#5994

[corvianbard]

#5994

Death, a putrid lullaby of decomposition, Enticing atonement that is the absolution, Catch us all before our eventual distortion.

[every-tome]

[tippysattic]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Handmade candycane pattern Christmas apron.

[damnfandomproblems]

Fandom Problem #5994:

I don’t think some of you realise just how frustrating it can be to be in a fandom that’s dominated by one ship (that’s not even canon) to the point that it’s assumed to be the default OTP for every fan.

I really hate those “immutable” ships that are even more untouchable than some canon ships, tbh. Y’know, the ones that have fans who are all “there’s no way you could ship them with anyone else~” “I’m glad we all agree that A/B are canon!” (We don’t, and they’re not.)

I know most of them start off as joking but in my experience it very quickly becomes so entrenched in the fandom culture that even drawing the characters with someone else gets you side-eyed/excluded at best and put on a hitlist at worst.

And of course there's the passive-aggressive "You should draw A/B instead :))) they're canon/more popular so you'll get more notes" as if I don't know that. The fact that there's so little content for my ship is what motivates me to keep generating more, and them commenting stuff like that just sours me on their ship even more.

[bluenpinkcastle]

20240514: the History of LEGO Castle day 135. 5994 Catapult Polybag (2005, 27 pieces, 15 different parts) 5996 Rascus Polybag (2005, 6 pieces, 6 different parts) 5998 Vladek Polybag (2005, 6 pieces, 6 different parts) 5999 Jayko Polybag (2005, 6 pieces, 6 different parts) For the end of 2004 and the beginning of 2005, Knights Kingdom II produced a small black and light bluish gray catapult on a white 4x6 plate with small reddish brown "hockey puck" wheels and a medium blue horse helmet on the front, a Rascus polybag, a Vladek polybag, and a Jayko polybag. The Rascus polybag was never actually produced and it was the only set with a green spear and a green axe wielder helmet. The Vladek polybag had Vladek with a black axe wielder helmet, a yellow minifigure head with black scruffy bangs, striped sideburns, and a smirk with mustache, a black torso with a black scorpion on a dark red background with dark red arms and black hands, and black legs with a dark red belt and also included the white rectangular shield with a black scorpion on a dark red background and a black halberd. This minifigure with a different helmet and without the shield was also found in 851499 Chess. The Jayko polybag had Jayko with a medium blue pike helmet, a yellow minifigure head with gray beard and mustache, a medium blue torso with white geometric print, medium blue arms and light bluish gray hands, medium blue legs with a light bluish gray belt, and also included a white rectangular shield with a tan hawk head on a medium blue background and a medium blue crossbow. All three of the minifigure polybags used different heads than used throughout the rest of the Knights Kingdom for those characters. 5994 Catapult and 5999 were also part of 50799 Knights Kingdom Adventure Box, which included a Scholastic Press Knights Kingdom book. 2004-2006 also produced a number of large, buildable figures and Nestle promotion figures, none of which will be included in this project. Additionally, a number of books and other related material were produced for this LEGO Castle subtheme, including: -Nine story books, 50399 the Lost Kingdom, 70232 the Dark Fortress, b50933 Quest for the Tower, 79790g the Quest for the Heart, 70231 the Grand Tournament, b321 Welcome of the Kingdom of Morcia stickerbook, 221216 the Search for the Stolen Amulet, 70230 Search for the King, and 50999 Battle for Morcia Magnetic Storybook. -A comic book, 8000076 Find the Shield Save the Kingdom - Jayko's Quest. -A punch out play set / puzzle book, 4397880 Adventures in Morcia. -A number of trading cards (~110). -31317 Save the Kingdom Board Game, with the minifigures with geometric armor for Danju (dark purple), Jayko (medium blue), Rascus (green), Santis (red), and Vladek (black), which also had a German version 218066 Das Spiel, a French version 218141 Le Jeu, and the multi-language 218158, and GBA684 Game Boy Advance Knights Kingdom. -4250348 Clock Set and 4250349 Watch Set with Jayko minifigure. -851495 King Mathias, 851734 King Jayko, and 851735 Dracus key chain. -851542 Magnet Set Blister Pack with Danju, Jayko, King Mathias, Rascus, Santis, and Vladek and 4267641 Magnet Set with Jayko, Santis, and Vladek magnets. -4270057 Photo Frame Castle with Jayko minifigure.

[pesterloglog]

Aranea Serket, John Egbert, Vriska Serket

Act 6, page 5982-6008

ARANEA: Anyway, where was I?

JOHN: the heroine story ends and the villain story begins.

JOHN: i think...

ARANEA: Yes, that's right.

ARANEA: It is with the predomin8tion of her son that our heroine's story ends, and the story of our villain 8egins.

ARANEA: 8ut as we all know, 8eginnings are not always so easy to pinpoint in paradox space.

ARANEA: One could say his story 8egan the day he claimed immortality. Or the moment his 8eing was inexplica8ly confined to a juju, allowing him access to any realm in which his vessel would capriciously materialize.

ARANEA: 8ut for the sake of linearity, we may as well say his story 8egan the day he and his sister hatched.

ARANEA: When a cheru8 hatches, the two undeveloped personalities mingle together in the same 8ody. There is not yet a clear division 8etween the two.

ARANEA: It will then consume the egg shell for the vital nutrients it contains. The sugary snack is irresisti8le to the starving wiggler.

ARANEA: Once it finishes its first meal, the two personalities will 8e pulled apart for good, and the child will pup8.

ARANEA: The two halves then 8egin vacill8ting with their sleep cycles, as I descri8ed.

ARANEA: As you might expect, the female child was as cheerful and friendly as could 8e.

ARANEA: She took after her mother in every way. At least, the way her mother used to 8e, long 8efore she was hardened 8y centuries of isol8tion and o8sessive pursuit of justice.

ARANEA: And to just as little surprise, the male child was an insuffera8le 8rat.

ARANEA: It is just as well that cheru8 parents a8andon their offspring. Raising such a child 8y the familial standards of any race would 8e a monumental challenge.

ARANEA: Nevertheless, it would seem there were those who tried.

ARANEA: Details in my research suggest our villain had a num8er of acolytes oper8ting in the shadows, preparing for his arrival.

ARANEA: We will pro8a8ly never know who these scurrilous conspir8tors were. 8ut it is evident that at some point the cheru8 was locked in a room, either out of exasper8tion, or for its own good, until it was old enough to enter the session.

ARANEA: The children were left with everything a young cheru8 could ever want. Meat, candy, computers, a lifetime supply of special stardust, and of course their precious jujus.

ARANEA: The acolytes had clearly gone to gr8 lengths to harvest such items from all over the cosmos, so they could lavish their young master with gifts.

ARANEA: They may have 8een prisoners, yes. 8ut if you ask me, these children were very spoiled.

ARANEA: While the female was preparing for a colla8or8tive approach to the game, the male was plotting furiously against her. He never had any intention of working with her.

ARANEA: As far as he was concerned, the game was his and his alone to conquer.

ARANEA: One day, he put his plan into motion. He had his sister's dream self assassin8ted on Prospit.

ARANEA: The next time she went to sleep, she would never wake up again. When her 8rother woke up, he 8ecame the sole occupant of the 8ody.

ARANEA: He then freed himself from his chains, and launched the session 8y himself.

ARANEA: 8ut this game was never meant to 8e played solo.

ARANEA: Its format is inherently cooper8tive. The diversity of players, the com8in8tion of their efforts and aspects, this is what awakens the true cre8tive potential of the game. Without them, a session will wither and die.

ARANEA: If one enters alone, it completely alters the nature of the game. It changes its purpose.

ARANEA: For a solo player, a challenging quest 8ecomes an insurmounta8le one. A reward of infinite promise 8ecomes a 8oon far more sinister.

ARANEA: The gauntlet which the player must overcome is seemingly designed to 8e impossi8le. For all intents and purposes, it is not actually a game at all. It is a death sentence for any player foolish enough to accept the challenge.

ARANEA: 8ut it 8ears repeating.

ARANEA: This was very special cheru8.

ARANEA: He entered what is called a dead session.

ARANEA: This qualifies as 8oth a null and void session, 8ut is even less than either of those. Compared to a typical session, it is almost unrecogniza8le.

ARANEA: 8efore the game 8egins, Skaia is 8lotted out with a dark layer of clouds. Its light is extinguished for good.

ARANEA: There is no planet w8ting for the player in the medium.

ARANEA: So instead, he 8rought it with him.

ARANEA: 8ut when he arrived, there was no heroic journey for him to em8ark on.

ARANEA: There was nothing. No sprite, no consorts, no underlings.

ARANEA: The land had no name.

ARANEA: Those things all needed to 8e unlocked.

ARANEA: To unlock his true quest, he was forced to undergo a series of excruci8tingly tedious trials.

ARANEA: Only then would the way to the planet's core 8e revealed. There, he would consult with the most monstrous denizen of all.

ARANEA: And while such trials might discourage most players from even trying, our villain's response was quite the contrary.

ARANEA: He was only em8oldened 8y the mind num8ing chores. He took to them with gusto, as if performing them out of spite.

ARANEA: With perseverance, he found the final door and unlocked it.

ARANEA: W8ting for him on the other side was a terri8le creature named Yalda8aoth.

ARANEA: His denizen would allow him a 8rief audience. One just long enough for him to make The Choice.

ARANEA: No denizen has ever 8een mistaken for pleasant company. 8ut the self-proclaimed god of all monsters is notoriously inhospita8le to his players.

ARANEA: His choices are known for their wild extremes.

ARANEA: And to this player, in this session, he offered his most extreme choice of all.

ARANEA: It was the choice 8etween a path of conquest, and a path of sacrifice.

ARANEA: 8ut this is putting it lightly.

ARANEA: In a tongue only his player could understand, he descri8ed what the path of the martyr entailed.

ARANEA: In short, it involved nothing.

ARANEA: The player chooses to walk away from the tempt8tion of power. To surrender all am8ition, and to welcome death.

ARANEA: In exchange for this pledge comes a promise. The player's sacrifice is assured to 8enefit all who will ever live.

ARANEA: In death, the player would later 8e in the position to help 8ring an end to a force of unfathoma8le evil and destruction.

ARANEA: A force which was unleashed, for instance, 8y someone who once opted for the other choice.

ARANEA: Yalda8aoth then descri8ed what it meant to choose the path of the conqueror.

ARANEA: It was a path for a more active player, to 8e sure. The player's mettle as a conquering force would 8e tested directly, and repeatedly.

ARANEA: One 8y one, he would have to conquer and destroy a num8er of planets spawned for him in the session. Each would 8e more difficult than the last.

ARANEA: After destroying them all, his true land would 8ecome unlocked.

ARANEA: He would then return to face his denizen again, and defeat him in com8at.

ARANEA: If successful, his reward would 8e unprecedented.

ARANEA: He would receive the 8oon of unconditional immortality, where resurrection would not 8e linked with the just or heroic nature of death.

ARANEA: It is unclear how this 8oon would 8e awarded, since to my knowledge it is 8eyond even the a8ility of a denizen to allow this.

ARANEA: 8ut through whatever mechanism the 8oon is 8estowed, immortality is only the 8eginning.

ARANEA: The player is somehow also im8ued with a limitless supply of power. Enough to destroy anything he wanted, for as long as he wanted.

ARANEA: And knowing the villain of our story, anything he wanted would be everything. And as long as he wanted would be forever.

ARANEA: Yes, knowing our villain, the choice he would make is quite clear.

ARANEA: Knowing him, in fact, proves it could hardly 8e considered a choice at all.

ARANEA: It was at this point the real game would 8egin.

ARANEA: Skaia would undergo a dramatic transform8tion, 8ecoming even darker and heavier.

ARANEA: Soon it would 8ecome a very massive solid sphere. It would 8egin to gener8 heat within due to rising density.

ARANEA: The surface would 8egin to crack.

ARANEA: The resulting explosion is known as the First 8r8k.

ARANEA: From the primordial 8last would emerge fifteen planets for the player to conquer.

ARANEA: They would scatter and ricochet at high velocity 8efore settling into or8it in the medium.

ARANEA: The 8r8k is a very violent phenomenon though. Not all planets will necessarily clear the 8last 8efore the Skaian de8ris settles into its final st8.

ARANEA: The vast amount of resulting matter then collapses into a 8lack hole.

ARANEA: Its gravit8tional pull is tremendous. Any o8ject within range will 8e sucked in and destroyed.

ARANEA: Those planets which settle into or8it will 8e safe, for the time 8eing.

ARANEA: 8ut in the case of our villain's session, three of the planets did not make it and fell 8ack into the hole.

ARANEA: This was a very lucky 8r8k for him!

ARANEA: It meant that he would only have to conquer twelve planets instead.

ARANEA: This 8it of good fortune could very well have 8een the difference which allowed him to overcome a nearly impossi8le challenge.

ARANEA: His task was to destroy all of these planets in order, each within a time allowance that gets shorter with every planet.

ARANEA: To destroy a planet, first it must 8e conquered.

ARANEA: He would have to overcome all forces of resistance on the planet, and ultim8tely defeat whatever powerful underling ruled there.

ARANEA: Then, much like he did to unlock the quest in the first place, he would have to travel to the planet's core.

ARANEA: There he would retrieve a 8om8, and return to the surface.

ARANEA: If he did not accomplish this in time, the 8om8 would deton8 in the core, and the game would 8e lost automatically.

ARANEA: The 8om8 is not powerful enough to destroy the planet alone.

ARANEA: In fact, its purpose is not to damage the planet at all, 8ut to move it.

ARANEA: So he must 8ring it to a design8ted loc8tion on the surface.

ARANEA: When it explodes, the planet will 8e knocked out of or8it, and sucked into the hole.

ARANEA: Of course he must make sure he has moved on to the next planet 8efore this happens!

ARANEA: He repeats this process for each planet until they are all gone.

ARANEA: There is one caveat though. He must skip the eighth planet.

ARANEA: If he sinks that one 8efore any of the others, it will result in the destruction of the entire session.

ARANEA: Thus it must 8e the final planet he conquers.

ARANEA: Upon destroying the eighth planet, his true land will reveal itself.

ARANEA: The dead planet will come to life, and there he must prepare for 8attle with his denizen.

ARANEA: He may sharpen his com8at skills, craft new weaponry, anything he can do to improve his chances against a very powerful endgame foe.

ARANEA: Fortun8tely for him, he would not have to face the monster alone.

ARANEA: 8y then he will have accumul8ted a party of loyal minions.

ARANEA: With each planet he destroys, he will 8e awarded a new leprechaun follower.

ARANEA: Even if a planet was destroyed in the 8r8k, he will still 8e awarded that planet's leprechaun upon destroying the planet preceding it. Sort of like a two for one deal!

JOHN: wait.

JOHN: leprechauns??

ARANEA: Yes, John!

ARANEA: I'm delighted to see you have pounced on what is clearly the most interesting part of the story thus far.

ARANEA: Leprechauns are a fascin8ting mythical race, although there is some dispute among scholars as to whether they are actually a 8reed of gnome.

JOHN: ...

ARANEA: I can't say I 8lame you for 8eing speechless. There are no dou8t hundreds of questions swirling in your head at once a8out these wonderful creatures.

ARANEA: Where do I even 8egin? You must forgive me, I find it very difficult to resist going on at length a8out them. I just think they are so gr8.

ARANEA: For instance, I can and have given lectures for weeks at a time on their marvelous and widely varying magical a8ilities.

