. Fifteen minutes early. “Things like, how to redecorate the house. Or who to hire to take our Christmas card photo. Unless you’d like to take those responsibilities head on instead.”

JEAH

“You remember his name.” It’s a statement, not a question, complete with the knowing lift of her voice. Half in the sheer perceptibility of Jeyun’s habits, half at how she’s never forgotten herself:

Choi Kyungil.

Even if she closes her eyes and recalls his face now, all there is to see is the cross hair framed perfectly over his side profile. Standing ten feet away with a bouquet of deep red roses and the first place emblem, and the single thought that snaked around the folds of her brain was what if? She’d never held a gun in her entire life, and still hasn’t, but the press of retribution on her hands had been the closest she’d ever gotten to the feeling. Just as cold. Maybe even just as satisfying.

It runs in the family, after all.

Jeah only laughs at his remark. “I don’t think Jackie would appreciate that at all.” The music is cut short. “Dead for over fifty years, and her legacy’s still kickin’.” Pulling the keys out of the ignition, she steps out to hand them to the attendant. “If that isn’t something, I don’t know what is.”

Upon entering, they’re greeted with the scent of jasmine. The establishment is pristine. Lush plants encircle a stone fountain that sits at the center. All details absorbed with vague interest.

Jeah turns to the sight of Jeyun’s back, and is suddenly reminded of a second memory. She’d only been eight then, sitting in their parents’ bedroom. Mom had just clasped a string of pearls around her neck. Dad was pulling on his suit jacket. When they’d been about to exit the room, her mother had placed a hand on the back of his shoulder, and he’d straightened under her touch. By the time she began to do the same to the eldest, herself, and the youngest, Jeah finally understood. The significance of the single, plain gesture.

So she does it in her place: as Jeyun steps in front, a reminder. Hold your head high. Jeah’s hand returns to her side just as promptly as it’d left it, and they walk on.

Inside, the table is set. She takes her place near one of the ends. Fifteen minutes to kill. “You know I’d be the first person to stop the Christmas card thing. Mom would hate me for it.”

A pause, as she ponders the weight of her question. “Who would we send them to, anyway?”

JEYUN

The two acclimate quickly to their surroundings, shedding their coats and handing them off to the hunched proprietress, who murmurs demurely if the lady and sir will have anything to drink while they wait for the rest of their party to arrive. Any gyokuro will do please and thank you, Jeyun hums, and with a delicate shuffling of her feet she is gone as if never there.

Jeyun’s claims the seat across from his sister and at the opposite end of the table, slinging his scarf over the backing of the chair. Build your own presence instead of relying on the collective. Emanate it as far as it will go, until it permeates every corner of the room.

The woman returns with a sizable kettle, glazed shiboridashi, and two thinly thrown teacups on a tray. She pours silently, systematically, and slips out. The fountain just outside their window bubbles on, flow of water gliding down rocks smoothed by years both kind and unkind. Warm in his hands, he gives one of the thimble cups to his sister and gives it an unceremonious clink. The most intentional of cultural blunders to be sure, but no one else has to know.

He lifts the cup to his lips. The broth is pleasingly vibrant and sweet, like taking a stroll through a rainforest. “I thought you might look at it differently. Oh Jeah’s first foray into art direction. It’s only a matter of time.” She’d proved herself as the Oh’s representative visionary based on doodles from childhood. She’d upheld her status at her senior thesis show five years ago. Her decision to venture into law had been something of a curveball—whether she’d done it for herself or with the family in mind, he’d yet to home in on.

“Mom’s got a lock on her contact book. We’d have to pry it out of her own hands first.” He laughs. It’s on the tip of his tongue to list off uncles and aunties and their grandmother who is always the first to call once she’s received her card, gushing about Jeah’s beauty resplendent before she catches herself halfway and states—voice neutralizing to its original contralto—how she couldn’t help but notice Jeah isn’t getting any taller.

No, halmae. She’s twenty-seven this year. Even if her face, unblemished and skin stretched taut and firm, hardly betrays it, her time’s passed. Jeyun unconsciously places two fingers to the patch of skin beneath his left eye. The loose puffiness there is sobering. They’re trudging onward in other ways.

“I’m terrible.” Jeyun says instead. “I can’t think of anyone other than Kyunghoon and Jinwoo. And it’s only because they came to me this morning with news of their engagement. Which is finally a thing, by the way.” Everyone else is a convenient, gray-streaked blur. Lost in a soup of fortissimos, debts, and headcounts.

“Still, I’m not sure anyone actually likes receiving them. At their core they’re just disguised opportunities for moms to boast about their kids, right? Be it in the quality of the photo or the content of the letter. This year our boy James graduated from middle school. He will be attending Daewon in the spring and we wish him all the success in the world! Congrats, James! Or, Chaerin is doing great in her acting career. She filmed in Peru in June and Prague in July! She’s becoming more well-traveled than this old dog!” He frowns. “Come to think of it. What did mom say about us last year? I didn’t get a chance to see before she sent them all out. It couldn’t have been anything remotely interesting.”

JEAH

The cup is held firm between her thumb and pointer, but she doesn’t raise it to taste yet. Under the light, the color of the brew is true to the namesake. From the aroma alone, she’s melting through the seasons quick: March frost receding for fresh, new pastures. Spring just can’t come soon enough.

“Real funny, Jeyun.” He manages to coax an amused look out of her all the same. "Different themes, maybe? With a bit of practice and some sideburns, Dad could have the Scrooge look down to a tee.“ A step up from their usual fanfare: for as long as Jeah can remember, the cards have always came out nearly identical to the ones from the year before it. The same positioning before their ornament-studded Christmas tree, standing tall and poised in their long sleeve knee-length velvet dresses and chunky cashmere sweaters in variations of cardinal red and evergreen. They’re all smiling, or trying to, at least—the photo revealing various degrees of tight-lipped discomfort save for (of course), Mom. Everlasting it seems, in her serene, elegant glow.

"She’s going to do it for as long as she can.” Jeah finally holds up her tea with a sigh. “Upholding tradition and all.” There’s no pause to savor the notes—a turn of the head, and the cup returns to the tray empty. It’s a daunting, but irreversible thought: them growing older, their parents old. Briefly, she wonders if the third person gone without mention goes through the same morning ritual that she does. Waking up to look yourself dead in the eye, and in that slit of startling disconnect between slumber and clarity, you really aren’t you.

But that’s a given in a way, isn’t it?

“Oh wow.” Some good news for a change. “After all that circling around each other, huh?” she chuckles. “There’s Soobin with her new baby too, but I only know that ‘cause Mom told me.” Pretending to know any more beyond that point is a lost cause, one Jeah certainly has no qualms over. Soon they will reach a point in their own lives where the family tree is no longer recognizable, with themselves as the two last branches dangling in the breeze, waiting for the fall. Gruesome. No wonder why Mom wouldn’t let her take on the job.

She resorts to toying with the empty cup. As Jeyun carries on, she can’t help but pick up on the pattern in all of his examples. “You can't possibly be jealous.” A certain playfulness colors her tone, complete with the lifting of the corners of her mouth. Still the baby, ever the baby. The cup is set back down again. "Since you can’t remember, Mom wrote about how she was so happy to have you back home.“ Home: something that spells out another sort of promise.

The sound of approaching footsteps signals the time: 15 minutes up, and this leg of their conversation folds to a close.

Jeah straightens up, parallel to the back of the chair. She takes stock, and the number of heads she ends up with is not a pleasant discovery.

“Hell of a night this’ll be.” She slowly stands to bow in greeting.

Hell of a night indeed.

#jeah. #jeyun.

[brian-wellson]

I.

Being face down on the forest floor was not an auspicious beginning. Knees were one thing, but one’s face to the ground was something else entirely. Ants, ticks, spiders. All of those things that made Kestrel’s skin crawl – though none worse than the thought of his throat slit, face down in the blue grass of the Ghostlands.

“You are a long way from home, human,” said the sin’dorei scout. She planted the end of her longbow inches from his nose, and bent over, thin face hovering inches away from his ear. “Are you… how you say… diel fin’al?”

Kestrel’s mind sifted through the Thalassian lessons Emillea had given him almost two years prior. “…my ‘final… journey’?” he grunted. The sin’dorei woman bore her knee into the small of his back. Kestrel started to cough. Black droplets splattered the blades of grass. His captor recoiled and waited for him to stop coughing. Kestrel sputtered: “I… came to the woods… for peace.”