ARANEA: More intriguing yet would 8e any medium-to-longform harangue on the topic of their culture and customs, most of which revolve around luck.

ARANEA: 8ut most captiv8ting of all, and the su8ject upon which I will now assiduously expound, would 8e the positively scintill8ting su8ject of leprechaun romance.

ARANEA: The pro8lem is that when the su8ject of leprechaun romance is 8roached, our overly o8essive troll intellects instantly assume the most ingrati8ting posture of admir8tion imagina8le.

ARANEA: Which makes it hard! Hard to give it proper academic focus I mean, 8ecause of how gr8 it is.

ARANEA: 8ut we will do our 8est to understand regardless.

ARANEA: Trolls have only four forms of romance. And though we consider it a complic8ted su8ject, spanning a wide range of emotions, social conventions, and implic8tions for reproduction, it is ultim8tely a superficial slice of what leprechauns consider the full 8ody of romantic experience. Our concept of romance, in spite of its capacity to fill our art and literature and to rule our individual destinies like little else, is still just that. A single, quaternary concept. A concept usually denoted 8y four sym8ols.

ARANEA: <3 <3< <> o8<

ARANEA: Leprechaun romance is more complic8ted than that. Leprechaun romance needs nine sym8ols.

ARANEA: The nine quadrants of leprechaun romance are considera8ly more nuanced than our quaint notions of romance, and certainly more alien.

ARANEA: In fact, so conditioned is my own understanding of romance that I can't help 8ut refer to them as quadrants, when in fact they are not quadrants at all! They are referred to as charms.

ARANEA: One of the charms is characterized 8y romantic love, as understood 8y 8oth trolls and humans. 8ut after that, all 8ets are off. There is no division 8etween 8lack or red, concupiscent or conciliatory. Instead their charms comprise a spectral continuum of more su8tly varying types of relationships, most of which are esta8lished in mutual chicanery, such as the exchange of pranks, coy riddles, slapstick shenanigans, and games of chance. Furthermore, a pair of leprechauns is not limited to a single charm. A relationship may 8e defined 8y multiple charms at once! In fact, some of the most interesting relationships arise from exotic charm com8in8tions. A sta8le relationship consisting of three or more charms is called a trove. These advanced relationships are often viewed as the ideal end result for a romance, much the way certain pairing rituals are for humans.

ARANEA: No charm is specifically tied to procre8tion, though any type of relationship could 8egin waxing concupiscent if lady luck should so decide. Certain charm com8in8tions are known to 8e more conducive to fertility than others. If the leprechaun pair has 8een so 8lessed, they will 8egin an ela8orate coupling procedure culmin8ting in a lively m8ting jig. The jigs are specific to the charms of course, similar to how different kinds of music lend themselves to various styles of dance.

ARANEA: While their romance is endlessly captiv8ting, leprechaun reproduction may 8e the most interesting su8ject of all. Particularly from a perspective of detailed anatomical study, which I will get to shortly. 8ut first it 8ears pointing out that while for humans reproductive relationships are exclusively heterosexual, and for trolls they are 8isexual, for leprechauns they-

VRISKA: WOW, WHAT A STORY!!!!!!!!

ARANEA: 8ut I wasn't fin-

VRISKA: WASN'T THAT STORY GR8 EVERYONE?

VRISKA: WOW!!!!!!!!

ARANEA: Hmm.

ARANEA: You really liked it that much, Vriska?

VRISKA: Hell yeah!

VRISKA: Oh my god. That leprechaun stuff? Soooooooo good.

VRISKA: Right guys?

ARANEA: Wow. Well, I would 8e happy to continue then, if you-

VRISKA: Mindfang, have I told you how gr8 it's 8een to get to know each other, and team up on adventures and stuff?

VRISKA: I really feel like you've helped me get in touch with my ancestral roots. Mainly as a kickass storyteller.

VRISKA: It was like this whole part of my personality I was never aware of. Like the part that's compelled to just outright explain tons of really interesting things to people, while sparing no detail whatsoever.

VRISKA: It's made me feel a lot closer to understanding my aspect, as well as closer to you. So I just wanted to say, thanks!

ARANEA: Aw, you're welcome!

ARANEA: I feel the exact same way a8out my time with you.

ARANEA: You have really helped me get in touch with the true pir8 within. I saw in you the adventurous spirit I always wished I could 8e.

ARANEA: You helped me finally understand the virtue in rationalizing questiona8le decisions, and 8ehaving unscrupulously for the gr8ter good!

VRISKA: Haha, stop! You're going to make me start tearing up.

VRISKA: Get over here and give me a hug, alpha sister.

ARANEA: ::::)

[llawlieta]

Four hundred pages on my blog...

[oneterabyteofkilobyteage]

original url http://www.geocities.com/Colosseum/Rink/5994/ last modified 2008-04-18 22:35:42

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Warrior's Wrath - Part 2

Source for pic

Word Count: 5994

Tags: Medieval Scotland AU; Highlander Kid; Blurry non-con; Angst without happy ending; Fluff and angst; have I mentioned ANGST? soft Kid; feral Kid; Blood and gore; Killer might have a crush on reader (didn’t notice I did this until I was editing); MDNI!!! 🔞

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: You and Kid, the fiercest worry of your village, get married and happiness is just within your reach. Until Blackbeard, the laird, comes to claim prima nocta and takes you. Somehow, you are able to placate Kid’s anger before you go, yet, when you return filled with marks and bruises, Kid can no longer be controlled.

Notes: Highlander Kid lives rent free in my head and I can’t help it. This one got away from me, though. I meant it to be around 5 or 6k words, it turned out to be almost 13k. Historical note, there’s no concrete historical evidence to support the existence of prima nocte, but this story was heavily inspired by Braveheart - God, I love this movie. I do hope you enjoy it! I’m so sorry for breaking your heart again. I thrive on angst! 

PS: Decided to compromise and split this into two parts but posted at the same time!

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane

MASTERLIST

|Part 1|

Kid slept through lunch and most of the afternoon and when he woke up, you had already instructed Killer to ask him for help with a very important task that needed his craftsman expertise, so he wouldn't observe you too closely again. 

Killer gave you a frown and a veiled judgmental look that you decided to ignore and, by the time they returned, you had dinner on the table. Kid's portion had a special ingredient in it. 

And it wasn't just love. 

He fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow and a soft sigh left your parted lips as you cleaned the table and applied more poultice to your wounds. They seemed less inflamed now. Their colour was a bit more faded and the swelling on most of them had gone down. 

You nodded as you prepared for bed. You could do this. 

-*-

You were woken by a wave of heat and pleasure. Something so strong that immediately pulled a moan from your open mouth. 

The room was dimly lit by the light of the crescent moon coming through the window and the small flame of the burning embers in the fireplace, but you could make out Kid’s fiery red hair between your parted thighs. Though you didn't need any sight to realise what he was doing.

His tongue licked and lapped at your lower lips, tasting, sucking nibbling. He was teasing you awake with the gentleness of his touch, purposely dragging his tongue around your clit. 

“Kid!” You huffed, eyes shutting hard as your fingers clenched the sheets. 

“We still haven't tried this bed out, lass. I don't know why I've been so tired, but I'm not postponing this anymore.” His calloused hand grabbed the back of your knee as he hoisted your leg over his shoulder. “The other one.” He commanded you as you silently obeyed and placed your other leg on top of him. 

The room was dark. He wouldn't notice the dark finger-shaped bruises around your hips. There was barely any light, he wouldn't notice the crust already coating the bite mark on your right thigh. You could scarcely see the orange of his eyes so there was no way he would notice the purple of the bruises on your buttocks. 

Right? 

Besides, you couldn't even think straight as he plunged two digits inside you and bullied your throbbing nub. His efforts now only aimed to get you off as you were already awake, all previous gentleness quickly forgotten. The pressure building in your core made your legs clench around his head and he groaned into you, the low vibrato of his voice adding another layer of pleasure, tightening the coil and making your back arch. 

The pain from the bruises on your back and the bites on your nape mingled with the waves of pleasure that overtook you almost without warning. 

“Mmph, Kid! I'm gonna-...” You didn't even finish your sentence as it turned into a litany of moans and mewls, thighs clenching and squeezing Kid's head, pulling him further into you as you rode out your high on his face. “Stop, enough, love.” You tapped his head lightly as your legs released him from your grasp, clit aching and throbbing, begging for rest. 

He emerged with a wicked grin on his face. “All tapped out, lass? This is just the beginning. I'm not done with ya.”

Your heart leapt and rejoiced at his words, but your body was so tired and sore that it begged for rest. You needed to stall him. 

“My love, let me just brew us some tea. I'm so tired that I need a little pick-me-up.” You kissed his forehead and swung your legs to the side to get up. You were naked - Kid's work - but quickly stirred the embers in the fireplace, adding some kindling and bringing it back to a roaring flame so you could heat some water. You planned to mix a bit of nightshade in Kid's tea. That would put him to sleep. 

Except you didn't notice how your husband silently followed you to the brightness of the fireplace - he was the fiercest warrior for a reason. 

As big as he was, he moved with the stealth of a stag, so you didn't hear him until his hand was on your arm, stilling your movements. Biting your lip you tried to suppress a hiss. He could see you clearly now. 

All of you. 

All of your bruises and marks and cuts. 

All of your shame. 

Your eyes searched for his, embarrassment and fear written all over your face. He gazed at you with a piercing scowl on his lips, orange orbs scrutinising every bit of skin, taking in the full extent of what the laird had done to you. 

To his wife! 

“Kid…”

“So ya weren't disgusted by me.” He grunted. “I thought ya just didn't want me anymore. But ya were just hiding this.” He dragged out the last word, his growl shifting the sound to something dangerous. 

“I…”

“That fucker.” The eerie calmness of his voice made all the hairs on your body bristle and brought tears to your eyes. This was what you wanted to avoid.

The tea, he needed the tea. 

“Let me just-...” He cut you and your movements off by grabbing your waist and laying you down on the deer pelt you had on the floor - you had put it there for cuddling. 

“Shut up, lass.” His voice was hoarse and pained. He forced you to lie back as his eyes ran over your body, taking in all the wounds, bites, scratches, cuts and bruises. There were so many. You knew. 

You lay still. Your eyes shut as you tried to keep your tears hidden inside. You never wanted to hide something like this from him, but you had to. 

“Did ya really think I wouldn't notice this?” You had never heard him speak so calmly. It was another stage of rage you had never encountered. And it was terrifying. 

“I hoped I could hide it from you.” The whisper that left your lips felt foreign and odd. And you still couldn't meet his gaze. 

“For how long? Ya were going to deny me for how long?”

Biting back a sob you shook your head and scrunched your shoulders. “How long it took.”

“That fucker hurt ya. Why? Ya fought back? If ya wanted to fight I was ready for it before he took ya! Ya didn't have to do it alone!” He emphasised his anger with a punch to the floor and you inhaled deeply. This type of anger you were familiar with. 

“It wasn't like that. He realised I wasn't a maiden anymore. Then he ripped my wedding dress and told me he would make me forget you.” Finally your eyes met Kid's as you smirked and a silent tear ran down the corner of your eye. “I told him there was no chance of it happening with his tiny dick.”

You saw as your husband's lips twitched, and his orange eyes brightened with the slightest hint of humour. Yet he didn't laugh. 

“So he did that.” He gestured to your body and you nodded solemnly. You had to find a way to drug him before he did something drastic. 

Except he just inhaled. A deep breath as he closed his eyes. You could almost feel his anger draining away from him so you didn't dare speak a word. 

When he opened his eyes, there was nothing but love in them. Kid lowered himself above your body and you felt his lips on yours, very softly, then they moved towards the bruise on your jaw. You let out a low hiss because of the pressure but he didn't say anything. Instead he continued, kissing every bruise on your neck, on your breasts, chest, belly, legs, thighs… 

Your husband worshipped your body like he had never done before. You knew he loved you deeply, and you loved him beyond anything rational, but he showed his love with coarse gestures, with brutish affection. Never like this.

Slowly you laced your arms around his neck, pulling him back to you just as you saw his fist clenching, knuckles turning white and veins protruding from his biceps. He was stuck on your thighs, where there were some of the worst bruises. 

“My love.” You brought him back to reality, pressing your lips firmly against his, noticing the lingering scent and taste of yourself in his mouth, not caring one bit. “It’s still me. I’m fine. Forget it, please forget it.”

Kid didn’t say anything. He pressed his knee against your legs and you parted them so he could slot himself there. He kept trailing kisses all over your body. Soft kisses. So, so soft. He was trying to caress you at the same time, but with only one arm he couldn’t find support to keep upright.

Grunting and cursing about his limitation, he sat down and used his arm to hoist you up so you could sit on his lap, one leg on each side. You used this leverage to grab his face with your hands, tracing your fingers through the scar on his face and kissing him gently. “Kid…” You didn’t quite know what you were about to say. Something to try and steer away his anger. 

Whatever it was, it was quickly set aside when he claimed your lips again. A kiss so sweet and so soft, so unlike anything you were used to, that it almost brought tears to your eyes. Clawing with your hands, you pulled his shirt over his head and aligned yourself with his hard dick.

His arm circled your back as his hand settled on your nape, deepening the kiss and he gave a gentle thrust, sheathing himself completely and swallowing your soft moan. You rocked your hips gently, following his slow pace. 

It was utterly different from all the times you had been together with him and yet, still as pleasurable as when he was using you brutally. You couldn’t explain why this heat coming from within you felt different, except that it just did. It built in soft waves, spreading slowly to your toes and making your head light. So much so that you had to bury your face in the crook of his neck, your fingers tangling themselves amidst red locks as faint moans escaped your lips, just to keep you tethered to reality. 

His head fell on your shoulder as well, lips kissing softly instead of biting angrily; his hand caressing you instead of pressing and bruising. He was treating you as if you were a delicate flower instead of the wild thistle he knew you were. 

And for all the old gods and the new, you didn’t even know you needed to be treated this gently until the tears started streaming down your face. Hot droplets, one or two at first, and then an unending torrent. You saw them fall on Kid’s shoulder, and you were sure he felt them because he stopped for a second before resuming his languid, soft thrusts. 

“It’s ya and me lass.” He whispered near your ear while his arm gripped you tighter. “Always ya and me. Always.” He punctuated each word with a harder thrust and the wave of pleasure that hit you with the last ‘always’ came unannounced, crashing over you like a raging tsunami, making you cry out his name as your whole body clenched around him, locking him in a desperate embrace.

He finished a few thrusts later and you remained locked together for a while. You don’t really remember falling asleep, you recall him softly cleaning you up and helping you to bed as you muttered softly: “It’s me and you Kid.”

And then darkness took over.

-*-

The dawn came too fast. Light seeped through the window lazily as the birds chirped their morning song, too close to your window, reminding you that it was time to get up and get ready for the day.

You felt happy. Your heart lighter than it had been since your wedding day. Last night you had made love with your husband. You loved the way he roughed you up, taking you hard and possessively, claiming you as his whenever and however he pleased.

But last night felt different. And it was healing in more ways than one.

Your hand reached for his side of the bed, searching for his body so you could claim some cuddles and kisses. Even if he protested a bit, you knew he was a softie for your affection. 

But the bed was cold and he was gone.

Gasping, you jolted upright, stifling a cry of pain as your body protested with the effort. Your eyes immediately went to the mantle, to the designated place of his axe, silently praying and begging all the gods for it to be there, resting idly against it. 

It wasn’t there. 

Nausea overtook you and you barely had time to find a bucket to vomit of bile that surged up from your stomach. You knew where he was.That was why he had been so gentle and so caring last night. 

He had gone to seek vengeance. 

-*-

After he put you to bed, Kid donned his kilt, a scowl on his lips as he regarded your spent, sleeping form. He could still recall the shape and indent of every bruise, every bite mark, every scrape and - that fucking fucker - every cut. 

There was no way he would let this pass.

Throughout the night you were gone, he had come to terms with what happened. Flanked by his best friends - Killer, Heat and Wire - they had drunk themselves into a stupor. He was willing to forgive that laird bastard for what he had done. 

Kid had promised you.

But now he was seeing red. After what he had seen, after the marks that useless arse had left on your body and your soul - your tears had broken Kid in two - he would never let that bastard live another day. 

With you tucked safely in bed, he pressed his lips to your forehead. You were the love of his life. He had never felt this way about anything or anyone. He had learned long ago that vulnerability was a weakness, something to be taken advantage of. 

Except with you.

With you he could be vulnerable, kind, gentle, warm… you would never judge. Only reciprocate.

“I love you forever.” He mumbled into your hair as his hand lingered with one last caress before he left your home.

He was going alone. With all the rage he felt, he knew he could take on the world if it stepped in his path. Except the one who did was Killer.

“Where ya going?” Killer asked, a soft chuckle letting Kid know he already knew the answer.

“Claim some blood. Wanna come with?” The growl that accompanied his statement was involuntary. 

“Been waiting for it. I saw that fucking bruise on her jaw. That fucker.” 

They both started to pace towards the dense forest. “Those were not the only ones. He scarred her all over. Fucking bastard, I’m gonna carve a grin on his fucking face.”

“We’ll help.” Heat and Wire said, emerging from the shadows.

Kid grinned maniacally. Fuck, the four of them would burn the world down.

Just for you.

-*-

As you left the house, looking frantically for Kid, hoping he was just sparring with Killer, you realised that all of the four warriors were gone. Your stomach churned again and you threw up some more behind a bush.

Your worst fears had come true. This was all your fault, you forgot to give him the tea.

Tears streamed down your face as your heart clenched in your chest. He would come to you alive, you knew that perfectly well, but he would never live down the murdering of a laird. He would be sentenced and executed. Hanged, most likely, beheaded if there was any justice left in this world.

But he would be torn from your arms. For eternity.

As you slumped to the floor, your wet eyes fixed on the battered path that came from the woods and led straight into the village, you heard him. A boisterous laugh, a thunderous cocky roar of victory. He’d done it.

-*-

Kid had gone straight to the laird’s quarters, leaving his men to handle whatever else came along. They were told to try and hold back on the killing, but they were free to do as they pleased. 

Fortunately for them, most of Blackbeard’s household hated his guts. They let them pass without bothering them. Only some of his personal guards gave them trouble. But Kid strode on. His eyes burned with rage, his hand clenched around the handle of his axe, which was calling for blood.

Kicking the door of his room down, Kid rejoiced from the startled yelp that came from the bed. The bastard had been in a deep slumber, but Kid wanted him wide awake for what was coming next.

“Lass, go away.” Your husband growled at the girl that was in bed with Blackbeard, a very young girl. And that only managed to fuel Kid’s rage.  A groggy Blackbeard tried to get up, but Kid drew a knife from his belt and threw it at him, hitting his nose with the hilt and eliciting another yelp. 

“Ya stay right there.”

With two long strides and while the laird was still clutching his nose in pain, Kid approached and, as soon as his enemy removed his hands from his face, he delivered a powerful punch to the same spot where the knife had hit, effectively making him lie back down. 

“I said, stay down, fucker.”

Kid snarled, his lips curling back, revealing his menacing canines. 

Blackbeard opened and closed his eyes between groans, as the punch from your husband had made him very dizzy, almost unconscious. A perfect stage for what came next. 

With dexterous fingers, Kid tied Blackbeard’s wrists together, threw them over his head, and secured them to the bedpost. He repeated the procedure with his legs, and then nodded in approval.

“Just like a fucking pig ready for slaughter. Ya fucking asshole.”

The laird blinked, his mouth opening and closing, revealing his many missing teeth and lending him a terrified look. Your husband leaned down, putting his face right next to Blackbeard’s bleeding nose. “Remember me?”

Blackbeard spat in Kid’s face, which only managed to make Kid's cackle more menacing. “I remember your wife very well. She squirmed a lot beneath me and-...”

Kid didn't let him finish as his forehead collided with Blackbeard’s mouth, knocking out a few more teeth. “Keep my wife's name out of ya filthy fucking mouth or I make this last way longer than it needs to. And ya won't like it.”

“Her name wasn't the only thing in my mouth.” He taunted and Kid cracked his knuckles against his leg. 

“The long way it is, then. Even better.” It was a good thing that Blackbeard was too busy blinking back tears from the sting of the headbutt, or he would've noticed the unhinged glint in Kid's eyes. 

It was also fortunate that he was spitting out teeth and blood for a good part of the minute because he missed seeing Kid lay out his knives, ready to exact his vengeance. In the slowest, most painful way possible. 

-*-

You got up on shaky legs, nausea still making you wobbly, but you strode with purpose towards your husband, your eyes wide as saucers and your mouth hanging open. 

You had seen him bloodied from fights and hunts before, but right now he was soaked in blood. Head to toe, there was barely an inch of skin that was clean. 

With each step you took, more tears fell from your eyes, and your heart clenched more tightly. Breath hitched in your throat as your limbs trembled and shook relentlessly. 

“You idiot, reckless, careless, moron!”

Killer whistled as he, Heat and Wire stepped out of your way. 

“Feckless gowk, you're always, always, thinking with your fist instead of your head, Kid! Why?” Your voice grew louder and louder, reaching a screech so high that would make a forest banshee squeak in fear. As soon as you reached him, he greeted you with his cocky smirk, tilting his head sideways and looking down at you with a bit of blood smeared near his lip. 

“Hello, lass. Miss me?”

You clenched your fists, relentless tears still dripping down your face, drenching you in sorrow. Pressing yourself against him, you punched his chest, over and over while your eyes tightened and sobs clawed at your throat. 

Somehow you still managed to speak between heaves and hiccups. 

“You promised me a lifetime! A lifetime entails an actual life! Why did you do this, Kid, why? Gods, why?” Your legs gave out but before you collapsed, his strong arm enveloped your waist, pulling you into a crushing embrace. 

You locked eyes with him and his were filled with tenderness. Something he reserved only for you. 

“Lass, for ya I'd make the whole world bleed. Over and over again until all the rivers ran red.”

His words hung around you, heavy and painful and you kept sobbing into his chest, your fingers clawing and clenching his blood-soaked shirt. 

“It's ya and me, love. No one in between.” He finished as you felt yourself drifting into unconsciousness. “Forever.”

-*-

You barely had a few hours with him before the sheriff came to take Kid away to the gaols. He didn't protest. You however did. 

Your screams were heard all over the Highlands. How it wasn't fair, how the laird was dreadful and terrible and how no one liked him or thought he was fit to lead. You even showed them most of your bruises. 

When none of that worked, you dropped to your knees and pleaded. You begged like never before. 

To no avail. 

They didn't even let you say goodbye to him properly. 

-*-

Kid had weeks to ponder his wrongdoings as he sat in jail. He was pondering all right, but they were not wrongdoings in his eyes. 

He thought about the way it felt as the tip of the knife sank into the laird’s thigh, right where you had a mark. He thought about the cut he made from Blackbeard’s lip to the exact place where the bruise on your jaw was. He also thought about the joy it gave him when he ripped the laird’s balls out with his bare hands. 

It was such a shame the bastard passed out from shock and blood loss immediately afterward. Such a shame. 

On other days, most of them, actually, Kid thought about you. Your scent, your touch, your lips, your hair, your smile… 

But mostly, your love. 

-*-

You tried everything. You spoke with the highest ranks in the clan - the ones who were deciding both Kid's fate and who ruled the land - but they quickly dismissed you. 

You spoke with the druid who had officiated your wedding but he couldn't do anything to help. When you managed to speak with the sheriff, he told you Kid had made a deal of his own. He would gladly pay the ultimate price and serve as an example: even if the laird was a total bastard, there could be no rebellion, much less from within the clan. 

But only if his friends were spared the repercussions. Killer, Heat and Wire wouldn't be charged. 

The sheriff accepted. 

-*-

They decided on a beheading. Which was much more humane than just leaving someone dangling from a noose. That was torture if the neck didn't snap right away. 

Kid was grateful for that. 

They were going to make an example out of him, but they were still thankful for the service he had provided. Blackbeard had been in charge for a short time but the damage had been extensive. Both to the vaults and to the towns and villages under his command. 

The sheriff confessed - over drinks Kid should have been denied but wasn’t - that he should be made a hero instead of a martyr. But life was just like that. ‘One minute you're here, the next you're dead.’

Kid tried to push his luck a bit more and asked to see you. 

The sheriff said he would see what could be done, but his smile and wink gave Kid hope. 

Kid just needed to make sure you were all right. He knew you would be mad at him, cursing him, condemning his soul to wander aimlessly with all the grudge you held against his actions, and he needed to apologise to you. 

Not for what he did, he would do it all over again - except, maybe, leave the laird  conscious for more time - but for what he put you through. And for breaking his promise. 

He would love you forever, that he would. Except his forever would be far shorter than yours. And perhaps that was something you couldn't forgive. 

-*-

When the sheriff came to get you so you could see Kid, you almost wept. You were knee-deep in your herb garden, trying to gather some peppermint and chamomile to brew a tea that might help keep food in your stomach, as you didn’t seem able to hold anything down these days.

You were mistaken, though. You thought he meant you could bring Kid home to you. But it was just so you could say goodbye. His execution was scheduled for the next day. 

Quincy and Killer had to help you through your shock as you tried to regain your breath. Even the sheriff seemed flustered by your fit. Yet how could you help it? When the love of your life was going to be executed?

After your friends forced you to drink some of that tea, you accompanied the sheriff to the gaols, dread making your stomach churn as the nausea returned tenfold. The smell of the gaols alone was enough to make anyone queasy. 

But soon enough the sheriff led you to a small room - not his cell - where Kid was waiting for you, his wrist shackled to the stone wall. As soon as his bright orange eyes fixed on yours, you became a sobbing mess. 

Closing the distance between you with a small sprint, you jumped and dangled from his neck as he took two steps back gaining enough leverage from the chain to hug you back. “Kid! Kid! Gods… oh, gods…” Burying your face in the crook of his neck, you sobbed and cried until your throat was raw and your tears had dried.

“There, there, lass. It’s okay. It’s okay.” He kept repeating those soothing words, his dry lips placing gentle kisses on your skin. You showed no signs of letting him go anytime soon, so he slumped against the wall and slid down, cradling you in his strong lap as your arms held on for dear life around his thick neck. 

After what felt like an eternity, you heard the soft thump of Kid’s head against the wall and you moved to look into his eyes. He looked pained and exhausted as he let out a deep sigh. 

“Forgive me, lass.” His mumble made his chest rumble and, instinctively, you pressed closer to him. “I broke our vows. I cannot give ya forever. But I’ll always love ya.”

Fresh tears ran down your face, gathering at your chin and dripping off. You didn’t even bother with cleaning your face as the tears would only carve new paths, like a river that keeps flowing, shaping the earth as it passes. 

“Will ya? Forgive me?” You should. You wanted to. But his parting would leave a chasm so big within you that you didn’t know if you could. Besides, there was something else he needed to know.

“I’m carrying a child in my womb.” You said softly. You had suspected it for a while, but now that your monthly cycle had fully stopped, you were sure. 

You felt him stiffen against you, the soft caresses of his hand against your back suddenly halting as he turned his head to look into your eyes. You indulged him by lifting your head, a strained smile pressed upon your lips as you realised, far too late now, that this information was bringing regret to his eyes.

If you had known sooner, perhaps you could have prevented this. He might’ve stayed home instead of seeking vengeance. He would still be with you tomorrow, and the day after, and the one after that. Because there would be a child to tend to as well. 

Except there was a slight problem.

With a trembling lip and shifting eyes, you grasped his dirty ragged shirt. “I don’t know… gods, Kid I don’t know if the child is…”

“It’s mine.” He roared. A primal growl escaping his lips as he swallowed a hard lump in his throat. “I know it’s mine. I know it, lass.”

You nodded at him, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks once more. “It’s yours.” Kid dipped his head as he took your lips into his and you couldn’t bear the thought that these moments were the last you would spend with your other half. “Kid, beg for clemency. Please, Kid. Beg for your life. Say you’ll repent for your sins. Admit you were wrong and ask for mercy. For me, for the child, for us! Please, Kid, please!”

He shook his head softly, seemingly out of strength to contradict you, and you continued. “Please! They hated the laird, they’ll forgive you if you plead enough! Even if you stay in jail for the rest of your life, please, love! Please!”

The words kept catching in your throat. Desperate, raw, filled with sorrow and grief. You didn’t know what else to do.

He simply kissed your forehead and sighed. “Lass, a warrior doesn’t beg. A warrior has his pride. I will not beg.” He seemed resigned to his fate now, you knew there was nothing else you could say that would swindle his will. He was a warrior through and through and you knew he would never live in shame. Even if it meant he had to be away from you.

“Please…” You begged one last time.

“Love, ya’ll stay away tomorrow. I don’t want ya at the beheading. I don’t want ya to remember me like that. Ya’ll stay home, feed, take care of our child. Raise him to be a strong, powerful warrior like his father. Stay away.” 

You shook your head as another fresh wave of sobs made your shoulder heave. “Say you’ll beg, Kid, please, for us…”

“Stay home, forgive me. Make me these promises, lass, so I can go in peace.” This unfamiliar softness in his voice only broke you more. You needed to forgive him so he could rest in the afterlife. You knew that. But you also knew that forgiving him meant you had to accept the fact that you would never see him again.

That he was lost forever.

And that was a terrifying thought.

Instead you pressed your lips against his, deepening the kiss, drawing him close, clawing at his body in desperation and grasping every bit of him, trying to imprint his mark upon yourself so you could forever remember the shape of his body against yours.

After an eternity you whispered: “Aye, Kid. I forgive you. I love you forever.”

“And always.” He finished in a mournful tone.

-*-

Quincy stayed with you. Killer wanted to be at your side, to help you through the pain, but you needed Kill to be there for Kid. You were still hoping he would beg for mercy. Deep down you knew he never would, but there was a very slight tingle of hope in the pit of your stomach and you almost didn’t dare give it any attention.

Your nausea was overwhelming and you were bedridden, barely eating and with no will to even open your eyes. 

Noon was the time of the execution. Ten minutes to go.

“He’ll beg. He has to beg.” You whispered to the wind, Quincy was holding your hand, feeding you tea from time to time, her face heavy with the loss. 

Five minutes…

“Quincy… he can’t leave me! He can’t!” The sobs and hiccups pulled more bile from your stomach, your limbs trembling relentlessly as your head throbbed and ached. 

Noon.

The bells didn’t ring and you hoped. Your breath hitched in your throat. They only rang the bells when the execution was over. The bells were silent.

The bells were silent.

Shallow breaths left your parted lips, your tears frozen in your eyelids as your hand crushed Quincy’s, who stood by you without making a sound. 