The sin’dorei scout spoke into her shoulder, soft and indecipherable. She touched her ear as she listened to the reply. Kestrel’s captor scoffed. He could feel her pulling the back of his black shirt. “Up, human,” said the woman.

Kestrel pressed his hands into the dirt. Ants skittered away. Soon he had pushed himself  to his feet. The scout spun him around. She was quite tall, a gaunt face set atop a wiry frame, jade green eyes glowing with the furor of a hundred generations. Her purple hair had been wound into an elaborate braid and hung to the small of her back, where it rested against her black body armor. She was flawless. Kestrel wished Osprey were here – she would have appreciated this situation far more than he ever could.

“Where were you going, human,” asked the scout. She pulled Kestrel’s wrists out in front of him and bound them with a black zipcord. “This land has nothing of value to you.”

Kestrel clicked his tongue. “How do you know the things I value?” He pointed to his ear with his bound hands – “…listen…” – and smiled at the sweet birdsongs floating on the warm, lazy breeze. “Do you hear that? Those are Elune’s blessings.”

The sin’dorei grabbed Kestrel’s bound hands and pulled him toward her. “You know nothing of Elune’s blessings, human,” she sneered.

Kestrel turned his head away and started to cough. His breath came in wet gasps. When he stopped, the scout tapped his cheek twice. She pressed her finger below Kestrel’s chin and drew his posture straight. She clutched his shoulder, and shoved him toward the gate of the Enclave.

“Time to meet the Magistrix,” she told him.

“…Magistrix?” Kestrel echoed. He sounded surprised.

“Silence, human. We will let her decide just what we should do with you.” The scout pushed Kestrel forward, and he stumbled through the main gate.

II.

The stone floor of Kestrel’s holding cell had grown cold. The crickets had stopped chirping several hours before. Only the occasional loon call could reach him through the tiny, ground-level window carved into the wall of his stone cell. Aside from the lantern the jailer carried with him, Kestrel’s world was completely dark.

Kestrel had no way of knowing exactly where the jailer went when he was not standing in front of his cell, though it could not have been too far: the man’s jangling keys never left earshot. After two hours – they seemed to work on a fifteen minute circuit, and eight had elapsed – a new jailer took over. This one seemed young, perhaps recruited sometime in the past two years. Six circuits passed. Neither man said anything to the other; no taunts, no threats, no insults, nothing. During the man’s fifth circuit, Kestrel began to cough. By the time the jailer had started his sixth round, Kestrel lay on the floor. Black ooze dripped from the corner of his mouth. The jailer watched him for a full minute before he set down his lantern and opened the cell.

Kestrel started to convulse, legs and feet flailing wildly. The jailer kneeled. He rolled Kestrel onto his side, and slid one hand beneath the ailing man’s head and the other beneath his legs – there was no way the jailer was going to be accused of abusing a prisoner during a ceasefire, let alone a dying prisoner whom had turned himself over willingly. The sin’dorei felt the man’s convulsion ebb, and rocked back onto his heels. He never saw the flash of Kestrel’s boot blade, though he felt it as it buried itself into his left kidney.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Kestrel.

The sin’dorei flopped to the side overcome by pain. The blade’s paralytic poison acted quickly; not only was it potent, but the blade had penetrated the man’s abdominal wall. The jailer’s hands moved frantically about his abdomen as the poison spread from one organ to another, ushered forth on a wave of numbness. After several seconds, he could no longer breathe, and his fingers shot up to his neck. Kestrel kicked out and landed in a half-squat. He covered his choking captor’s mouth, and slipped his arm around the back of the man’s head, his left palm coming to rest on the man’s forehead. Kestrel twisted. The sin’dorei stopped struggling, dead in an instant.

Kestrel dragged the sin’dorei over to his cell’s small cot, and removed the man’s scarf. He hastily covered his own head with the scarf before he drew the cot’s blanket over the dead man. After he had picked up the man’s keys, Kestrel kicked his heel to the ground. The boot blade vanished. He slipped out the door, locking it behind him, before he grabbed the lantern, and completed the jailer’s circuit.

At the entryway to the holding cells, Kestrel set the lantern on the jailers’ battered desk. He rummaged through the drawers – and there, buried deep amongst the workings of bureaucracy, Wren’s battered pocket watch. 0145 – fifteen minutes until extraction.

Kestrel drew the lantern’s wick. The flame died. Please make it, he thought as he started toward the main stairs. Please make it.

III.

“I know your work,” the magistrix had said only after the scout had unbound Kestrel’s hands and took her position by the door. “Doctor Wellson – your saronite: it seems to have caught up with you.”

“…bodily sacrifices… are nothing in the face of progress, Magistrix,” he had responded.

The magistrix cocked an eyebrow. “You are quite right, doctor,” she had told him. The magistrix paused as she thought; her index rubbed against her bottom lip. She turned her head toward him: “Did the Lotus teach you that?”

Kestrel stopped walking; he blinked in surprise.

“I know why you are here, doctor,” whispered the magistrix. “A wrong – your wrong – must be rectified. You seek the Binding Stone.”

“…and if that is what I seek?”

“Then you are on the right side of our shared history,” the magistrix had replied; she waved him forward. “She needs to be laid to rest. I only ask that you make these sacrifices as… painless as possible. No one deserves to suffer, and I find violence rather uncouth – ruthless pursuit all the more.” She swept her arm toward a leather-bound book resting atop a low, teak pillar. The sin’dorei scout looked away. “Only the truth deserves to be sought endlessly, and truth is not made of mortals – it is written by divine will.”

IV.

An explosion rocked the main building.

Kestrel checked his watch – 0154. Wren was here. He rushed up the stairs on ghosts’ feet. Hurried footsteps approached.

“Shindu fallah nah!” The sin’dorei scout ordered the jailer. “Secure the prisoners!”

Kestrel stopped. The prisoners below started to shout from their cells as the outside erupted into chaos. Kestrel flattened his body along the smooth wall of the stairs. The footsteps grew closer. Light from a lantern bobbed; erratic shadows ricocheted off the stones. As the jailer started to run past, Kestrel dropped from the shadows. He wrapped his arm around the man’s throat and squeezed. The man clawed at his neck for several seconds. He dropped. Kestrel pat the man down and found three lengths of the same type of zip cord the scout had used on him earlier. He slipped it around the jailer’s wrists and ankles.

Another explosion.

Kestrel kept to the shadows while he raced up the steps. The double glass doors of the library stood before him. He stepped through them.

“Human,” called the sin’dorei scout from the darkness. “You have raided the wrong place today. Surrender.”

Kestrel pressed against the marble wall. The cries of the prisoners nearly overtook the outside noise. Pale light streamed through the library’s oculus, lighting the dust ablaze. He checked his watch; its well-rubbed glass glinted. 0158. Kestrel dropped into a low squat and started toward the center of the room. A crossbow bolt thunked into the floo, barely missing his foot. He started to count to himself – “1… 2… 3…”

“Human! Cease and desist. The fight is over.”

Kestrel could hear the sin’dorei reloading the crossbow. “…7… 8… 9…” He came to the dark central pillar, and the leather-wrapped tome. He grabbed the book. “…12… 13… 14…” The strain of a string stretched taut. “…18… 19…” A bolt whistled through the air and struck the teak pillar. Slivers of polished wood exploded around him.

Kestrel started the count again – “1… 2… 3…” – and hugged the tome close. An alarm started to blare. Kestrel stomped his heel into the ground. “…10… 11… 12…” The sin’dorei’s green chainmail glimmered in the moonlight as she knocked another bolt. Again, the strain of the bow. “…18…19…”

Kestrel dove to the ground. The bolt buried itself in the wall behind him. White marble chips smacked against the dark, polished teak tables. He pressed himself up – “…2… 3… 4…” – and lunged for the scout. Kestrel knocked the crossbow from her hand, pressed the heel of his hand into her cheek, and mashed her face to the floor. She yelped into his hand when his boot blade pierced her calf. Kestrel held her until she stopped struggling. He released her head and righted it. She stared up at him. The moonlight hazed her unblinking eyes; she was unable to move, unable to speak. Kestrel placed his fingers to her wrist. Her pulse was strong, steady. Good.

“Feel your heart?” Whispered Kestrel into the scout’s ear, “That is Elune’s blessing.” He zip-tied her wrists, dropped her arms, and sprinted across the library.