Then the relentless toll of the bells started. Each toll carved away a piece of your heart. Each chime brought a wave of agony up your chest. Each clang resounded deep in your soul, bringing flashes of the brief time you spent with Kid: his smiles, his frowns, his growls, his eyes… the light in his bright orange eyes which you would see no more.

The pain was unbearable.

With each heave you made, gasping for air that seemed to never reach your lungs, your heart broke another piece. With each wail that left your lips, a part of your soul left with it. Your heart had parted from this world.

And now you were left empty.

Forever.

-*-

“Push! Push, lass! A little harder, come on!” House instructed, her hands deep in your thighs, helping the baby be born.

You were spent. The last eight hours had been laborious, painful and filled with memories. You were physically drained and emotionally exhausted. 

“I can’t!” You whined, a fresh bout of tears leaving your eyes as you cursed and tried to push.

“Ya can! Ya know why?” House looked up from your thighs, a wicked smile spread upon her lips as she lifted her bloodied hands and clapped, droplets of blood flying around her. “I see a redhead!”

And with a hearty laugh you gave a final push, your strength renewed, your love rekindled.

“It’s a boy!” House exclaimed as the sweet sound of cries filled your ears.

-*-

The stone marker was very simple. Heat had carved a red flame upon the stone with Kid’s name on it. Every month you visited it, leaving a wreath of wildflowers on top of it. White heather and clovers, primroses and daisies, meadowsweet, and ropes of ivy to symbolise fidelity and eternity. 

An exact copy of the headdress you wore on the day of your wedding. You didn’t take any other man, though you didn’t make that promise to Kid, you couldn’t find enough strength in you to give yourself to another person. 

And Kid would be waiting for you in the afterlife. You were sure of it.

Your child was already one year old. A fiery redheaded boy, the spitting image of his fierce father. Every night you stared at him for the longest of times, seeing so much of Kid on your son, wishing your husband were by your side to share the joy.

He would have loved to carry the little one on his shoulders, to make him giggle, to spin him in the air… he would’ve been proud to train him in the ways of the warrior, to follow Kid’s footsteps.

He would’ve been proud.

“Your father was very brave. He gave his life to defend our honour. He’s watching us!” The tears were still a constant, but rarer now. The ache in your heart somewhat subsided, but was still there. Throbbing from time to time. A painful remembrance of what could have been.

With a sigh you placed the wreath on top of the stone and uttered the same words you uttered every time: “It’s you and me, Kid.”

Forever and always.

The End

[srbachchan]

DAY 5994

FC 1 , Mumbai July 16, 2024 Tue 6:55 pm

Birthday - EF - Walaa Zakariya Mohammed Ahmed Ali Wednesday, 17 July .. and wishes for the great day of birth .. love and care from the Ef brigade

.. and the rain it raineth all day long .. on the work too .. umbrellas galore among all the artists as they wade through the waters .. and most of them enjoying the deed ..

it is the blessing after the hot summer months .. but apart from the awaited agricultural .. it brings devastation and floods, ruining the landscape and causing the pain that they who suffer go through .. each year the scenario keeps repeating itself .. sad .. helpless ..

it is difficult to describe the ruin caused .. but we pray that all gets well and in the wellness of all .. our prayers 🙏

Love care and wishes for calm ..

Amitabh Bachchan

2:16AM of the 17th of July , Mumbai and at Jalsa ..

with love understanding and care for all ..

AB

[coltermorning]

A Christmas to Remember (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur have agreed to meet on the night of Christmas Eve. The evening and the following day turn out to be more than either of you expected.

Author’s Notes: Just some good ole fluff for the holidays! Set a year or so down the road from the events of RDR2, and in this instance Arthur never got sick and rides alone now.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, implied sex, fluff

AO3 Link

~

A Christmas to Remember

Word count: 5994

The firelight flickered, throwing shadows across the wooden walls, shimmers of gold rising and collapsing in the night. The room was warm, comfortable for all the drafty air threatening to cut through it. It never quite managed to get in, like the flames stood guard in their grate, pushing against the inevitable winter.

The room had been decorated for the season with a tree and garland and ribbon and light. This place had likely never seen such decoration until the end of the year, the woody smell seeping into the very walls it was so thick. The source of it, a small pine, was standing crooked in the corner. It was a promise of what was to come. Inviting and, had the room not already held its heat, warm. Perfect for the occasion.

On the night before Christmas, you were perched by the window, ignoring the beauty of the room surrounding you in favor of the company you awaited. Mr. Morgan, a promise to meet you here not having left your thoughts since the moment it parted from his lips. You had your gift, your best clothes, expectation wrapped around you like a bow. And yet, all there was to do was wait. To feel the anticipation for his arrival and let all else fall away.

The minutes passed, and soon there was a horse coming up the path with its familiar white spots flashing in the night. That white would normally stand out more but for the snow, falling thick and slow in the December air. It made Valentine prettier. It made the mud seem less untidy somehow, more familiar.

You felt a smile curve your lips when you saw just the man you waited for approach, his hat slung low, his blue coat fastened tight around him. You watched him encourage his horse onward until he rounded the building out of sight. You wondered if he would stable the animal or not, caring as always or too taken by his haste at seeing you. How that eagerness of his for you made you giddy. To be known and to be wanted anyway.

You left your place by the window and took in the room with a sweeping glance. The lights, the smell, the warmth. It was homey in the same way he was. A welcome respite to come back to, a place to look forward to when things got hard.

You stood closer to the fire, knowing sitting was useless when all you wanted was to embrace him the moment he walked through the door. It had been too long. So you remained standing if a little impatient, feeling the nerves that quickened your heartbeat course through you. You would be parting with more than just a gift tonight, and the very thought made you restless. But you owed it to him. He deserved it.

You fiddled with a piece of ribbon tied on the garland that framed the fireplace when you heard bootsteps in the hall, heavy and determined. They made you smile. But for all his bravado, he knocked softly on the door when he reached it, as if you would whisk away into nothingness the moment he did. Like a dream and nothing more.

“Come in,” you answered, and your gentle words were all it took for him to regain that sense of pride. The door swung open, and nothing could have suited you better than the smile he wore, the light in his eyes when they landed on you.

“Y/N.” It was a happy sound. Not a greeting so much as a satisfied release of breath. Your feet were moving before you could respond.

You hugged the man you had been missing for weeks, wishing like always that the pair of you could make this permanent enough to keep you together for longer than an evening.

“I missed you,” you whispered, sinking into the feeling of him holding you. His coat was cold but his warmth outweighed it, swallowing you in the scent of tobacco smoke and outside air. You had missed that smell so much your chest ached with it.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” he said. Always so intentional. Always saying just what he thought. You adored that about him.

You pulled back to look at him but remained in his arms. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Morgan.”

“Christmas Eve,” he corrected. “We still have a few hours yet.” Then his eyes were filling with meaning like they always did before he kissed you. The look that said nothing in the world mattered more than this. You tilted your chin up, happy to greet it with all the love you held for him. He leaned in with that enamored look, and his lips met yours with the soft release of anticipation for all the days spent waiting. All the days apart that would be dreadful if not for the knowledge that you would have this again. You kissed him back just as slow and soft, like this was what it took to remember.

The pair of you got a bit lost in each other until you could hear his breathing grow heavy. It always did that, and it never failed to make your heart race in kind.

You pulled away and looked into those ocean water eyes. “I got you something.”

He quirked an eyebrow, running his lips together subtilely like he could still taste your kiss. “Did you now?”

“Yes.” He had told you not to. This was your first Christmas spent with him, the first chance you had to give him a gift. But, just like his birthday that had come and gone without your knowledge, he didn’t want a gift. Just your company. You had already gotten onto him plenty for letting his birthday squeak by. You wouldn’t let it happen again.

You stepped to the side and motioned to the bed, to the small parcel laying atop it. You had done your best with wrapping it, a small bit of twine done up around the paper with a bow.

“It’s two, actually. I’ve been working on one for a while.” When you turned back to him, the small flash of concern on his face didn’t go unnoticed. “Don’t worry,” you assured him. “I didn’t expect anything in return.”

His eyes snapped to you then. “Well, that’s too bad,” he said lowly, and before you could ask why, he was reaching inside his coat and pulling something out. A present, a little battered from his travel, the paper wrinkled and the tie around it crushed. You only loved it more for it. It was endearing in the same way he was.

“Arthur,” you chided with a smile. “You were just going to let me show up without a present when you had one for me?”

“‘Course.” He smiled with his teeth, that toothy grin that reminded you of the boy he had once been.

You gave him an incredulous look, and he laughed, the sound spiraling upward and into your bones like liquid gold.

“Fine then. You open mine first,” you said, unable to shake the high that was being with him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender before repocketing his gift and making for the parcel. You felt nerves flash through you, hoping against hope he would like it. One you knew he would, but the other was…a bit different.

“You didn’t have to spend your money,” he said, picking up the package and pulling the string so the bow slipped apart.

“I wanted to,” you told him. “It didn’t cost much anyway. More time than anything.”

He eyed you, the remnants of that grin still on his face, then the paper crinkled as he undid it. It finally gave way to fabric—his favorite color. He smiled.

“Darlin’,” he said endearingly as he pulled out a new shirt. Nothing special, nothing fancy, just something for him to ride in, the softest blue you could find. You always teased him that everything he owned would be blue if he had his say in the matter. “I love it,” he said with a smile bright enough to make you return it. “Thank you.”

He made to hug you but you stopped him. “Unfold it.”

He hesitantly did so, dropping the wrapping to the floor. He held the shirt up, and the moment he did, a loud thunk sounded—his second gift hitting the floor.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, reaching for it.

You could only laugh. “It’s not breakable.”

He picked it up, and the low light in the room was enough for him to see the wood. To see what you had carved into it.

He flipped it over, examined it from every angle. “You did this?” He met your eyes with such an open admiration in his that you felt your face heat.

You nodded. “It’s for your shotgun. The stock. I made sure it was the right kind to fit your gun if you wanted to…swap them out.” You suddenly felt that was a little presumptuous of you.

He stared at it so long your nerves got the better of you.

“You don’t have to, of course-”

“No,” he said, meeting your eye with sincerity in his own. “I love it. I mean it. Thank you. I’ll get it put on there first thing tomorrow.”

You were beaming. “Really? It’s not too…I don’t know. Effeminate?”

He gave you a chiding look so you kept on. “You’re just…you, and I want you to like it, but you don’t have to use it if you-”

He stopped you with a kiss, sudden and sure enough to melt away your doubt. Then there was nothing but him. No worry about some gift that he ended up liking after all.

Arthur pulled away from you slowly, reluctantly. “Open yours.”

He pulled the parcel out of his coat and handed it to you as he sat on the bed, urging you to sit beside him. You joined him, admiring him as you took it. There was no nervousness about him like there had been in you. His mind didn’t even seem to be on the gift. He was thinking of you and little else. So you smiled when you opened it, knowing you would love it before you even knew what it was.

Sure enough, he knew you well. “A journal?”

He nodded as your smile stretched wider. You thumbed through the empty pages, yours to fill. The two of you had that in common—a need to record in drawing as well as words. He was heavier on the words, journal entries lining the pages of what little he had let you see of his leather-bound book. But you preferred drawing. Mimicking art. It was why you had carved the woodland scene into a gunstock for the better part of a month, knowing upon seeing its inspiration how special it was and that it needed to be remembered. So maybe now, that proud deer on the foreground of a valley would forever be cradled in his appreciative hand just as this journal would be cradled in yours.

“Thank you, Arthur.” You met his eye to show that you meant it then melted all over again at the way he was looking at you. You debated speaking the feeling that bloomed within you but didn’t, not when he picked up the stock again and brushed a thumb over your handiwork.

“This is fine work.”

The words made a blush tinge your face. You couldn’t help it. He always bragged on you in a way that would make any woman blush, much less the woman who somehow found herself on the doting end of this rugged, outlawed man. He was a blunt instrument, violent and determined, yet all he trained on you was softness. Kindness you didn’t know how you had come to deserve.

“I told you you was better than me.” This meaning your artwork.

You snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right. And I told you, maybe I’d be a better judge of that if you let me get my hands on that journal of yours.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and warm as the room surrounding you. But to your surprise, for the first time since you’d found out he carried a journal, he didn’t protest.

“Actually,” he said, reaching around to his satchel. “I got you two gifts too.” And, to your shock, he was turning back to you with said journal in hand, holding it out like a bough of hard-earned trust.

“What?” It came out as a whisper, all you could manage in your surprise.

“Take it,” he said, holding it out farther. “I used up all the pages anyway. It’s nigh time I offload it, and I’d feel better about it being in your hands than lord knows who else’s.”

“You mean…” You looked from it to him. “You’re letting me have it? Read it all?”

He nodded his head to the side, a self-conscious gesture. What it must take for him to trust you this much. What he must feel for you.

You took it from him and ran your hands over the worn leather face. All Arthur. Your heart leapt in fondness for him.

You set the journal down atop the new one he had gifted you and turned to face him fully. You felt so deeply for this man. You had for a while. And you wanted him to know it. The journal was just proof he felt the same.

Before you could utter a word, Arthur swept in close and kissed you on the cheek, then stood. He offered you his hand. You took it, and he pulled you up and against him in one fluid motion, his fingers tangling with yours, his other hand finding your back. Then he was moving back and forth. Dancing. Arthur Morgan, outlaw of the state, dancing.

You laughed aloud. “What’s this?”

He ignored whatever gruffness he would normally have over something so carefree and led you in a soundless dance around the room, the only music the warmth, the lights, the way you felt for each other.

“You know how to dance, don’t you?” he said.

“Vaguely,” you replied. “Do you?”

That really got him going. He gave you a roguish grin and spun you, making you twirl with his fingers alone before pulling you back in. And when he did, he crushed you to him. Then his lips were on yours, and there wasn’t anymore air in the room apart from the love he granted you, how it filled your lungs.

Now. Now, in this perfect moment. It was time. You pulled away.

“Arthur?”

His eyes were closed, his hands cradling your face as he rested his forehead against yours as best he could with his hat. And still he swayed, a subtle back and forth even though it couldn’t quite be considered dancing anymore.

“Hm?”

You didn’t care that his eyes were shut. Didn’t care that he didn’t know what you were about to say or how long you had mulled over saying it. Because you felt it. And it was never more real than it was when you were with him.

“I love you.”

He stopped swaying.

You watched his blue eyes open slowly, like he didn’t quite believe what he had heard. Then his gaze met yours, soft and searching under those eyelashes, complicated as he was.

He didn’t answer. Just held you, watched you. In disbelief, you realized. Or maybe wanting to hold onto this moment like you were, committing it to memory. Too bad he no longer had a journal to draw it in. The thought made you smile. Then words were spilling from you like a flood.

“I’ve loved you since the day I saw what kind of man you really were. I’ve loved you since I saw that page in your journal with the deer drawn on it. I’ve loved you for so long it’s like I was just waiting on you to get here. Like you were made for me.”

His eyebrows drew together in emotion. Still, he did not speak.

“I love you so much it hurts when you’re away,” you muttered, finding his coat in your hands and clutching it, pulling him closer. When you met his eyes again, he was so close you could see every fleck of color in the firelight, the blue and gold that crashed together into green. You kissed him, and this time he was reluctant. Unsure. So you moved back just enough to give him room to breathe, time to think enough to speak.

His eyes never left you as he said, “I don’t know what I did to deserve that.”

It was quiet and vulnerable. So true of him, that he didn’t think he deserved to be loved.

“You’re you,” you said. “And that’s enough for me. Enough and then some.”