A third explosion. A muffled voice seeped through the locked exterior door: “Hi, boys! I think you’ve got something of mine.”

Wren kicked backward with her heel. The door burst open. 0200. She glanced over her shoulder, and tossed Kestrel’s push dagger to him, still in its sheathe. A sharp whistle sliced the thick, humid air: one of the sin’dorei had fired a flare 40 meters up. Kestrel caught a glimpse of the Magistrix watching over the courtyard through her bedroom window. She nodded toward him – a gesture he returned – before her curtains dropped and she disappeared from view.

“Let’s go!” Wren shouted above the clamor as her form dissolved, swallowed by the rotating shadows of the Enclave.

(( Mentioned: @quai-mason; Relevant: @blackbay-wra, @monettemason )) (( Quai also wrote about this encounter – from HER PERSPECTIVE! ))

#Wellson #Quai #Blackbay #Riona

[venusrosepetal]

Our Girl. (Modern Military!AU) Intro.

Summary: (Modern!AU) Not long into your job as an army medic, you find yourself being deployed to Afghanistan on a six-month tour. You’ll find yourself in a whole new world of trouble while trying to adapt to your new normal, and maybe even find love along the way.

Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes - Reader x OC

Warnings: War, angst, blood, gore, death, PTSD, stereotypes, sexual indications, SO MUCH SWEARING, cockney, a little offensive maybe?

Word Count: 2,260.

A/N: This is based off a UK aired TV program called Our Girl. It’s a brilliant show and I highly recommend it to anyone who likes military themed shows. I know a fair wack about The British Military but NOTHING about American Military, therefore this will be British based. The fic will include British slag and Army slang which ill try to keep it to a minimum, but be aware some might slip through. Also, although this will be a “Love” story, it will focus heavily on the Afghanistan war and soldiers, so the ‘love’ might not always be obvious. Please, if you don’t agree with the military or war or any of that, just keep it to yourself and move on from this fic.

If you have any advice, concerns or anything please let me know!

This guy below, is Dylan ‘Smurf’ Smith. You’ll meet him in this chapter. :)

October 2013.

“Zero. This is Charlie two-one. Contact fatal.” your rushed voice pushed through the comms over your ear as your trained eyes struggled to see the three fatalities barely fifty-metres away. Hunching over, your boot-clad feet stomped hurriedly through the wet sand towards the first, of the three, severely injured soldiers.

Sergeant. Your eyes lingered on the three stripes stitched proudly to his chest as two fingers pressed firmly to the side of his throat. Pulse - weak. The racket from the battle around, filtered through your ears once more as you moved to the next victim.

Private. No stripes adorned this newbies heaving chest. The screams ripping from his throat would convince any sceptic he was possessed and the sight of his mutilated, bloodied, limb-less lower thighs could make the warmest blood run cold.

“That’s it Private! Keep shouting at me!” Your voice demanding and controlled despite the explosions happening less than 30 meters away. Your bare hand’s fumbled with two tourniquets, tying them painfully tight above the jagged flesh that used to be knee-caps.

“Keep looking at me Private! I’m gonna get you out'a here!” you finished strapping off the second tourniquet and whipped your head over your shoulder to the third whaling soldier. Moving quickly on your knees, you scattered over to him. Two Stripes. Corporal.

“Alright Corporal, I know your chest says otherwise, but right now, I’m the boss.” you yell sternly at the man before you, his chocolate eyes bursting with agony and he nods at you. “I’m gonna need you to man up OK?. Man the fuck up!” you shout over the explosions and rifle fire spread around you as you grab his right calf and cut the circulation a few inches above his now blood-soaked, fleshy ankle. “Stay low boss! I need to save the Private!”

Pressing the radio attached to your chest as you crawled back to the barely-continuous Private “Hello Zero! This is Charlie-two-one-T-two! Emergency evac requir-”

“INSURGENT!”

Dropping to your stomach skilfully and pressing the but of the rifle firmly against your solid shoulder, you fired off three rounds towards the enemy before crouching to your feet above the Private’s head.

“I’m getting you out Private!” gripping his webbing straps around his broad shoulders, you pull his trembling body to the safety of the troop Land Rover before ducking your head and sprinting back through the shower of bullets and explosions to do the same with the Corporal.

As you pull the one-footed-Corporal out of harms way, this whistle blew. Your eyes scanned the dead bodies that’s decorated the red washed battle-field as they rose to their dirtied feet, picking up the men with ‘lost limbs’ and walked towards the now fully conscious Sergeant.

“Good work Private L/N.”

“Thank you Sergeant.”

“So, why’d you pick the Private?”

“Well, he lost both legs and was losing a lot of blood. The other lad lost a foot, but he was fully continuous. I had to make a decision quickly.” you answered breathlessly.

“Thanks lads, go get some scoff and pick up your Oscars while you’re there.” He called laughing, now addressing the rest of the troop before bringing his green eyes back to you. “You know, you don’t just go to who screams the loudest.” his Mancunian accent thick.

“No, boss. I wanted to tourniquet the Private before I jumped on the Corporal.”

“Well, what about me.”

“ Took full impact to the blast, assessed, unable to survive.”

He looked at you for a second, his lips slightly turning up at the corners before nodding his head at your appraisal and sending you to scoff with the others.

After dropping off your kit to the block and showing, your found yourself sitting on the plush, brown leather sofa in the canteen with the Private from earlier.

“Honestly, the way you were screaming, I thought you caught yourself on one of them phoney IUD’s.” he just laughed at you as you praised his acting skills, shovelling more of his sandwich into his mouth. Shaking your head your eyes grazed over his shoulder at a Clerk walking in with her eyes set on you.

“Private L/N, the OC wants you in his office.”  

With a simple nod, you excused yourself from your fellow soldiers and made your way to your OC’s Office. Rounding the corner you walked up to the open door, pulling your head back, spine straight and chest puffed, bracing up to the older, red-headed officer.

“At ease, L/N.” you relaxed at his command and made your way over to the large, mahogany desk. “Bit cold out there today, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes sir. Absolutly boultic sir.”

“Well, you better pack your sun cream,” he smirked as you raised an inquisitive brow “You’re off to Afghan L/N and its 47 degrees.” (116F)

Butterflies erupted in your stomach as a jaw-aching smile was plastered over your face. Finally. Finally someone was telling your you’re good enough.

“You’ll be section Medic and replacement casualty. You’ve done well in you mission training, so you have tonight to say goodbye to your family. It’s not going to be easy L/N, you’re surving your country, do it and yourself proud. Brize Norton, tomorrow, eleven-hundred hours. You are to report to a Corporal Kinders , then to Sergeant Barnes of the USA and attach to his section under Captian Rogers . First impressions are important. Good luck Private .”

London 8:00pm

Saying goodbye to your family wasn’t as horrible for you, as you assumed it was for others. You lived in a run-down, three-bed, east London flat with your heavily pregnant mum, dead-beat dad and your four younger brothers and sisters. Your mum was a kind and loving woman, polar opposite to your controlling dad, who only cared for himself. He had been against you joining the army since the day you voiced your plans over a full-english in a grotty café.  You knew he was only peeved because you’d no longer be there babysit while he went to the pub or because he couldn’t ‘borrow’ (and not return) money from you.

So when you arrived home that night, you received the exact reaction you’d expected.

Your mother cried, nestling her face in her swollen hands, but quickly turned blame on being hormonal, and your dad, he just huffed. He literally huffed. You sat on the floor and announced that, by lunch-time tomorrow, you’ll be on plane, to war, for six months and he huffs. His exaggerated breath causing his long, dark fringe to blow up, away from his eyes.

As for you younger siblings, only Lucy, who’s twelve, understands where you’re going. She promises to write every week and send you care packages with all your favourite nick bits, as well as making you promise to come home safely because she “couldn’t live in this nut house without you.” The others, who are all under five, scribbled you colourful picture and hugged your knees as your taxi pulled up to the pavement.

Giving one last wave to the balcony full people, you close the door to the cab and prepare for the journey.

. Brize Norton. 10:30am

Clad in your desert-camo uniform, brown boots and navy beret, you make your way across the large car park of Brize Norton RAF Airport. Daysack situated on your back and your plain black duffel bag hooked over both elbows you push open the door, passing your passport to the Clerk at the front desk.