He was pulling you to him in less than a heartbeat. Crashing his lips to yours with all the passion of a man born again.

He broke from it for a breath, whispering, “I love you too,” before kissing the words into your mouth.

Nothing would ever be better than this. Nothing. It didn’t matter that the feeling was temporary. That Christmas would be over, and he would be gone, and you would ache at the loss of him again. There was no losing this. This memory would hold on forever as the happiest you’d ever had.

Arthur pulled back, and you were both breathing heavy. Far beyond any arousal or want. This was deeper.

He held your face like he held his life in his hands as he said, “I love you too, sweetheart.” Just because he could. The privilege of getting to say it addictive.

You looked at him and couldn’t keep the smile on your face at bay. He met your gaze and kissed you softly, a press of his lips against yours. A guarantee.

Wordlessly, he led you back to the bed. Your heart started to pound with thoughts less innocent until he picked up his journal, flipped toward the back, and held it out to you again.

“I may not have admitted it until now but…well. See for yourself.”

You took the book and turned it toward you, sitting back on the bed. The page you were met with had a drawing of you on it. Patiently drawn, thought out enough that it truly resembled you. You had wondered that—if he had ever drawn you. And now you had your answer. There were no words inscribed beside it like usual, like he just wanted the memory of you down on the page. Absentminded fondness. It burned you up inside.

“Keep turning.”

You looked to him. He wouldn’t meet your eye, embarrassment keeping his gaze glued to his journal, but it was endearing on him all the same.

You did as he asked and saw drawing after drawing after drawing, a few entries here and there. A few animals, a few towns, and nearly every other page, you.

It amazed you. You had thought you’d fallen first, and hard, but seeing this proved otherwise. Based on the entries, these drawings were done mere weeks after you met him.

“I could never seem to get your likeness just right,” he admitted quietly.

“Arthur, these are…” You wanted to reassure him. That this warmed your heart to him more than anything. You looked at him. “Thank you. I never thought…” You had stopped on a page that drew your gaze like none other. Because it captured a look in your eye you had only ever given to him. It was your admiration for him sketched out on the page, all subtle shades of black and gray. And the entry beside it nearly made you tear up.

I get to see her again.

He had drawn a heart beside it. You sobbed a laugh, a sound so happy it was all you could speak.

“I’ve been pretty damn fond of you from the beginning,” he admitted.

You set the journal aside and rose to meet him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you.” You said it on a smile. Because that’s all there was for it.

“Well if it ain’t obvious now…” he started. And he didn’t have to finish. Because you knew he loved you back.

You kissed him slowly then hugged him tight. He was yours.

You had a sudden idea and broke away from him, sitting back on the bed, reaching for the unused journal. “Here.”

“You don’t want it?”

Even the thought crushed you. “No, I want it. But I want you to christen the first page.”

“It’s yours,” he said. Like that would change your mind.

“I know it is. And every time I open it, I want to be reminded of the night I got it.”

He just stared, so you spoke. “Draw me.” Not from memory. Not without your knowledge this time.

“What, now?”

It was true, the pair of you didn’t have long together. But this was more intimate than anything somehow.

“Yes.” You smiled at him. And the look you gave him must have made up his mind, because he took the journal from your hand, the motion subtle and soft in the firelight. He went to the corner and pulled the lone chair over, setting it before you and sitting in it. He reached in his satchel and pulled out a drawing pencil. Then he sat back and looked at you. Really looked at you. He smiled. And he opened the journal, set pencil to paper, and began.

Every time he studied you, you admired him. The way his eyes focused, the way his pencil shaded gently. Such a light hand, easy in the same manner he was to you. A vast difference from when he was holding a gun, just as he treated everyone else so differently. This was the real Arthur. Only yours to see.

Minutes passed, and you shifted as you watched him, the big, tough man hyper-focused on the small journal in his hand.

“Hold still.”

When he met your eye, his were glinting with playfulness. You knew he was only kidding. You had seen him capture birds in flight, fish mid-leap out of the water, animals of all sorts on the run. He didn’t need you to be still. And just being here with him, letting him draw and joke and tease, filled you with such happiness as to make you want to plant this in your memory forever—a warm room and a man who loved you.

When he finished the drawing, he closed the journal and stowed his pencil, standing.

“Let me see.”

He shook his head with a lazy smile as he bound the journal back up. “Later.”

“Why later?”

Then he was stepping closer, the air in the room going thin as his eyes fixed on you.

“Open it when I ain’t here,” he said, eyes full with want. He tossed the journal on the bed and boxed you in with arms on either side of you, leaning in and kissing you slow and lazy. You soared. In this room full of merry light and special occasion, you soared. You hadn’t known what to expect when you first met this man, certainly not the gentle, easy love you had fallen into with him, but as he laid you back and began kissing you like you were the very air he breathed, you were more thankful than you ever had been. He was yours, and you were his, and nothing else in this inconsequential little life mattered. Maybe one day, it would even be enough to make him stay. Or better yet, for you to gain the courage to go with him. Whatever he asked of you, you would do it. For him, you would.

“I love you,” you whispered into his mouth again, eager to be able to say it. And then he was losing all semblance of patience and control, borne on the back of the desire that was having you all to himself for the night, those full words repeating and repeating.

“I love you,” he said, low and true. You smiled.

~

The following morning, Christmas morning, the two of you hesitantly stepped down the stairs of the hotel together, neither wanting to leave the other.

Sure enough, Arthur’s horse stood just beside yours, hitched to the post outside the hotel. He, like you, had been too full of anticipation over seeing you and had refrained from taking the time to stable his horse. No matter. The two animals had always seemed to get on well. Like they knew their owners had something special and got along like old friends, like siblings, because of it.

Arthur stepped up to his horse, giving it a treat and a loving pat. Not saying a word, not wanting the moment to end.

“Want to go get that stock put on your gun?” you suggested, knowing whatever else there was could wait.

He eyed you. Then turned, stepped closer, took your hand.

“Come with me.” He looked down at your hand as he spoke. Like the mere act of holding it was precious.

“Of course,” you said, a smile already forming.

The pair of you led your horses together down the main thoroughfare, the slight worry of someone recognizing Arthur lingering in the back of your mind. It had been a long time since that gang of his stirred up so much trouble here, but not long enough.

You got to the gunsmith without a fuss and offered to hitch Arthur’s horse while he went inside. He just rolled his eyes at you before taking your mount, leading them over himself. Ever the gentleman.

When he returned to your side with his shotgun strapped over his shoulder, he led you up the steps with a hand at your back. He used to be so nervous about touching you. It only made you fonder for him over time, and especially now that he had gotten over it.

He held the door open for you, and you stepped inside, looking over the racks of guns, the counter display, the gunsmith. He eyed Arthur a little when he came in behind you but didn’t say a word about it if he recognized him. He only gave a Christmas greeting and an offer to help.

“Need to change the stock out on my shotgun,” Arthur said, laying the weapon down on the countertop.

“Sure. We have a fine selection of-”

“No need,” Arthur said, holding a hand up and using the other to pull the gift you had carved him out of his coat.

“This is a fine piece,” the smith said upon seeing it laid down.

“She carved it,” Arthur said with pride as he turned to look at you, eyes alight.

“You?” the man said, drawing your attention away from Arthur’s loving gaze. “Well, if you’re looking for work, I could use someone with this kind of talent.”

“Thank you but no,” you said respectfully. “I don’t live around these parts.” Just a passerby, choosing this spot to spend one perfect evening because you knew how the hotel room would be decorated, how homey and worn the town was. Just like Arthur.

The smith nodded his head and got to work, taking Arthur’s gun. When he was halfway finished and Arthur said, “That piece goes on first,” realization hit you like a slap. Arthur never said he needed to go to the gunsmith to get the new stock affixed to the gun, just that he would get it put on. He would. He knew how, likely knew more about guns than most gunsmiths. Including how to take one apart and put it back together. So why had he agreed to come here, pay what little penance the labor would cost?

When Arthur’s gaze shifted from his gun to you, the answer dawned on you. He wanted to spend what little time he could with you. Your whole being melted at the very idea. He was such a sap.

You held his eyes then let the moment pass when the smith announced he was finished. Arthur checked over his gun and smiled when he brushed his hand over the carved wood. “Perfect,” he said. You felt your face heat again, just glad that he liked it. Even more glad he was willing to carry it around like a badge of honor.

He turned to the smith. “What do I owe you?”

“You let me keep this stock and we call it even,” he said, holding up the old one. It was worth more than that, but Arthur let it slide, seemingly favoring his new one too much to care.

“You got a deal,” Arthur said, tipping his hat. “I appreciate it. And uh, merry Christmas.” He shouldered his gun and placed his hand at your back once more, leading you out.

“To you as well,” the gunsmith replied. Then you were out the door and away from any remaining worry that Arthur would be recognized.

The two of you ambled back over to the horses, wordless. Not wanting this to end so soon. Arthur stowed his gun. You stood and watched him. Then he turned and sighed as his breath plumed in the cold air, like he had to remember how to breathe when leaving was inevitable. Maybe one day it wouldn’t be.

He pulled you in for a hug, resting his head atop yours. You nuzzled into his warmth.

“When will I see you again?” The words had more sorrow in them than you intended. He must have noticed, as he moved back enough to place a finger under your chin and lift your head to look at him. The smile under his eyes was sad too, but filled with hope.

“Soon. Real soon if I played my cards right.”

“What does that mean?”

He just shook his head and smiled, that boyish grin. “Just write me when you feel like putting up with me again.”

That was odd. Normally he gave you a time frame. “That’s always, Arthur,” you said. “You may as well stay if that’s the case.”

He laughed. You’d been over this before. He only refrained from asking you to join him in fear of his past catching up with him. You used to want to keep a healthy distance from that past, but now you weren’t so sure. Things were different when love was involved.

“Well, if you’ll have me, I’ll be back then. How’s that?”

That still raised more questions than it answered, but you didn’t ask them. His smile was distracting you. He was normally more solemn than this when he left.

“Why are you acting so funny?”

He leaned in and kissed you, a quick peck on the lips. Then he held your eye, the look on his face smug. For the life of you, you couldn’t decipher why.

Finally, he gave some. “Just take a look in that new journal of yours for me. When I’m gone.”

Your eyebrow raised high. Or even higher. “Why not now?”

“Just…” He let out another long breath. “Trust me. Can you do that?”

The dashing, bashful smile he leveled on you would have had you agreeing to murder.

“Yeah. Of course. You know I do.”

“All right then.” He pulled you in for another hug. This one tighter. This one more like a goodbye. It was a strange place to end things, almost unlike an ending at all. It had you wanting to rip open that journal right now and figure what on earth he was on about.

He pulled away and, with a calmness in his eyes, said, “I love you.” He held it like a breath. “And merry Christmas. I’ll see you…real soon. I hope.”

As suspicious as you were, you let him be. If he wasn’t telling you what was up now, he had to have a reason. So you held onto the hope that the promise of soon was a surety, that you would see the love he had for you made just as palpable as it was right now, stretching across his face in the morning light.

You loosed a breath and gave in to that love. “I love you too. More.” He grinned, color reaching his face. “Merry Christmas, Arthur.”

“Indeed,” he said. Then he was kissing you again and letting you go. Heading for his horse all too soon.

He mounted and turned to look at you. “Remember, don’t open that journal ‘til I’m gone. Long gone.”

“Why? What’d you put in there, a stick of dynamite?”

He let out a happy laugh. “Oh, it’ll blow something up, that’s for sure.” That left you stumped. “Just relax. You can read it as soon as I’m down the way, how’s that?”

You shook your head at him but couldn’t help the smile that turned your lips. “You’re something else.”

“You love me,” he taunted. And he was right.

“Go then,” you said, shooing him. “Go on. I have journals to read.”

“Good day to you too, miss.”

You laughed, and he kicked up his horse, rounding you. He got close enough to duck down and lift his hat, planting one last, brazen kiss on your lips. It had you blushing like a kid.

He straightened and donned his hat, his face the same red as yours likely was, though neither could be contributed to the cold.

“Bye. See you soon.”

“Goodbye, Arthur. It’d better be soon, or you owe me an explanation.”

“It will be. I hope.” There he went again. You just waved him off, and he passed you smiling wide, his horse stepping out into the muddy, snow-logged street. You watched him go with awe. That handsome, proud man. How you had ever won him over, you couldn’t be sure. But you had. And you were pulling out your new journal to find out why before he had even gotten halfway down the street.

You unwrapped its binding in haste, feeling the new pages crack and reluctantly give in your hands. You flipped and flipped and reached the first page and were…struck dumb. Utterly.

On the left was a drawing of you. Subtle and suggestive with its shading, perfect, the way all of Arthur’s drawings were. But on the right, in big, bolded letters: The future Mrs. Morgan. And underneath, May she forgive me for not having procured a ring yet. I’ll make it up to her in kind as soon as she’ll let me.

You could have cried. You couldn’t believe it. The decision to stay apart all this time had been both his and yours, and knowing now that he had changed his mind…

You looked up and found him to be nowhere in sight. You wished he still were. If he were, you would drag him back here and tell him a ring didn’t matter. Of course you would marry him. It didn’t require any thought. The decision was already made the minute he whispered that he loved you back.

The future Mrs. Morgan. Having that down in his writing, on the very first page no less…you could die happy.

You took one last look and shut the journal, stuffing it back inside your coat. And, riddled with giddiness, you faced the street and the daylight, soaking it into your bones. For all the chill the wind held, it couldn’t cut you. For all the months spent away from Arthur, you couldn’t feel sorry that you had needed to be so patient. Because this was real, and true, and unlike anything in the world.

On Christmas Day and for the first time in years, you faced your future with surety. And what a beautiful, merry sight it was.

[umtxqwa]

أكثِروا من الصَّلاة على النبي ﷺ ♡‏

The Messenger of Allah (ﷺ) said:

Send many blessings upon me on Friday and the night before Friday, for whoever sends blessings upon me once, Allāh will send blessings upon him tenfold.

Al-Bayhaqi (5994) Classed as hasan by al-Albaani in as-Saheehah (1407)

[feral-ferrule]

Charity and Decadence

Chapter 7, Entirely Too Much Manspreading

Word count: 5994

Series masterlist

Pairing(s) Echo x force sensitive earthling f!Reader OC (reader has a nickname) ✨

Bad Batch & Reader ✨ Rex & Reader ✨ Anakin & Reader

Warnings: nothing much in this chapter, but a whole lot of the male gaze, a little angst, tiny bit of suggestive commentary, mentions of slavery and medical procedures. There’s some spicier stuff previously and this is a slow build up to more.

You turned and saw a soldier with a ruggedly handsome and tattooed face. He had long hair held in place with a red bandana or maybe a sweatband. His eyes had been roving over your body but snapped up to your face as you rounded on him. Like Tech, he was still in his armor. He stepped back to let you both step out of the room. The door slid closed behind you as the man held your gaze. He felt sharp and cunning, rustic for lack of a better word, and kind of had a Rambo look going on. You bet he’d love that movie and would probably be a Stalone fan.

“Choy, this is Hunter, our Sargent and squad leader,” Tech said beside you.

“Welcome aboard the Havoc Marauder,” Hunter spoke with smoky timber that matched his energy. Well at least he doesn’t sound like a Stalone character.