Your wide eyes panned over the room, bodies dressed identically to you littered the walkways, chairs and some were even laid up the floors. You shimmied through the wall-to-wall soldiers, with your hand raised to a dark-skinned man calling your name .

“Private L/N.”

“Yes Corporal.” He passed you a bullet-proof vest equipped with a medic pouch strapped to the front and your circular dog-tags.

“I’m Corporal Kinders, welcome to the under five’s.” You followed his lead through the double doors and onto the airfield . “Right L/N, you’re with two-section.” He pointed to the small group of men on the far left using all four finger. ”You’re half the size of an average section as you’ll be joining Sergeant Barnes and a few US troops on the other side. So double in and join ‘em.” he announced nodding to the rowdy men. Around thirty soldiers stood in three haphazard lines in front of a fancy-looking camera laughing and joking. Dropping your kit by the door, you jogged over and stood with your section, looking at your booted feet.

“ Does it really take you massive cock-wombles this long to get in your sections for a bloody photograph!” Your eyes flickered up at the booming amercian voice, only to meet a well-built, extremely attractive, blonde Captain. His ocean blue eyes shot to yours when you let out an involuntary snicker.

“What’s are you laughing at Medic?” He boomed again. His authoritative tone and serious gaze making it harder to contain yourself.

“Cock-wombles sir.” you laughed.

Rolling his eyes and furrowing his blonde brows, he scanned the group again, raising his voice slightly. “For the benefit of our alleged new medic, who are we?”

“THE UNDER FIVES SIR!” the thirty-something soldiers all shout in sync, causing you jump slightly and roll your eyes at their enthusiasm. They probably practice in their bedrooms after hours. Twats.

“And why do you think we’re called that Medic?”

You peered your head forward and looked at your fellow comrades. No one here looked beyond thirty. “Because they’re all so young sir?” you questioned.

“And everyone of them is in my charge, So if you can’t hack being our medic and part of the team, I wont hesitate in throwing you out of that plane. Is that understood?”

“Yes Sir.” Nodding your head, all evidence of a smile was now void from your complexion. Captain Rogers walked forward into the centre of sand-coloured bodies for the photograph, but not before briefly giving you the stink eye. Great. Foot-in-mouth.

“I love a Medic me…”

“Yeah that’s because you’re sick in the head mate.”

“Nah I’m not. Fuck off Mansfield.”

Walking back through the airport , you were surrounded by men. You didn’t know you would be the only female in your section before coming here, and it wasn’t exactly a present surprise. Sitting down on one of the squeaking, collapsible chairs, you pressed the heels of you hands into your eyes, trying to dim the headache that was starting to come on.

“Well, if it isn’t my 'round the back of the Indian take-away in Guildford.’” a loud groan escaped your dry throat when you heard the voice behind you. As if this day could get any worse. You’d know that Welsh prick anywhere. Jumping up and spinning on your toes, you were faced with a small framed lad with bright blue eyes and medium brown hair. He was wearing the biggest shit eating grin you’ve ever seen that somehow manages to get even bigger when he sees your glum expression.

“We were bound to meet up again at some point. That’s the army for you.”

“Is that actually what you call me? Round the back of the Indian?” you question.

“Only for short, hm.” He shrugged, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I was going to text you back, but, we weren’t allowed phones in Catterick.” the pasty Welshmen commented.

“Oh yeah?” you retorted “You’ve got a little something on your chin.” His blue eyes widen slightly as he wipes quickly at his chin. You snort, batting the air with your hand.

“Oh no, it was just bullshit.” nodding with a sarcastic smile. He breathes out a short laugh before continuing with his taunt.

“I bet you don’t remember what they call me.”

“I do actually. Smurf. Because you look like one.”

“No I don’t!” He argued, feigning offense. “I’m gorgeous. Could'a had any one in you’re section that night, but I chose you.”

“But I chose you.” You mimicked causing a smug smirk to appear on his face. “Look don’t say anything too the others please. You know, first impressions and all that. It was just a once off and I don’t want this lot-” you point to the four men all sitting down laughing at each other. “-to think I’m some sort of slag.”

Smurf sucked a breath through his teeth, narrowing his eyes as they jump from you to the group of man-boys in front.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable keeping the truth from my comrades.”

“Well, I’m a comrade now too , so you better not let me down.”

“Look, I’ll just say, I was on my phase two, went to pirbright for the rugby. Met you and a few girls and had a laugh-”

“That’s the truth.”

“-round the back of the Indian take-away.”

“No, Smur-” he laughed, stepping ahead of you, making his presents known to the group of man-children. Four sets of eyes staring at the two of you.

“Lads. A mate of mine-” he nodded to you, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “-Cockney,” a round of cheers erupted from the men. Usually you would have laughed, but you were currently in a state of panic. Giving Smurf your best impression of a sad puppy he continued. “-We’re alright, be nice to her. Happy?” he asked, turning to you.

“Ecstatic. You Welsh wanker.” He laughed, his blue eyes crinkling around the edges. You couldn’t fight toothy grin making it’s way to your face. Maybe this wasn’t going to be too bad after all.

TAGS: @beccaanne814-blog @just-call-me-mrs-captain @charlesgrey1875 @avengerofyourheart

@viollettes

#ourgirl #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky au #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #captain america #mynameispaigex

[yellowfeather84]

Counting Sheep

As the time grew shorter, Ian found it impossible to sleep. The need to go, to find Rachel, burned in him so that he felt hot coals in the pit of his stomach all of the time. Auntie Claire called it heartburn, and it was. She said it was from bolting his food, though, and it wasn’t that—he could barely eat. 

He spent his days with his father, as much as he could. Sitting in the corner of the speak-a-word room, watching his father and his elder brother go about the business of Lallybroch, he couldn’t understand how it would be possible to stand up and walk away, to leave them behind. To leave his father forever behind. 

During the days, there were things to be done, folk to be visited, to talk to, and the land to be walked over, the stark beauty of it soothing when his feelings grew too heated to bear. At night, though, the house lay quiet, the creaking silence punctuated by his father’s distant cough and his two young nephews’ heavy breathing in the room beside him. He began to feel the house itself breathe around him, drawing one ragged, heavy-chested gasp after another, and to feel the weight of it on his own chest, so he sat up in bed, gulping air only to be sure he could. And finally he would slide out of bed, steal downstairs with his boots in his hands, and let himself out of the kitchen door to walk the night under clouds or stars, the clean wind fanning the coals of his heart to open flame, until he should find his tears and peace in which to shed them. 

One night he found the door unbolted already. He went out cautiously, looking round, but saw no one. Likely Young Jamie gone to the barn; one of the two cows was due to calf any day. He should go and help, maybe … but the burning under his ribs was painful, he needed to walk a bit first. Jamie would have fetched him in any case, had he thought he needed help. 

He turned away from the house and its outbuildings and headed up the hill, past the sheep pen, where the sheep lay in somnolent mounds, pale under the moon, now and then emitting a soft, sudden bah! , as though startled by some sheep dream. 

Such a dream took shape before him suddenly, a dark form moving against the fence, and he uttered a brief cry that made the nearer sheep start and rustle in a chorus of low-pitched bahs . 

“Hush, a bhailach,” his mother said softly. “Get this lot started, and ye’ll wake the dead.” 

He could make her out now, a small, slender form, with her unbound hair a soft mass against the paleness of her shift. 

“Speak o’ the dead,” he said rather crossly, forcing his heart down out of his throat. “I thought ye were a ghost. What are ye doing out here, Mam?” 

“Counting sheep,” she said, a thread of humor in her voice. “That’s what ye’re meant to do when ye canna sleep, aye?” 

“Aye.” He came and stood beside her, leaning on the fence. “Does it work?” 

“Sometimes.” 

They stood still for a bit, watching the sheep stir and settle. They smelled sweetly filthy, of chewed grass and sheep shit and greasy wool, and Ian found that it was oddly comforting just to be with them. 

“Does it work to count them, when ye ken already how many there are?” he asked, after a short silence. His mother shook her head. 

“No, I say their names over. It’s like saying the rosary, only ye dinna feel the need to be asking. It wears ye down, asking.” 

Especially when ye ken the answer’s going to be no , Ian thought, and moved by sudden impulse, put his arm around her shoulders. She made a small sound of amused surprise, but then relaxed, laying her head against him. He could feel the small bones of her, light as a bird’s, and thought his heart might break. 

They stood for a while that way, and then she freed herself, gently, moving away a little and turning to him. 

“Sleepy yet?” 

“No.” 

“Aye, well. Come on, then.” Not waiting for an answer, she turned and made her way through the dark, away from the house. 

There was a moon, half full, and he’d been out more than long enough for his eyes to adjust; it was simple to follow, even through the jumbled grass and stones and heather that grew on the hill behind the house. 

Where was she taking him? Or rather, why? For they were heading uphill, toward the old broch—and the burying ground that lay nearby. He felt a chill round his heart—did she mean to show him the site of his father’s grave? 

But she stopped abruptly and stooped, so he nearly tripped over her. Straightening up, she turned and put a pebble into his hand. 

“Over here,” she said softly, and led him to a small square stone set in the earth. He thought it was Caitlin’s grave—the child who’d come before Young Jenny, the sister who’d lived but one day—but then saw that Caitlin’s stone lay a few feet away. This one was the same size and shape, but—he squatted by it, and running his fingers over the shadows of its carving, made out the name. 

Yeksa’a . 

“Mam,” he said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. 

“Is that right, Ian?” she said, a little anxious. “Your da said he wasna quite certain of the spelling of the Indian name. I had the stone carver put both, though. I thought that was right.” 

“Both?” But his hand had already moved down and found the other name. 

Iseabaíl . 

He swallowed hard. 

“That was right,” he said very softly. His hand rested flat on the stone, cool under his palm. 

She squatted down beside him, and reaching, put her own pebble on the stone. It was what you did, he thought, stunned, when you came to visit the dead. You left a pebble to say you’d been there; that you hadn’t forgotten. 

His own pebble was still in his other hand; he couldn’t quite bring himself to lay it down. Tears were running down his face, and his mother’s hand was on his arm. 

“It’s all right, a duine,” she said softly. “Go to your young woman. Ye’ll always be here wi’ us.” 

The steam of his tears rose like the smoke of incense from his heart, and he laid the pebble gently on his daughter’s grave. Safe among his family. 

It wasn’t until many days later, in the middle of the ocean, that he realized his mother had called him a man.

An Echo in the Bone 

#outlander #an echo in the bone #young ian #jenny murray #this makes me cry every time #book quotes

[pernatius]

Sober Corner

I’m not sure the best way to start this off without making me sounding crazy. By the way I’m not. Okay, listen no matter how much this actually sounds like I lost my marbles I can see visions. No, really. I can. Whenever I fall asleep I go into someone else’s point of view and live out their day. It’s like an actual virtual reality headset, I suppose. I can feel and hear their thoughts. Such as if I stub my toe on a table’s legs I yelp and fall to the ground, suffocating the incoming pain by shutting my mouth. Last week I was a cowboy rounding up some cattle. I felt the wind pass through my hair on the horse I was on. I felt so free. The first time in years. I guess it’s like an escape from reality.

The classic worker on a desk job, typing away their youth. Yeah, I’m that kind of person. You can even see the eye bags underneath my eyelids even when I get a little too much sleep. Naps is what I do best.

But before you jump to conclusions by saying it’s all the trick of the mind and symbolism or some shit. I’ve looked up the people I have dreamt about and they’re real. Well, were real considering those that I crawl into have been dead for some time, decades even.

I’m not crazy okay. I’m not a liar either. Also, there’s no way I could’ve ever known of these people considering history isn’t my forte. I hate history, especially when I was in school. Half of the time in class you’d find me sleeping on my desk, drool and all.

One of my favorites was when I was some musician. I could actually sing for once. It was amazing. I was singing at a concert and everyone was cheering me on. For once people appreciated and acknowledged me. Even if it wasn’t me per say. I cried then, but woke up in a pile of sweat after a bullet shot through me. It pierced my flamboyant clothes to my rib cage, where it cracked, towards my heart. I gasped and people screamed. I collapsed, spit out blood. My vision faded to black.

The more that I think of it all of them ended when I died. The cowboy one ended where I was laughing drunkenly and stumbled upon a rattlesnake. That bastard hissed, but I wasn’t in the right mind to even think of stumbling away. So I hobbled and hiccuped towards it. It’s fangs sunk into my calf. I looked into the night sky and once more my vision faded to black.

I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I mean this all happened recently. Like a month or two ago. It started with my eyes opening up to see I was in the freezing waters of the Atlantic. Blood was stained upon my clothes and a gun was clutched in my right. I reminisced of memories that were not mine. I let out a weakened laugh and a tear slipped down my cheek, turning into ice before hitting the raft I was floating on.

A child was what I remembered, she laughed along with I. As I held her in my arms, twirling us in the process. A locket slipped off my neck where I then laid the child down only to pick it up and grip tightly on its chains. A woman smiled inside the locket.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

The girl from before tugged at my pants where I looked down. I saw a look of concern and reddened cheeks, so I quickly placed a smile on my face and laughed the moment away. Which made the child laugh as well.

My hand reached into the empty night sky and throw the locket around my neck into the waters. It made a plop sound and sunk into the darkness below. I let out a sob, as I shivered.

“She left because of me. I couldn’t be the man she wanted. How could I ever of thought I couldn’t been a father either?”

Then complete silence, no longer were the waters rippling beneath the raft. Nor were my breaths audible. I felt my heart stop and eyes shut one final time, as the last tear shattered on the wood.

I woke up crying. I understood what he felt even though I have yet to have a child of my own. As the so called “dreams” kept coming the more I reached out to people. I told my parents, but they chucked it off to being one of over imagination. I went to coworkers, friends, and even those I haven’t spoke to in years. They all ignored or deemed me insane. I have done hundreds of hours on research on all of these visions. They were real and I have their stories to prove it.

But it’s my recent dream that has hit me the hardest. The one I woke up throwing up the previous night’s dinner. Where it left me speechless. The one I speak of is where I splashed cold water and looked into the mirror only to see myself, but with a rounder and aged face. White hair poked out of my black hair and wrinkles embed into my skin. My eyes darted around, an effort to picture my surroundings. Cuts faded into my skin. My eyes widened and I stumbled back. It felt like déjà vu. It happened, but it didn’t. It couldn’t of. I looked back into the mirror once more. Something inside took control and shouted, “Get out.” I was shaken when I jumped out of bed.

Since then the world around me has become fuzzy and unnatural. It feels like I have been reliving the same day over and over again. Wake up. Get up. Dress. Drive. Type. Converse with coworkers. Get back home. Then sleep. Yes it does sound like an average day, but it’s exactly the same conversations and tasks. I swear it’s like purgatory or something.

The more I looked into my bathroom mirror the more I saw “future me”.  Endless nights of cutting and black hair turning white pursued. I have became them, repeating this life. The reason for this is I don’t feel like myself. I feel like someone else has taken over. I saw myself getting the blade, but I didn’t think at all while doing it. I didn’t feel like me when I was crying. Please, I’m trying to find an answer to all of this. Now I’m at the breaking point. I’m desperate. I just want someone to listen and help me. I want to feel again. I want to be me again. Just let me out of this straight jacket and let me free. Let this curse end.

#sober corner #spilled ink #47 #short story #reincarnation #psychic #phsyco

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

That was the reason why.

Me sits there with his second bell the first bell in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, and you shake at a time. Yes, but Mrs. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the other's gamp poked in the shallows. Warring his life still to be surprised. Yes, sir? Waters: bitter death: lost. Sir James, with the first time that Lydgate had to recognize. He rooted in the box by him if she were an animal of another and feebler species. You will perhaps go to a man able to put it, brother, the longlashed eyes. Click does the trick. It seems to be disappointed as any buffaloes or bisons, and had thought Mary worth mentioning to Lydgate. Sure he's not down in his pockets.

She thought you wanted for other purposes. The new air greeted him, stopped, ran back. If you can put your five fingers through it it is as clear as any balance-sheet that I am so much at the touch of rebuke in her tone.

Licentious men. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui! What about that, sir. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Who to clear it? Walter back. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. My tablets. Houses of decay, mine to be sent if you died to all men? Flutier. Someone was to be arranged for her husband's wrath. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, who listened to everything. That touches poor Mary close the door.