You held your hand out, “Thank you, Hunter, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” His eyes widened and his lusty vibe shifted to something a little more respectful. He took your hand and his energy was suddenly right inside your head. Another clone you realized with a shock. You could see a jumble of his memories and feelings. Feelings and thoughts- you slammed the barriers down right as you saw yourself- and, shit, you were naked. You managed to remember to squeeze back on his hand and let go. You searched his eyes, yes he had tells of a clone. “You and Tech, you are both clones?” You managed to ask, wondering if naked-you was still bouncing around in his mind.

“We are Clone Force 99,” Tech said to your side.

99, the sweet defective clone. This is,

“The Bad Batch,” you said in a hushed voice. You breathed in deep to ground yourself as you were flooded with memories of these guys and more of your life. Dammit not now, you grumbled to yourself. You held up a hand to steady yourself against the bulkhead. Tech intercepted it as you reached out and held it in his.

“Yes we call ourselves the Bad Batch,” Tech said, glancing over at Hunter. “Are you not feeling well?” He steadied your elbow with his other hand.

“I’m ok, It’s just been a long day, although not as hard as yours.” You let your gaze fall to all the abrasions and blaster grazes on Hunter’s armor. Then back up to his face.

Hunter looked like he was going to comment on that, but with a smirk he gestured toward the cockpit. “If you are ok please join us up front, we’d like to have a talk with you.” Tech led you forward. Hunter’s eyes stayed on you, closing as he deeply inhaled when you drew away from him. It raised the hair on the back of your neck and you felt like you were being tracked. A hand on your back brought your attention to Tech who was giving a stern look back at Hunter.

Rex, Anakin and Crosshair were standing off to the side discussing an extremely large long-gun as you approached. They all quieted, their eyes on you, their mouths open in mid sentence as you paused and nodded to them. You heard a low whistle from their direction as Tech offered the navigator’s chair, “My lady.” He was being so sweet. Was he always like this? You wondered if real-Tech was less socially awkward than cartoon-Tech.

You took your seat and surveyed the men before you. Crosshair’s eyebrow cocked as he watched Tech’s interaction with you. In fact, you realized, they were all watching as his hand slid up to your shoulder while you lowered yourself down in the seat.

Anakin turned his back towards you and handed Crosshair the gun. And what sounded like an admonishment of “Woman on deck, men.” Before turning around he adjusted something near his belt and tugged at the collar of his tunic. You felt him calm his energy as he turned back around. You better calm down married-almost-father-of-twins, you thought to yourself. He must have caught on to your judgement and suddenly looked a little guilty.

“Is she glowing?” Rex tilted his head to Anakin, his eyes still roving the space around you.

Anakin winked at you and said, “Choy, this is-“ and you both said “Captain Rex.” They looked a bit surprised.

“How do you know who I am?” Rex had straightened up and regarded you with some caution. All clone, you thought, but brighter energy than most.

“It’s a long story,” you sighed and smiled at him. You looked between them all. “Which I promise to tell you,” you assured him as he scrutinized you.

“You’ve met Hunter,” Anakin said. Hunter approached the others across from you. “This is Crosshair.” Crosshair stepped out from behind the other two and gave you a tight nod. He was as tall as Tech, had his aloof tough guy act going on, but as you focused on him you could feel some deep hurt and a strong heart. And he was trying to hide his burning curiosity behind ennui. The effect of this was a cold leering appraisal as his eyes caressed your form.

“Cross, go wake Wrecker, we’re having a meeting,” Hunter barked. Crosshair tore his eyes off of you and stalked out of the cockpit. You could hear his muffled voice carry from the back of the ship.

Anakin and Rex moved forward claiming the pilot and co-pilot seats. Crosshair reappeared and stood in the space between Anakin and Hunter.

You heard heavier footsteps and a big yawn from down the ship and turned as the biggest of them all approached. “What’s this meeting so important for?” He complained in a gravelly voice rough with sleep. You watched him stretch and scratch his belly, the top of his single piece blacks pulled down and hanging around his waist. As he got closer his eyes blinked in the brighter cabin lights. His scarred face broke into a big grin when he noticed you. “Ohhhh that’s right we have the lady here, hi lady! Oh I’d better get dressed.”

You couldn’t help but feel at ease and happy, despite his sheer size that you were sure would be scary if he were angry. Just like you’d seen him back home, but now so much larger than life. You noticed he was absolutely rippling with muscle and sinewy veins as he pulled the top of his blacks back on. A little bit too defined, you noted with some concern. Not nearly as bad as Echo, just not enough softness between the ribs and muscles. You wondered if they all were like that- on the verge of being underfat. His eyes were so kind and warm, even the cybernetic one. You smiled back, feeling a little dazed and said “Hi, Wrecker, I’m Choy. It is nice to meet you all,” as you looked back over all the men. Hunter sat across from you pulling Wrecker, who had been headed to sit next to you, down next to him.

The various screens and illuminated controls around the space cast everything in a variety of colors. You made quick comparisons to your memories of the mens’ animated and movie versions. They were rougher up close like this. Like the other clones you had met, they felt gritty and solid in the force, honed cold steel soldiers through and through. But if you pushed past that you knew you’d feel the warm humanity at their core. They were letting this through a bit now in your company, their inner fires stoked, their eyes dilated. Hot blooded and thirsty. As they settled in their seats they all adopted similar body language. Relaxed, legs spread wide like they were all making a display of themselves. Tech and Crosshair remained standing, Crosshair’s eyes shifting as he noticed the way Tech put his hand on the top of your seat’s headrest.

You crossed your legs, one knee over the other, not quite resting back into the large chair and set your elbows on the armrests. In your own head your memories were hitting fast and hard now which they liked to do at inconvenient times. A jumble of events and faces was replaying that happened right up to the moments before appearing in this world. You still weren’t entirely sure who everyone was and if they were in chronological order. You felt the men around you staring and snapped back to the current moment. You took a deep breath and centered yourself, calling up the Force for strength and presence of mind. You willed your energy to reach out to all the clones and wrap around them. Warm, comfort, soft, gentle. You knew they craved this, never having really experienced nurturing before. They wouldn’t sense it like a Jedi would but they’d feel something.

To Anakin you were more direct [[There are some things I will be leaving unsaid in front of everyone]] He nodded and you cast your gaze down briefly, collecting your thoughts and decided to make the first move.

“Thank you for risking so much,” you said, looking at Rex and then to Anakin, “and for believing in each other to save Echo.” They looked at eachother with mild surprise. “What they did to him was-“ and you had to stop, close your eyes and swallow the lump in your throat because it was so much worse in reality than portrayed in a cartoon. “And thank you for freeing me,” you touched your neck and looked at Anakin who nodded.

“How is Echo? Were you able to help him?” He asked.

“Yes he’s good, sleeping now.” You glanced up at Tech.

“He will require advanced treatment once we return, but he is stable,” Tech said, “thanks to Choy here.”

Rex looked relieved and leaned forward, “So who are you? How are you familiar with Echo? And how do you know me?” Rex started pummeling you with questions and Anakin shot him a warning look which cut him off. You noticed Hunter lean forward, his elbows on his knees.

“It’s ok Anakin,” you smiled at them both, “I was a captive of the Techno Union. They used me for their biological experiments because I can do things in the force that are unusual, even for Jedi.”

“But you aren’t trained as a Jedi? How did you develop your powers, where are you from? What can you tell us about the Separatists?” Anakin now had a million questions and suspicions running through his mind. Rex shot him a side eye glance that had you suppressing a smile.

You tried to think of the clearest way to explain it all to them, “This is going to be a lot, and I won’t blame you for not believing me.” You rubbed the back of your neck and looked around at them, stopping on Wrecker who looked excited for a good story. “I appeared in this world at a ruined Jedi temple in a Force storm on Dantooine during the time Mace Windu and the 187th were fighting the Separatists there. I never had Force powers until that moment. I had amnesia and I have only recently remembered enough to put the pieces of my old life back together. I think maybe I almost died in my world and the Force brought me here, saved me.” They all looked around at each other as you looked down at your hands in your lap, one thumb rubbing the other hand, tears swarmed in your eyes and plopped onto your thigh. You’d never told anyone that part before.

A warm, gloved hand covered both of yours and gave them a gentle squeeze. Tech was kneeling beside you. “I’m so sorry, you must miss everyone meaningful to you.” Tech said gently. You smiled at his hand and nodded. You felt loss, but also felt the memories slip away as much as they came back. Like your new full connection to the Force was dissolving them again.

You took a deep shuddering breath and wiped your tears on your sleeves, looking back up at Rex, “The troopers gave me the name Choy. It’s short for ech-“

“Echoy’la” Rex said with you. The clones all nodded in understanding.

You looked at Anakin, “Master Windu taught me the Force basics before he had to go into battle and save his troops from the horrible-,” you shuddered at the memory, cleared your throat that threatened to constrict on your words, “I helped triage the clones that day- then the one,” your tone turned bitter, “Slick, he betrayed me. Then the Separatists captured me in the field.”

You looked up and saw Rex’s face go from surprised to set in a grim scowl, “Slick is in the brig now, he did more damage among the 501st after hurting you,” he smoothed his hand over his head’s short blond stubble, “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Rex.” But I’d have never been able to help Echo otherwise, you thought.

Anakin nodded but narrowed his eyes a little. You looked across to Crosshair chewing his toothpick, still standing, arms crossed, eyes softer with a gentle sympathy. To Hunter who was nodding a bit as he contemplated what you just said. And to Wrecker who’s chin trembled a little as he stared at the floor and then up to you.

“So they had you for a while before the Citadel. When did you meet Echo?” Rex asked.

“Not that long ago, I believe he had been in the tower for some time before I got there. I’ve only been there a couple weeks.”

“Where were you before that?” Anakin asked.

“I was in their labs, on various planets, assigned to the -maintenance of experimental subjects, like Echo.”

“And you really helped clones on Dantooine?” Hunter asked a little doubtfully.

“Yes, is that weird?” You looked around the room.

“Clones are not usually considered worthy of the time and effort of the naturally born.” Tech said beside you.

The matter of fact way he said it was like a punch to the gut. “That I’m aware of, and I’m sorry it’s that way. I feel that clones are just as human and worthy as me or any of my family.” You sighed remembering them as the men all exchanged looks with a new light in their eyes. “You’d all have full human rights where I’m from.”

“And where is that exactly?” Hunter pressed.

“Earth,” you said. They all looked around at each other. “It is not in this galaxy so-“ Anakin rolled his eyes.

“Look if you don’t want to tell us where you are from that’s one thing but don’t start in with any silly lies,” he said

“Silly lies? I don’t understand,” you looked from Anakin to the other men not expecting that reaction.

“Telling us you’re from Earth, that lie.” Anakin pressed.

“Why do you think I’m lying? Have you heard of Earth?”

“I’m sure you are both referring to the popular human origin myth of the planet Earth.” Tech spoke up next to you, “It’s featured in numerous holovids, writings and in the oral culture of more primitive human populations-“

“A fairy tale,” Crosshair drawled, shifting his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. You realized your mouth was hanging open as you tried to think of a way to explain and snapped it shut.

Tech taped away at his data pad. “Now it’s quite possible Choy is from one of the many colonies that have named themselves after the mythical Earth. There have been several. Choy, do you recognize any of these worlds?” He handed you his data pad with a map of the Galaxy on it. There were several systems pinpointed with the name “Earth” next to them.

You were too tired for this. And were beginning to grow impatient with this inquisition you were stuck in. Trying to plead your case of where you really came from would probably be futile. You pinched your forehead to stave off the headache you were feeling set in. You needed to eat.

“No, Tech. I’m certain it’s none of those.”

Out of the corner of your eye. Anakin and Hunter exchanged a look. “I really don’t blame you for not believing me,” you said to them. You really meant that, figuring they could probably tell you were holding back.

“Well I believe you, Choy,” Wrecker boomed from next to Hunter, shooting him a glare. “But you’ll need a new name now, ‘cause you found us,” he looked over at Hunter again, “ Can we keep her?” At that Crosshair gave them a sidelong look.

“So to sum up,” Tech continued, “you are most likely from a back-to-the-Earth colony, they are isolationist primitivists and several have been lost to the rest of the Galaxy, probably in Wild Space or the Unknown Regions. Then, because of some quirk in the Force you were brought to Dantooine at the site of one of the ancient Force Gates, most likely.” Tech pushed his goggles up his nose. “Highly improbable but not impossible. Anakin may be a better one to ask.”

Everyone looked at Anakin who was sitting forward, like Hunter now, elbows on knees with a contemplative look. He straightened up and put his hand on his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll have to ask the Jedi council about all this.” He looked at you, his face showing confusion, “I’m sorry, Choy, I didn’t realize you could be from an actual place called Earth. Please accept my apologies.”

You sighed, and very slightly shook your head “Of course, Anakin, this is all very confusing for me, too.” You decided to drop the subject and looked down at the data pad again, wondering how Earth fit into this reality.

“Choy, thank you for caring for Echo. I thought I’d never see him again and if it wasn’t for you it sounds like I never would have.” Rex had got up from his seat and was kneeling in front of you. He took the data pad and handed it to Tech without taking his eyes off yours. You felt spellbound in his warm gaze. He took your hands from your lap and held them in his. “Vor entye, meshla.” He brought your hands up and touched his forehead to them. You swooned a little, your heart racing. The rest of the clones started shifting in their seats, you got the idea that this was a somewhat intimate gesture to them. They didn’t look too happy about it and Hunter seemed tense. Tech bristled beside you but hid it by tapping away at his data pad, although a little too forcefully. Rex squeezed your hands and released them to your lap. He stood to your side and turned to Anakin.

Anakin picked up on the vibe and cleared his throat, “Gentlemen,” he began with a bit of warning in his tone, “when we get back to Anaxes we’ll rendezvous with General Windu and Kenobi. Rex and I will debrief and we will all have to prepare for the next steps in the battle to win the shipyards back. Choy, what are your unusual abilities? We may need all the help we can get.”

You were elated to hear that Master Windu and his troopers would be there. It gave you even more of a sense of things going right finally. “I don’t know how helpful I’d be in a battle,” you put a finger to your chin and looked around the room as you considered what abilities you’d managed to hone despite the force collar’s oppression. “I can kind of feel into and manipulate matter down to the tiniest structures, even to the molecules. My main job with the Techno Union was to tinker with the biohardware interface of prosthetic implants, remove scar tissue and heal surgical sites. I was like their never ending supply of bacta. Master Windu also said that I showed signs of other things, that I was extremely force sensitive probably because it was new for me and I didn’t learn to block it out as a young child. He said I am very force empathic, which is the force's way of balancing someone who can be super deadly with it.” You paused and considered who you were talking to. Anakin probably didn’t have strong force empathy. Which must explain how easily he can kill, how easily the dark side took him.

“You can kill someone just by thinking about it?” Crosshair’s question sounded sincere.

“Not exactly, the force empathy I just mentioned makes that very difficult for me, but the Separatists did try to use me that way. Count Dooku was supposed to take custody of me to develop my force skills in that direction. The only reason I wasn’t sent to him was the Techno Union’s claim on me. After they…used up Echo I was to be contracted out to him. He’d check on me every so often, or send his minions, creepy sith types. Keep me in the fold.” You looked hard at Anakin, “I can tell you a thing or two about the Sith, but I don’t think you’d like it too much.” Anakin raised an eyebrow. “It’s actually easier for me to manipulate matter in a healing way or when it isn’t part of a being with a will to live. I can heal easier than harm- if I really concentrate I can even compress gasses and release them to create an explosion but not like inside a person, does that make sense? There’s probably more I can do but just don’t know yet. Another thing- I can generate heat and activate a person’s energy stores to help nourish them if they can’t eat. I think this has to do with the glowing.” You gestured in a circle around yourself.