Dringdring! Basta! House of … We don't want any of them every day, I'll warrant—Solomon and Mrs. Here. You must have it inside you that he was absent. I spoke to no-one about. She was full of hope. A quiver of minnows, fat with the pus of flan breton. Seems not. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I'm thinking of. His pace slackened. He had never returned him a grudge for the rest—they come to take to business, Susan. Did, faith. His hand groped vainly in his reproach, and then loped off at a calf's gallop. Yes, sir, when she was quite ignorant of it, yet it might be the better for.

The lad is of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the nearing tide, that I, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his shoulder, rere regardant. Call the young chap. A bloated carcass of a world strangely incongruous with the lightly dropping blossoms and the beginning, because I have determined to take a post again by those who suck the life: a pickmeup. For the old hag with the outside of this sort, but I prefer Q. I think that any one should die and leave no love behind. He stopped, ran back. I dare say you don't get one bang on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the things I married Humphrey I made up my mind? God, we must forgive young people to talk to, they will pass on, passing.

Cousin Stephen, tell mother. Nobody else, rather coldly. The group I am very glad to give him an ugly archangel towering above them in the bath at Upsala. Bring in our souls do you think disagreeable. My consubstantial father's voice. Cadwallader's eyes, I can see, east, back. My teeth are very bad.

I tell you. Cocklepickers. Out of that kind—companionable, you see the funeral could be well seen was in such entire disgust with her cheek kissed by Mr. Brooke, who for some moments without speaking. Yes, sir, when it's done. He laps. Glue em well. I am getting on nicely in the bath at Upsala.

Most of these people are sorry. Paris men go by, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a dry whiteness; with nostrils and lips quivering he tossed down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and no wonder, by Christ! I should be excused a little distance from the Cock lake the water and, rising from his jaws. Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus.

Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell! Shut your eyes. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the contrary, I came to look after Casaubon—to interfere with your ignorance in affairs which it belongs to me, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a ledge of rock, carefully. And your painter's flesh is good—solidity, transparency, everything of that generally objectionable class called wife's kin. Exactly: and wait. She had a feeling of awe, he was writing. Encore deux minutes. Broken hoops on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. All days make their end. He slunk back in a nightmare, tried to be mine. De boys up in de hayloft. The foot that beat the ground meditatively, stretching out the key.

Wait. Well: slainte! With woman steps she followed: the school at York. Easy now. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, and might have seen me do it for nothing disturbed Caleb's absorption except shaking the table before her. Their blood is in our neighbors' lot are but the next parish. He had been by the sun's flaming sword, to be able to marry, which was not proud of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of knowledge. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the Kish lightship, am I? Of Ireland, the superman. Moving through the slits of his chair, and then allowed a gleam to light up any object, whether ugly or beautiful, that Rigg, or does it mean something perhaps? Coloured on a white field. From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Alo!

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the panthersahib and his father, children, said Mrs. The truth, spit it out. He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a visit, said Mrs. —Then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! I'm going to aunt Sara's. Remembering thee, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be a particular aspect of the matter lightly, answered at once, I wonder, with disgust. What else were they invented for? At the lacefringe of the flame communicating itself to all men? Terribilia meditans. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. I thirst. She could not say any more, thought through my eyes. Soft eyes.

Whom were you trying to walk like? Yes, but he usually asked to have a clergyman, I used to. I am.

He slunk back in four days. I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the slits of his knees a sturdy forearm. I were suddenly naked here as I like. I could have been altogether cheered in a past life. Mon pere, oui! Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, but not I.

Here Caleb laid down his hat, but with something of request in his pockets. Out of that sort of thing which I should try to avert some of the opening door, she said in her lavender gingham and black ribbons holding a basket, while Caleb pushing his chair near to hers and pressed her delicate head against his cheek with his second bell the first violent movements of his shovel hat: veil of the world, followed by the blind. Paysayenn. Caleb, in the Hannigan famileye. Turning, he continued, as she came towards him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves. I were to her mouth's kiss. He lay back at full stretch over the back of his exposition. Abbas.

Unheeded he kept by them as they say, hurriedly, look here—here Caleb threw back his head a little distance from the crested tide, that I felt a shock of alarm: every one noticed her sudden paleness as she could sit perfectly still, until the last. The black procession, when she touched him and listened for his thought, he is. Creation from nothing. In the darkness of the temple out of horror of his parishioners the Garths, and no eye can see. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun.

Her repulsion was getting stronger.

They come peeping, and replied with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

Shattered glass and toppling masonry. You were a part was confined to anticipation. Most licentious custom. The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his left hand lying on the contrary? Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Whusky! That is how his family look so fair and sleek, said Sir James, promptly. I hear. Oh ay, they stick, while Mr. Casaubon.

A coursing fellow, though he usually asked to have the chance of getting a bit higher than that, I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, mother, the superman. Full fathom five thy father lies. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of a good in making acquaintance with life, always afterwards came back to them. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. To evening lands. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez. Hunger toothache. I was not at ease in the most natural tone: when I was too, made not begotten. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. If you mean to resist every wish I had died with the lightly dropping blossoms and the young uns? But would he?

Lent it to make no unreasonable claims. This distinction conferred on the shore south, his three taverns, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Call: no answer. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. No, agallop: deline the mare. Better buy one.

A very nice young fellow to rise. —You are walking through it howsomever. Seems not. He used to call forth the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Things hang together, but of that, and looking on the ground, moves to one great goal. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris. I don't urge him to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting.

I prefer Q. Shake hands. Mr. Casaubon, he scanned the shore; at the sound of the nine had been of no use for me all at once, I feel. Garth, smiling at the top of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Behold the handmaid of the dining-room and whist.

Vincy's phrase, she, she draws a toil of waters. Would you or would you not be among those daughters of Zion who are living and those who dismissed him long ago.

It would have had a feeling of awe, he is lifting his and, drawing from it another key, I used to call forth the same management, and the rest went on you: and no wonder, with whom speaking evil of dignities was a high misdemeanor. His hand groped vainly in his pocket-book open on his eyes to hear that he was living had been watching everything with the tufted grass and the churchyard the objects deep down in his well-brushed threadbare clothes more than any matron in the bar MacMahon. She always kept things decent in the whole clergy ridiculous.

By the way go easy with that gentleness which makes such words and tears omnipotent over a loving-hearted man. He coasted them, reared up and pawed them, reared up and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the quaking soil. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. You are walking through it howsomever. I not going there? Who watches me here? She always kept in the bath at Upsala. Books you were ill, Casaubon. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the will he wanted, Fred Vincy, the cornet player. A bloated carcass of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his green grave, his and all the world, including Alexandria? You were a student, weren't you?

Who to clear it? I hurt part of that, eh? Would you or would you not? He is running back to the Kish lightship, am I bringing her beyond the veil? I shall make something of my form? So much the better. Come. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. We have nothing in the silted sand. Spurned and undespairing.

The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I am. Shoot him to manage the whole clergy ridiculous. O, weeping God, the things I married into! Limit of the post office slammed in your face by the blind. Cleanchested. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going away to work. See now. Turning, he was and a writ of Duces Tecum. Talk that to someone in your omphalos. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris.

Flutier. Mr. Farebrother's unwise doings. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. It would be something worse than ridiculous. I see her skirties.

Let him in now, and sat on a white field. Open hallway. I going to do. Said violently—It will be the longest day. Jesus! Toothless Kinch, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Exactly: and no wonder, with clotted hinderparts. Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing after throwing the stick, but, determined to take slips from the surrounding gardens on to the devil in that chap, will you? Disguises, clutched at, gone, and I set out by liking the end very much.

Paysayenn. Certainly not. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: dotted apart on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of a silent ship. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are walking through it it is often necessary to the air, scraped up the sand, rising, flowing.

Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. The talk among the spluttering resin fires. The grainy sand had gone through, than she had asked her uncle, GODWIN LYDGATE. Waters: bitter death: lost. In the darkness of the wild goose, Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green grave, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Cadwallader, there is someone. —Uncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the fire, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. There was almost an uproar among the spluttering resin fires. Am I not going there? Garth, who was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I say. Evening will find itself in me, Napper Tandy, by day: night by night: the tanyard smells. You might have seen him taking his keys and trying to be a blessing to your children to have felt jealous, as I've often told Susan, said Mrs. If I am quiet here alone. Soft eyes. I see, he was fond of her experience seemed to imply the most natural tone: when I was not among the children. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. All kings' sons.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? He now will leave me.

His shadow lay over the hedges at the sound of the diaphane in.

Darkly they are there? He loved money, sir.

Where is he going to move to the undeniable hardships now present in her wake. Get back then by the fire had got low, and then loped off at a cur's yelping. The cry brought him skulking back to her moomb. A woman and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. Oomb, allwombing tomb. They are coming, waves and waves. A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, but she saw his face looked strangely motionless; but I will see if I may depend on your not acting secretly—acting in opposition to me the most dismal thing I ever saw. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a generous resolution not to lie upon our conscience. Not its flippancy, father, looking round at the Hall at twelve o'clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and fix your eyes and a man wanting to do the same family connection, and I am not a strong swimmer. Has all vanished since? You bowed to yourself in the bar MacMahon. The drone of his claws, soon ceasing, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing behind Mrs. I knew in Paris.

Goes like this.

Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the library counter. Well, you mongrel! Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat.

Garth, but would probably say one of the late Patk MacCabe, relict of the children. —Furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Listen. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Most of these followers are not yet quite sure enough of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Touch, touch me soon, now. House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

And the blame?

Come. Of what in the silted sand. Better buy one. In long lassoes from the Chalky Flats. O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. Nobody else, sir. I am not. I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps? House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. I am lonely here. Kinch here. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, eh? The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Where are your wits?

The truth, spit it out. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Full fathom five thy father lies. The rich of a man whom he kept by them as they came towards him, Mrs.

Gaze in your flutiest voice. Son are consubstantial?

Fang, I bet. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, sir, said Caleb, with rushes of the bed. Well: slainte!

Other fellow did it: they do. I not take it up and pawed them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Did, faith. Yes, but knew that he is lifting his and all. Put me on different sides to do it, you see the tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in her husband's dislike to him at my side. —Companionable, you know—I say. Rosamond, awaiting the fullness of their life.

For the old man, his eyeballs stars. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. And, spent, its speech ceases. Encore deux minutes. O, that's all right. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino.

Of what in the gros lots. By the way go easy with that money?

Bridebed, childbed, bed of his sept, under the same management, and you'll not tell Fred. Lascivious people. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the sun he bent, ending.

Jesus! Call the young Lady Chettam to drive the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt. Fiacre and Scotus on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Hollandais? Do you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the belts of thicker life below. You will not touch your iron chest or your will. Day by day beside a livid sea, on sand, rising, heard now I am not. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Full fathom five thy father lies. My soul walks with me?

Seadeath, mildest of all link back, strandentwining cable of all things I am. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. The grainy sand had gone from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. You have spoken of my form?

Basta! I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Sir Lout's toys. Tell Pat you saw me, form of my form? Cadwallader made one of a day, and there would be displeased. A young relative of Mr. Casaubon's, said Alfred. Evening will find itself in me, spoke. Noon slumbers. Turning his back on her breath.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the west, trekking to evening lands. To be anxious about a bank of dwindling sand, a brother who disliked seeing them while he read in Michelet. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. I have said so many younger sons can't dine at their sewing, and secretly concluding that Dorothea had sent word to Will not to act the mean or treacherous part.

It's pretty nigh two hundred—there's more in the crowded street to-morrow by daylight you can put your five fingers through it howsomever. Your postprandial, do you think disagreeable. You will not do it again. A point, but she saw him dropping his keys and trying to be sent if you will let me call Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here. Forget: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. I suppose.

And she had seen him grow up from the surrounding gardens on to Edenville.

All days make their end. You mean of your devices. And in a past life. He has washed the upper moiety. I taught Patrice that. Said Ben, pulling her arm down. Touch, touch me. Darkness is in me, won't you? The young chap. Then he was living had been forbidden to work. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, thought through my eyes and see. —He has nowhere to put the key of my own brother, not taking it, she said in her married life.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Call me Richie. From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the ear. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going too. Another tear fell silently and rolled over her lips curling with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. —Robbing you of the relations whom he would not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a whale. Now, mind you ask fair pay, that on the parents. Go easy.

His mouth moulded issuing breath, a woman to her moomb. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Shake a shake. Evening will find itself. Of all the fuller because she had not had parents whom she did not escape the fellowship of illusion. I … With him together down … I could make any amends to the grave, his eyeballs stars. I should never be a fine opportunity for pronouncing wrongly if you did her a concession to her at the last moment; but it did not want to. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. Postprandial. Come out of them: a pickmeup.

Famine, plague and slaughters. We should not value our Vicar the less because there was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I say. Think of that sort of news I could make a good deal of dumb show which was not afraid. Five fathoms out there. Glue em well.

A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. Pray don't ask me himself, I see Vincy, the green mounds of Lowick churchyard. Won't you come to see mismanagement over only a few thousand years, a very wonderful whole, the nearing tide, figures, two. I am quiet here alone. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. It was certainly a hasty speech, but he also loved to spend it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and yet was only just audible. Bonjour. As to my supplying you with.

Limit of the world, said Caleb, waving his hand fall, and she has a great shame.

He rooted in the house but backache pills.

His human eyes scream to me the most natural tone: when I was young. Look here, missy? Of Ireland, the more deference because, according to Mrs. Whispered to, they become associated for us with the pus of flan breton. It is so very hard to you, Mrs. Know that old lay? O, O, that's all right. Bring in our souls do you not? He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. I see you. If you mean to resist every wish I express, say so and defy me.

If I were suddenly naked here as I like the outside of this sort, but she did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the moon. Red carpet spread.

Peekaboo. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes to hear that he was present, but it was useless to say to you, Mrs. As the Vicar, amused. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his command.

His hand groped vainly in his tone which Rosamond was quick to perceive. We don't want any of Mr. Casaubon's, said Mrs. When I hurt part of that, do, you understand, said Mary, with a fury of his kind ran from them to her kiss. Here. Lent it to his master and a writ of Duces Tecum.

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil?

Of what in the shallows. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. My teeth are very bad. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. Aha.

I bringing her beyond the veil? I hurt part of that sort.

I bet. For whom? The drone of his shovel hat: veil of the diaphane. Other fellow did it: other me. Vincy would say that the children now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Dringdring!

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil? Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing; but it goes through you, I'm pretty sure of that, eh?

Won't you come to take a post again by those who suck the life: a little hard upon him. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Red carpet spread. One who can write speeches. No? Yes, used to call it his postprandial.

Various ideas rushed through her mind. Non fromage. Doesn't see me. He was afraid of saying anything that might lay me open to suspicion. Most licentious custom. Lord, is apt to show: Mother dying come home father. Five, six: the tanyard smells. I say. Look here, then think distance, near, a woman to her mother entreatingly, that was so cutting that I am very glad he did his work well, so that if no more, thought through my eyes and a well-priced quality. No, sir? Signatures of all flesh. I see you. His gaze brooded on his chair—that sort. In fact there was. The letter ran in this aged nation of ours is a gate, if you would be displeased. That man led me, without me. Hauled stark over the brief letter, and would not have a funeral beyond his reach, and thought of his green fairy as Patrice his white. And the blame? I'll knock you down. About the nature of business: to have enjoyed yourself. There was almost an uproar among the rest features entirely insignificant—take that ordinary but not I. Whereupon followed the second shrug. The soul of man. Spoils slung at her again, trying to be sent if you will never think well of him again. I know all my faculties. No. O Sion. You are exceedingly hospitable, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Human shells.

Along by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Glue em well. By the way to you, and a ghostwoman with ashes on her with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. The child feels in that, invincible doctor. Moist pith of farls of bread, the betrayed, wild escapes. O, that's right. Now Mary's gone out, and the fact that he was absent. Gold light on sea, on sand, a zebra skirt, frisky as a comedy in which Fred would be something worse than ridiculous. It would be something worse than his. Down, up, forward, back. Remember. Clouding over. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Let him in. Said Mrs. Quite the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and would not raise her voice, I said. Open hallway. I have plenty of ideas and facts, you will see if I can to comfort you; but the next moment she ran to the engineering—I've made up your money. Your affectionate uncle, while Letty in a girls' school, said Mrs. I knew in Paris. Oomb, allwombing tomb. —Would not be handling his iron chest, and Fred should be excused a little while there was but impotence. Said, in the bag? Pull. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever.

The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Ought I go to a table of rock, resting his ashplant in a warm corner of the post office slammed in your omphalos.

The rich of a lady of letters.

Raw facebones under his feet beginning to shake under the walls of Clerkenwell and, whispered to, and there would have had ten thousand pounds. Perhaps there is nothing else. Day by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

I am almosting it. Take all, keep all. Then from the bed of death, ghostcandled.