Wrecker looked love-struck. “Explosions? Now you're speaking my language! Wait- is that how you helped Echo in there? You force-fed him? Hahahaha!” Wrecker laughed at his terrible pun.

“Something like that,” you couldn’t help but chuckle and felt a flush of heat creep up your neck. They were all eyeing you curiously. You looked to Tech.

“I imagine you are tired and hungry, let me help you get settled for the remainder of our journey,” Tech rescued you. He stood and held his hand for you to take which you did. You stood and he gave you a smile. The rest of the men stood as well.

“Choy, when we meet with the other Jedi I’m sure we’d all be interested in what you know about the Sith,” Anakin said. You noticed he’d closed himself off in the force more now that he knew you might be reading his every emotion or even thought.

“Of course,”

“Get some rest for now. That goes for everyone, who’s got first watch?”

As they figured out the watch rotation Tech led you to some storage panels near the middle of the ship. Behind you Crosshair said to Hunter, “I think he’s touched her more since she came to us than he’s touched anyone else combined in his entire life.” You also heard Rex say “She never really told us how she seems familiar with us.”

You felt the massive warmth of Wrecker behind you as Tech rummaged for rations in a compartment.

“Here, Choy.” Wrecker said to you confidentially. He pressed on a panel higher up than even Tech could reach and grabbed a packet out of a box shoved in the space inside. “These are the best ones.”

“That’s where those went?” Tech exclaimed with annoyance, “You hid them for yourself you greedy Blurgg!”

“No, Choy gets to have them, too.” Wrecker sassed back and pressed the panel shut. “Here you go, meshla,” he winked at you and handed you the packet.

You looked apologetically to Tech and back to Wrecker, “thank you, big guy,” you winked at him and patted his arm. Wrecker stood taller and beamed.

“Take these as well,” Tech handed you another packet and a bottle of opaque blue liquid.

“Why does she get the cookies and blue milk, Tech, you like her or something?” He elbowed Tech who seemed to be braced for it. You were sure it would have sent you flying.

“Choy has endured much for a civilian,” Tech straightened his goggles, “and her system has been taxed beyond what we can imagine.” He glanced down at your chest. His lips pressed together and he swallowed. “She deserves a feast if you ask me,” he said, still looking below your face, desire and curiosity radiating off of him.

Oh he wants some. He wants a taste of me, you realized.

“You all deserve one, too, for being so brave and strong and good,” you blinked up at Wrecker. “And smart,” you added looking at Tech. You watched them positively inflate at your praise. Clones were delightful putty about that, a feature you found especially endearing. And handy.

Tech was pulling at his collar and Wrecker blushing and kicking his foot when you felt a presence slide behind you and a hand on your lower back. You turned to see Crosshair behind you glaring at his brothers. He hovered over you and asked, “What’s come over you two?” He glanced at your armful of rations. His eyebrows raised a little and he smirked, “Tribute for the queen,” he mused, “you going to make her stand here to eat like a fathier?” he jibed at his brothers. “Come sit on the bunk here, meshla,” his hand at your back pressed you toward a neatly made bunk bed. You left the other two clones to bicker about who let Crosshair steal you away like that.

You sat down and he appraised you with a slight smile. “Mind if I join you?”

“No, not at all,” you patted the spot next to you.

He sat a little further from you than where you patted and pulled out a ration bar of his own from a pocket somewhere. You bit into the ration Wrecker gave you. It was the best one you’d ever tasted, almost like chocolate. Crosshair quietly munched on his, staring at the bunks on the other side of the space. It was a comfortable silence, but you felt that he was on the verge of saying something.

Eventually he side eyed you, “Hunter seems to think you are hiding something.”

You sighed, chewing, and thought about how to respond as he turned slightly to look at you with both eyes. “There’s just some things I’d rather wait to bring up with… a woman.” Now that really was true, you weren’t about to tell more of them about your little milk situation.

His eyebrow shot up and his eyes snapped forward again. You smiled a little at his embarrassment. But his expression turned from surprise to something darker.

“Are you ok? The Separatists, they didn’t?” He tried to ask.

“Oh I’m ok, Crosshair, thank you, no they, they didn’t. Nothing like that,” you soothed, and the cold fire left his face. He went back to eating and casting little glances your way. You opened up to him a little, he seemed like how you’d imagine him, but you hadn’t expected a protectiveness from him towards you, or this much courtesy. He definitely felt like the coiled snake ready to strike but he also felt like he wanted to coil around you, squeeze you and strike anything that came near.

You finished the ration and fiddled with the container of blue milk. He put his hand on yours to stop your struggle and took it from you, twisting the cap in a special way that wasn’t obvious and handed it back to you. “Thank you,” you said and were pretty sure you saw a flash of warmth on his face. You took a sip expecting it to be overly sweet like a kid drink but it wasn’t. Not bad you thought, and tried to remember what animal it was from. “Crosshair, where does blue milk come from, like what kind of creature?”

He looked surprised for a second, “Banthas. You don’t get blue milk where you’re from?”

You munched on the cookies, taking care to not drop crumbs on the bed. “Nope. All the milk where I’m from is white.”

Tech, Wrecker and Hunter appeared around the bulkhead. All three of them stopped short and stared at you and Crosshair sitting together on his bunk. Tech had your duffel which you had completely forgotten about and set it down next to the bunk across the way. Crosshair glared at them and shifted toward you a tiny fraction. Hunter noticed this and said, “just checking where our passenger and sniper got off to.” You did not miss the suggestiveness in his tone. Crosshair was about to snipe some words back at him.

“How’s the ration? Good, ya?” asked Wrecker.

“Delicious, everything was, thank you so much, I didn’t realize how hungry I’d been. And Crosshair has been pleasant company, a real gentleman.” You leveled a look at Hunter who crossed his arms with a smirk.

“If you’d like to retire, I have watch duty now and you may use my bunk,” Tech said pointing to the particularly cluttered bunk he’d set your bag near. You were about to ask what it all was when Wrecker added, “You’ve got too much junk on there, Tech, it’ll poke Choy.” The other clones tried not looking at you after he said that. “She can sleep in mine,” he continued.

All three of the rest of them protested that. “No, we’d never do that to the lady, Wrecker. When was the last time you washed your sheets?” Tech asked. Wrecker scratched the back of his neck, thinking.

“You idiots, she’s fine right here,” Crosshair motioned behind you to his own bunk. Hunter raised an eyebrow as Crosshair rested his hand behind you and stared daggers at them.

Wrecker yawned and said, “Aye alright I’m hitting the sack.” He flopped down on his bunk and grabbed his Lula doll and was asleep almost instantly.

Tech excused himself to the cockpit leaving Hunter. You studied him and expected the same suspicion he exhibited in the cockpit, but his eyes had softened and warmed to you. You remembered his heightened senses and suspected he must have heard what you said to Crosshair. And he could probably smell your leaking milk since you boarded. That was a little embarrassing.

“Hey, thank you all for accommodating me into your home.” Crosshair almost smiled at you and Hunter uncrossed his arms. He came over and kneeled down in front of you. “Did you really mean what you said about clones?”

“Absolutely,” you stared into his eyes and then up at Crosshair’s. “You are worthy,” then you felt a little corny and over the top but added, “Your equalness to natborns is self evident. Even if the galaxy doesn’t think so, even if regs don’t think so and treat you badly.”

“How do you know about that?” Crosshair asked.

“I know a lot about this world that doesn’t make sense for me to know.” You sighed and wanted to avoid more questions. “May I use the sonic in your ‘fresher?” You changed the subject to something that would derail their brains. It worked, you could see the gears turning behind both their eyes, imagining you in there.

“Yeah of course,” Hunter said vaguely.

You hopped off the bunk, stood and gathered your food wrappers. “Where do these go?” Hunter took them from you sliding his hand along yours like a caress. He was the only one of the batchers you didn’t have to crane your neck to look at. You felt a gentleness from him now and a hungry curiosity.

“How long till we get to Anaxes?” You asked him.

“About half a rotation more, depending on conditions in the hyper lane.”

“I’ll just go get cleaned up and check on Echo.” You looked from Hunter to Crosshair. “Thank you for noticing I needed a quiet moment.” Crosshair straightened up and a look of pride crossed his face. You stepped over to your bag and bent down to grab its strap. Behind you you could hear what sounded like a combination of stifled sighs and barely audible groans. You side-eyed them as you left to the ‘fresher. Their eyes stayed on you ‘till they realized they were staring and you caught them.

Once in the tiny fresher you dug in your bag for the soap and washcloth you found in the officer’s quarters in the tower. It was quality stuff and its smell reminded you of sandalwood and vanilla. The sonic showers were something you had eventually gotten used to. They were ok, but when you had access to soap you’d found that soaping up with some water first made for a more familiar experience. Plus it always felt luxurious to smell like something besides lab antiseptic and the weird ozone-like smell your laundry always seemed to have. You emerged from the sonic, hung your washcloth on a hook on the wall and brushed your teeth. Then you put on sleep pants and a long sleeve shirt over a looser breast band with some pads in it. You didn’t want to be bouncing and leaking on a ship full of hot blooded men. You bundled your dirty clothes with your other ones and made sure you had a clean outfit for the next day. You were really going to need to do laundry soon. Now with any luck you’d make it to Echo without being intercepted.

You peaked out the fresher door. The cabin lights had been dimmed. Someone was snoring. You stepped out of the fresher with your bag and boots in hand. you could make out the figures of Tech, Anakin and Rex up in the cockpit. Tech was at the controls while the other two dozed in the seats. The others must be in their bunks from the sound of breathing and snoring behind the bulkhead where the bunks were. You tiptoed to the door where Echo was and went in. Out of the corner of your eye you swore you saw a figure standing by the bunks but pretended you didn’t and closed the door quickly.

Letting out a breath of relief to be closed off from the rest of the crew, you set your things inside a cabinet, approached Echo, and knelt next to him. Carefully you touched his hand. You let your guard down and felt into him with your mind. He was in a lighter sleep state, his heart was beating steady, blood pressure seemed fine, all his vessels seemed healthy. He had some inflammation around his spine and at his leg implant so you mended the micro tears in his flesh and calmed down his immune response, soothing it to rest. Rest. You felt like lead and slumped down laying your head on the cot next to his hand. You were about to doze off when he stirred and startled.

“Cyare, what are you doing on the floor?” He sat up and scooched back holding up the blanket, “Come up here and let me hold you.” You looked at his expectant face and felt a familiarity and concern from him through your fatigue. You climbed in under the blanket. He put the blanket roll over his metal arm for you to rest your head on and pulled your leg over his hip. Then circled his arm around your waist and slid his hand up your back pulling you close to his chest. You snuggled your face into his neck, wrapped your arm around him and focused on warming him up.

“No kar’ika, rest,” he said, his deep voice rumbling into your hair. He soothed your back and kissed the top of your head and you fell into a deep sleep.

[shuxiii]

Everyday

Hanni Pham x reader pt1, pt2, pt3, pt4, pt5, pt6, pt7, pt8, pt9, pt10, pt11, pt12, pt13, pt14, pt15, pt16, pt17, pt18

A/n this is based on the novel book "every day" by David Levithan saur credits to him I tots recommend reading the novel itself it's so damn goodies bro like gosh golly lawrd.

synopsis: You, someone who wakes up in a different body every day to live a different life. You spend your days inhabiting a new body and pretending to be the person without changing their personality or life. 

TW: profanities

Day 5994

I wake up.

Immediately I have to figure out who I am. It’s not just

the body—opening my eyes and discovering whether the skin on my arm is light or dark, whether my hair is long or short, whether I’m fat or thin, boy or girl, scarred or smooth. The body is the easiest thing to adjust to if you’re used to waking up in a new one each morning. It’s the life, the context of the body, that can be hard to grasp. Every day I am someone else. I am myself—I know I am myself—but I am also someone else.

It has always been like this. The information is there. I wake up, open my eyes, and understand that it is a new morning, a new place. The biography kicks in, a welcome gift from the not‑me part of the mind. Today I am Kim Minji. Somehow I know this—my name is Minji—and at the same time I know that I’m not really Minji, I’m only borrowing her life for a day. I look around and know that this is her room.

This is her home. The alarm will go off in seven minutes.

I’m never the same person twice, but I’ve certainly been

this type before. Clothes everywhere. Far more video games

than books. Sleeps in her shorts. From the taste of her mouth, a smoker. But not so addicted that she needs one as soon as she wakes up.

“Good morning, Minji,” I say. Checking out her voice. Low. The voice in my head is always different.

Minji doesn’t take care of herself. Her scalp itches. Her eyes don’t want to open. She hasn’t gotten much sleep. Already I know I’m not going to like today. It’s hard being in the body of someone you don’t like, because you still have to respect it. I’ve harmed people’s lives in the past, and I’ve found that every time I slip up, it haunts me.

So I try to be careful. From what I can tell, every person I inhabit is the same age as me. I don’t hop from being nineteen to being ninety. Right now, it’s only nineteen. I don’t know how this works. Or why. I stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago. I’m never going to figure it out, any more than a normal person will figure out his or her own existence. After a while, you have to be at peace with the fact that you simply are. There is no way to know why. You can have theories, but there will never be proof.

I can access facts, not feelings. I know this is Minji’s room, but I have no idea if she likes it or not. Does she want to kill her parents in the next room? Or would she be lost without her mother coming in to make sure she’s awake? It’s impossible to tell. It’s as if that part of me replaces the same part of whatever person I’m in. And while I’m glad to be thinking like myself, a hint every now and then of how the other person thinks would be helpful.

We all contain mysteries, especially when Seen from the inside. The alarm goes off. I reach for a shirt and some jeans, but something lets me see that it’s the same shirt she wore yesterday. I pick a different shirt. I take the clothes with me to the bathroom and dress after showering. Her parents are in the kitchen now. They have no idea that anything is different.

Nineteen years is a lot of time to practice. I don’t usually make mistakes. Not anymore. I read her parents easily: Minji doesn’t talk to them much in the morning, so I don’t have to talk to them. I have grown accustomed to sensing expectations in others, or the lack of them. I shovel down some cereal, leave the bowl in the sink without washing it, grab Minji’s keys, and go.

Yesterday I was a girl in a town I’d guess to be two hours away. The day before, I was a boy in a town three hours farther than that. I am already forgetting their details. I have to, or else I will never remember who I really am.

Minji listens to loud and obnoxious music on a loud and obnoxious station where loud and obnoxious DJs make loud and obnoxious jokes as a way of getting through the morning. This is all I need to know about Minji, really. I access her memory to show me the way to school, which parking space to take, and which locker to go to. The combination. The names of the people she knows in the halls.

Sometimes I can’t go through these motions. I can’t bring myself to go to school and maneuver through the day. I’ll say I’m sick, stay in bed, and read a few books. But even that gets tiresome after a while, and I find myself up for the challenge of a new school, and new friends. For a day.

As I take Minji’s books out of her locker, I can feel someone

hovering on the periphery. I turn, and the girl standing there Is transparent in her emotions—tentative and expectant, nervous and adoring. I don’t have to access Minji to know that this is her girlfriend. No one else would have this reaction to her, so unsteady in her presence. She’s pretty, but she doesn’t see it. She’s hiding behind her hair, happy to see me and unhappy to see me at the same time.

Her name is Hanni. And for a moment—just the slightest beat—I think that, yes, this is the right name for her. I don’t know why. I don’t know her. But it feels right.