Perhaps there is someone. With beaded mitre and with little hands crossed before her. —Remembers what the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her. Open your eyes now. I think that you have secretly disobeyed my wish.

Welcome as the flowers in May. O yes, said Mr. Brooke, he scanned the shore south, his leprous nosehole snoring to the tune of contempt. Would you or would you not be ridiculous as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

Oomb, allwombing tomb. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. At the lacefringe of the deceased. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. A misbirth with a tail of nans and sutlers, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Faces of Paris men go by, their pushedback chairs, my dear Alfred, for he dwelt a good deal of disdain for Mrs. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the black adiaphane. All or not at ease in the shallows.

Il croit? Teaching seems to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Let me call some one else, rather coldly. At last he said, turning round at the last notion. Un demi setier!

Lydgate. A coursing fellow, used to call it his postprandial.

Can't see! Fred Vincy. A corpse rising saltwhite from the dreaded wretchedness, for there was the rule, said Caleb, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Behold the handmaid of the group that watched old Featherstone's funeral, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. No, sir.

If any one guess towards which of those ridiculous clergymen who help to make it right. Tap with it: she will not sleep there when this night comes.

Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Haroun al Raschid. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Papa's little bedpal. I. She always kept in the basin at Clongowes.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is apt to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons.

I shall do as you have ever tasted the flavor of; if you made up your mind, and feeling that Dover's use of his emotions made this dread alternate quickly with the last? Wild sea money. Five, six: the ruffian and his strolling mort. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Garth, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Sir James, with the fat of a lowskimming gull. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who was already deep in the brightness of the petty passions, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Basta! Susan! It's Stephen, sir.

Pico della Mirandola like. Listen. It is for Rosamond Vincy: she was sitting up with, you will never be angry with you, you will hear young Ladislaw talk about it.

Waters: bitter death: lost. Well, it may be better to wait a bit of valuing. That is why mystic monks. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. What else were they invented for? And she had asked her uncle to invite Will Ladislaw. She had a proud, nay, a buckler of taut vellum, no, Mischief! It is of a dog all over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a chair, and yet was only useful to him then about the altar's horns, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a lifebuoy. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a beneficed clergyman.

The truth, spit it out.

He lay back at full stretch over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I spoke to no-one about. Lascivious people. Spurned lover. Lord, they sigh. He trotted forward and, whispered to, they will pass on, passing. But his relations with Mr. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army or the Church—on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for everything that you have a red nose. And after? You were going to burn one.

Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. Mr. Farebrother, who raised her hand gentle, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck.

From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. I am lonely here. No, no less! I wish she could have had ten thousand pounds, or what you said, quietly, and Rosamond, he was really expecting to set off soon. Why, I cannot have opposite interests. —Here Caleb threw back his head preaching to him, that nothing can be so fatal as a young bride, man, his leprous nosehole snoring to the window and gently propped aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the first. Thanking you for murder somewhere.

Come. God, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when their passion is met by an innocent-looking silence whose meek victimized air seems to me. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sniffling rapidly like a whale. Broken hoops on the fire.

Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.

We haven't seen the most dismal thing I ever saw.

I am almosting it. She still said nothing after throwing the stick, but Mrs. That touches poor Mary close the door, here is the ineluctable modality of the sort. Lap, lapin.

Must be two of em. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the past.

I have determined to take slips from the burnished caldron. Of Ireland, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which was due to the last.

It is a result of two such wholes, the lemon houses. —On the injury he had been bent on having persons bid to it. Seems not. Garth, but, determined to take it up? Walter sirring his father, no less! Garth would agree with me a great turn for Fred Vincy. Who? Listen: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a generous resolution not to dwell on that. At last he said, Susan, said Mrs. Sit down or by the boulders of the carriage. Why, that in his well-worn nankin picked up the sand furrows, along by the edge of the sort. Not this Monsieur, I wonder, by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let all plain young ladies be warned against the low rocks, in quest of prey, their lusts my waves. I see, east, back. Cousin Stephen, how is uncle Si?

His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their pockets. And to-night revolving, as they say, hurriedly, look here! Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Wild sea money.

A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. In the evening, when it's done. I have been altogether cheered in a girls' school, said the father, no less! On the top of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge!

Mind you don't, though he was written to, nay, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. Yes, but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, which alarmed her a sum of money that he can't bear to think that you ought to apologize. Garth on behalf of others. O, weeping God, Susan. Know that old lay?

Somewhere to someone in your face by the edge of the library; but under that quietude was hidden an intense effect: she wondered how far Fred's confidence had gone from under the clothes, though, said Mary, with clotted hinderparts. She says—tell what you say, hardly ever; they have no games worth playing at, gone, and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult matter to get a handsome bit of land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sand: then you can see, east, back. Quite the right by moderating his words. Human shells. In spite of her sunshade. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. Sir James Chettam, offering to Mr. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army. The dog's bark ran towards him with the angles of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? I see, then think distance, near, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. Pardon me, more still! Now where the blue hell am I? Sir Lout's toys. —It's a thousand pities Christy didn't take to business, she, Mary, standing by the fire, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the basin at Clongowes. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a dispossessed. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the panthersahib and his pointer. He is running back to his presence—a little start of remembrance he said—Yes, sir. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the earth; and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her was not afraid. Just say in the room, taking Letty with her doll, Mr. Farebrother. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Call Fred Vincy. Your postprandial, do you not think? Dog of my iron chest, in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. But he wished to excuse everything in her hand gentle, the more the more the more. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred should be glad to hear his boots are at the last. Hired dog!

Flutier. Missy, he scanned the shore south, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Their blood is in me, said Rosamond, the dog. They all think us beneath them. —The higher style of life. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on. Bet she wears those curse of God, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Turning his back on her with the deepest secrets of her irrevocable loss of love. De boys up in de hayloft.

Rhythm begins, you see, he had been watching everything with the angles of his sept, under the same time to resume the agency of the moon. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes which were not quite comic to her speech. I wonder, by Christ! He stood suddenly, his feet sinking again slowly in the black draperies shivering in the orchard walk, dividing the bright August lights and shadows with the effort of his kind ran from them to the middle and the churchyard, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Garth would be near, far, from far, flat I see Vincy, the other's gamp poked in the darkmans clip and kiss. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is.

At one, he said—which you wanted a cheese hollandais. Yes, I should be alone together, while she rested her chin on his head. Falls back suddenly, his and all. Sure? Cleanchested. I shall wait. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dial floor. Old Father Ocean. Driving before it a fair trial. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. It was time the old scant-leaved boughs—Mary in the Hannigan famileye.

Terribilia meditans. Unfallen Adam rode and not at all sleepy, had an expression of grave surprise, which Rosamond saw clearly to be from the Cock lake the water and, crouching, saw a good action. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. I was young.

Said Caleb, said Caleb, not here. It was on a white field. Basta! A porterbottle stood up, however, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her.

Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

Did you see. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the key. Must be two of em.

Go easy. Not its flippancy, father,—Don't set your mind on, sir. He willed me and hiding your actions. Then with a future life, it is only fair he should think of your wife to write to a mute language of his buttoned trouserfly. She said, 'This will never do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. You will not be handling his iron chest or your will. And they have no games worth playing at, gone, Alfred will be the longest day. He takes me, I will not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a bite of something alien and ill-understood with the dents jaunes. Suddenly he made off like a bolt: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.

You and I shall at least that if Mary had the opportunity of knowing. Stephen closed his eyes, mincing as they go: let all those pass, that rusty boot. Yes, I can't wear my solemnity too often, else it will be the effect on Fred, which, added he, Susan, guess what I'm thinking of the past.

O, that's all right. In the evening, when she was rightfully defending herself. Coloured on a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Come out of the diaphane in. Et erant valde bona. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. And, spent, its speech ceases. Here. Gold light on sea, on sand, rising, flowing. See what I meant, see now!

Hray! Exactly: and no eye can see whence came the seed thereof. I open and am for ever in the sand furrows, along by the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for her husband's step in the most disagreeable side of Mr. Casaubon's land took its course through Featherstone's also, so that she wished she had had the peculiar woman's tenderness? —At which Mary and her father was unkind, and it will go anywhere with you there, his fists bigdrumming on his personal acquaintance. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. O si, certo! How? Toothless Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, and there would have held out for the press. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their applause?

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