This is not Minji’s thought. It’s mine. I try to ignore it. I’m not the person she wants to talk to.

“Hey,” I say, keeping it casual.

“Hey,” she murmurs back.

She’s looking at the floor, at her inked‑in Converse. She’s drawn cities there, skylines around the soles. Something’s happened between her and Minji, and I don’t know what it is. It’s probably not something that Minji even recognized at the time.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

I see the surprise on her face, even as she tries to cover it. This is not something that Minji normally asks. And the strange thing is: I want to know the answer. The fact that she wouldn’t care makes me want it more.

“Sure,” she says, not sounding sure at all.

I find it hard to look at her. I know from experience that beneath every peripheral girl is a central truth. She’s hiding hers away, but at the same time, she wants me to see it. That is, she wants Minji to see it. And it’s there, just out of my reach. A sound waiting to be a word.

She is so lost in her sadness that she has no idea how visible it is. I think I understand her—for a moment, I presume to understand her—but then, from within this sadness, she surprises me with a brief flash of determination. Bravery, even. Shifting her gaze away from the floor, her eyes matching mine,

she asks, “Are you mad at me?”

I can’t think of any reason to be mad at her. If anything, I am mad at Minji, for making her feel so diminished. It’s there in her body language. When she is around her, she makes herself small.

“No,” I say. “I’m not mad at you at all.”

I tell her what she wants to hear, but she doesn’t trust it. I feed her the right words, but she suspects they’re threaded with hooks.

This is not my problem; I know that. I am here for one day. I cannot solve anyone’s girlfriend problems. I should not change anyone’s life.

I turn away from her, get my books out, and close the locker.

She stays in the same spot, anchored by the profound, desperate loneliness of a bad relationship.

“Do you still want to get lunch today?” she asks.

The easy thing would be to say no. I often do this: sense the other person’s life drawing me in and run in the other direction. But there’s something about her—the cities on her shoes, the flash of bravery, the unnecessary sadness—that makes me want to know what the word will be when it stops being a sound.

I have spent years meeting people without ever knowing them, and on this morning, in this place, with this girl, I feel the faintest pull of wanting to know. And in a moment of either weakness or bravery on my own part, I decide to follow it. I decided to find out more.

“Absolutely,” I say. “Lunch would be great.”

Again, I read her: What I’ve said is too enthusiastic. Minji is never enthusiastic.

“No big deal,” I add.

She’s relieved. Or, at least, as relieved as she’ll allow herself to be, which is a very guarded form of relief. By accessing, I know she and Minji have been together for over a year.

That’s as specific as it gets. Minji doesn’t remember the exact date.

She reaches out and takes my hand. I am surprised by how good this feels.

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me,” she says. “I just want everything to be okay.”

I nod. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: We all want everything to be okay. We don’t even wish so much for fantastic or marvelous or outstanding. We will happily settle for okay, because most of the time, okay is enough.

The first bell rings.

“I’ll see you later,” I say. Such a basic promise. But to Hanni, it means the world.

...

At first, it was hard to go through each day without making any lasting connections, leaving any life-​­changing effects. When I was younger, I craved friendship and closeness. I would make bonds without acknowledging how quickly and permanently they would break. I took other people’s lives personally. I felt their friends could be my friends, and their parents could be my parents. But after a while, I had to stop. It was too heartbreaking to live with so many separations.

I am a drifter, and as lonely as that can be, it is also remarkably freeing. I will never define myself in terms of anyone else. I will never feel the pressure of peers or the burden of parental expectations. I can view everyone as pieces of a whole, and focus on the whole, not the pieces. I have learned how to observe, far better than most people observe. I am not blinded by the past or motivated by the future. I focus on the present because that is where I am destined to live.

I learn. Sometimes I am taught something I have already been taught in dozens of other classrooms. Sometimes I am taught something completely new. I have to access the body, access the mind and see what information it’s retained. And when I do, I learn. Knowledge is the only thing I take with me when I go.

I know so many things that Minji doesn’t know, that she will never know. I sit there in her math class, open her notebook, and write down phrases she has never heard. Shakespeare and Kerouac and Dickinson. Tomorrow, or someday after tomorrow, or never, she will see these words in her own handwriting and she won’t have any idea where they came from, or even what they are.

That is as much interference as I allow myself. Everything else must be done cleanly. Hanni stays with me. Her details. Flickers from Minji’s memories. Small things, like the way her hair falls, the way she bites her fingernails, the determination and resignation in her voice. Random things. I see her dancing with Minji’s grandfather, because he’s said he wants a dance with a pretty girl. I see her covering her eyes during a scary movie, peering between her fingers, and enjoying her fright. These are the good memories. I don’t look at any others.

I only see her once in the morning, a brief passing in the halls between first and second period. I find myself smiling when she comes near, and she smiles back. It’s as simple as that. Simple and complicated, as most true things are. I find myself looking for her after second period, and then again after third and fourth. I don’t even feel in control of this. I want to see her. Simple. Complicated.

By the time we get to lunch, I am exhausted. Minji’s body is worn down from too little sleep and I, inside of it, am worn down from restlessness and too much thought.

I wait for her at Minji’s locker. The first bell rings. The second bell rings. No Hanni. Maybe I was supposed to meet her somewhere else. Maybe Minji’s forgotten where they always meet.

If that’s the case, she’s used to Minji forgetting. She finds me right when I’m about to give up. The halls are nearly empty, the cattle call has passed. She comes closer than she did before.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says.

She is looking to me. Minji is the one who makes the first move. Minji is the one who figures things out. Minji is the one who says what they’re going to do.

It depresses me. I have seen this too many times before. The unwarranted devotion. Putting up with the fear of being with the wrong person because you can’t deal with the fear of being alone. The hope tinged with doubt, and the doubt tinged with hope. Every time I see these feelings in someone else’s face, it weighs me down. And there’s something in Hanni’s face that’s more than just the disappointments. There is a gentleness there. A gentleness that Minji will never, ever appreciate. I see it right away, but nobody else does.

I take all my books and put them in the locker. I walk over to her and put my hand lightly on her arm. I have no idea what I’m doing. I only know that I’m doing it.

“Let’s go somewhere,” I say. “Where do you want to go?” I am close enough now to see that her eyes are brown. I am close enough now to see that nobody ever gets close enough to see how brown her eyes are.

“I don’t know,” she replies.

I take her hand.

“Come on,” I tell her.

This is no longer restlessness—it’s recklessness. At first, we’re walking hand in hand. Then we’re running hand in hand. That giddy rush of keeping up with one another, of zooming through the school, reducing everything that’s not us into an inconsequential blur. We are laughing, we are playful.

We leave her books in her locker and move out of the building, into the air, the real air, the sunshine and the trees and the less burdensome world. I am breaking the rules as I leave the school. I am breaking the rules as we get into Minji’s car. I am breaking the rules as I turn the key in the ignition.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask again. “Tell me, truly, where you’d love to go.”

I don’t initially realize how much hinges on her answer. If she says, Let’s go to the mall, I will disconnect. If she says, Take me back to your house, I will disconnect. If she says, Actually, I don’t want to miss sixth period, I will disconnect. And I should disconnect. I should not be doing this.

But she says, “I want to go to the ocean. I want you to take me to the ocean.”

And I feel myself connecting.

It takes us an hour to get there. It’s late September in Maryland. The leaves haven’t begun to change, but you can tell they’re starting to think about it. The greens are muted, and faded. Color is right around the corner.

I give Hanni control of the radio. She’s surprised by this, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough of the loud and the obnoxious, and I sense that she’s had enough of it, too. She brings melody to the car. A song comes on that I know, and I sing along.

And if I only could, I’d make a deal with God...Now Hanni goes from surprised to suspicious. Minji never sings along.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks.

“Music,” I tell her.

“Ha.”

“No, really.”

She looks at me for a long time. Then smiles.

“In that case,” she says, flipping the dial to find the next song.

Soon we are singing at the top of our lungs. A pop song that’s as substantial as a balloon, but lifts us in the same way when we sing it.

It’s as if time itself relaxes around us. She stops thinking about how unusual it is. She lets herself be a part of it.

I want to give her a good day. Just one good day. I have wandered for so long without any sense of purpose, and now this ephemeral purpose has been given to me—it feels like it has been given to me. I only have a day to give—so why can’t it be a good one? Why can’t it be a shared one? Why can’t I take the music of the moment and see how long it can last?

The rules are erasable. I can take this. I can give this.

When the song is over, she rolls down her window and trails her hand in the air, introducing a new music into the car.

I roll down all the other windows and drive faster, so the wind takes over, blows our hair all around, and makes it seem like the car has disappeared and we are the velocity, we are the speed.

Then another good song comes on and I enclose us again, this time taking her hand. I drive like that for miles, and ask her questions. Like how her parents are doing. What it’s like now that her sister’s off at college. If she thinks school is different at all this year.

It’s hard for her. Every single answer starts with the phrase I don’t know. But most of the time she does know, if I give her the time and the space in which to answer. Her mother means well; her father less so. Her sister isn’t calling home, but Hanni can understand that. School is school—she wants it to be over, but she’s afraid of it being over, because then she’ll have to figure out what comes next.

She asks me what I think, and I tell her, “Honestly, I’m just trying to live day to day.”

It isn’t enough, but it’s something. We watch the trees, the sky, the signs, the road. We sense each other. The world, right now, is only us. We continue to sing along. And we sing with the same abandon, not worrying too much if our voices hit the right notes or the right words. We look at each other while we’re singing; these aren’t two solos, this is a duet that isn’t taking itself at all seriously.

It is its own form of conversation—you can learn a lot about people from the stories they tell, but you can also know them from the way they sing along, whether they like the windows up or down, if they live by the map or by the world, if they feel the pull of the ocean.

She tells me where to drive. Off the highway. The empty back roads. This isn’t summer; this isn’t a weekend. It’s the middle of a Monday, and nobody but us is going to the beach.

“I should be in English class,” Hanni says.

“I should be in bio,” I say, accessing Minji’s schedule.

We keep going. When I first saw her, she seemed to be balancing on edges and points. Now the ground is more even, welcoming.

I know this is dangerous. Minji is not good to her. I recognize that. If I access the bad memories, I see tears, fights, and remnants of passable togetherness. She is always there for her, and she must like that. Her friends like her, and she must like that, too.

But that’s not the same as love. She has been hanging on to the hope of her for so long that she doesn’t realize there isn’t anything left to hope for. They don’t have silence together; they have noise.

Mostly her. If I tried, I could go deep into their arguments. I could track down whatever shards she’s collected from all the times she’s destroyed her. If I were really Minji, I would find something wrong with her. Right now. Tell her. Yell. Bring her down. Put her in her place. But I can’t. I’m not Minji. Even if she doesn’t know it.

“Let’s just enjoy ourselves,” I say.

“Okay,” she replies. “I like that. I spend so much time thinking about running away—it’s nice to actually do it. For a day. It’s good to be on the other side of the window. I don’t do this enough.”

There are so many things inside of her that I want to know. And at the same time, with every word we speak, I feel there may be something inside of her that I already know. When I get there, we will recognize each other. We will have that.

I park the car and we head to the ocean. We take off our shoes and leave them under our seats. When we get to the sand, I lean over to roll up my jeans. While I do, Hanni runs ahead. When I look back up, she is spinning around the beach, kicking up sand, calling my name. Everything, at that moment, is lightness. She is so joyful, I can’t help but stop for a second and watch. Witness. Tell myself to remember.

“C’mon!” she cries. “Get over here!”

I’m not who you think I am, I want to tell her. But there’s no way. Of course, there’s no way.

We have the beach to ourselves, the ocean to ourselves. I have her to myself. She has me to herself.

There is a part of childhood that is childish, and a part that is sacred. Suddenly we are touching the sacred part—running to the shoreline, feeling the first cold burst of water on our ankles, reaching into the tide to catch at shells before they ebb away from our fingers.

We have returned to a world that is capable of glistening, and we are wading deeper within it. We stretch our arms wide as if we are embracing the wind. She splashes me mischievously and I mount a counterattack. Our pants, our shirts get wet, but we don’t care.

She asks me to help her build a sand castle, and as I do, she tells me about how she and her sister would never work on sand castles together—it was always a competition, with her sister going for the highest possible mountains while Hanni paid attention to detail, wanting each castle to be the dollhouse she was never allowed to have. I see echoes of this detail now as she makes turrets bloom from her cupped hands.

I myself have no memories of sand castles, but there must be some sense memory attached, because I feel I know how to do this, how to shape this.

When we are done, we walk back down to the water to wash off our hands. I look back and see the way our footsteps intermingle to form a single path.

“What is it?” she asks, seeing me glance backward, seeing something in my expression.

How can I explain this? The only way I know is to say

“Thank you.”

She looks at me as if she’s never heard the phrase before.

“For what?” she asks.

“For this,” I say. “For all of it.”

This escape. The water. The waves. Her. It feels like we’ve stepped outside of time. Even though there is no such place.

There’s still a part of her that’s waiting for the twist, the moment when all of this pleasure will jackknife into pain.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay to be happy.”

The tears come to her eyes. I take her in my arms. It’s the wrong thing to do. But it’s the right thing to do. I have to listen to my own words. Happiness is so rarely a part of my vocabulary, because for me it’s so fleeting.

“I’m happy,” she says. “Really, I am.”

Minji would be laughing at her. Minji would be pushing her down into the sand, to do whatever she wanted to do. Minji would never have come here.

I am tired of not feeling. I am tired of not connecting. I want to be here with her. I want to be the one who lives up to her hopes, if only for the time I’m given.

The ocean makes its music; the wind does its dance. We hold on. At first we hold on to one another, but then it starts to feel like we are holding on to something even bigger than that. Greater.

“What’s happening?” Hanni asks.

“Shhh,” I say. “Don’t question it.”

She kisses me. I have not kissed anyone in years. I have not allowed myself to kiss anyone for years. Her lips are soft as flower petals, but with an intensity behind them. I take it slow, let each moment pour into the next. Feel her skin, her breath.

Taste the condensation of our contact, linger in the heat of it.

Her eyes are closed and mine are open. I want to remember this as more than a single sensation. I want to remember this whole.

We do nothing more than kiss. We do nothing less than kiss. At times, she moves to take it further, but I don’t need that. I trace her shoulders as she traces my back. I kiss her neck. She kisses beneath my ear. The times we stop, we smile at each other. Giddy disbelief, giddy belief. She should be in English class. I should be in bio. We weren’t supposed to come anywhere near the ocean today. We have defied the day as it was set out for us.

We walk hand in hand down the beach as the sun dips in the sky. I am not thinking about the past. I am not thinking about the future. I am full of such gratitude for the sun, the water, the way my feet sink into the sand, the way my hand feels holding hers.

“We should do this every Monday,” she says. “And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday.”

“We’d only get tired of it,” I tell her. “It’s best to have it just once.”

“Never again?” She doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Well, never say never.”

“I’d never say never,” she tells me.

There are a few more people on the beach now, mostly older men and women taking an afternoon walk. They nod to us as we pass, and sometimes they say hello. We nod back, return their hellos. Nobody questions why we’re here. Nobody questions anything. We’re just a part of the moment, like everything else.

The sun falls farther. The temperature drops alongside it.

Hanni shivers, so I stop holding her hand and put my arm around her. She suggests we go back to the car and get the “make-​­out blanket” from the trunk. We find it there, buried under empty beer bottles, twisted jumper cables, and other crap. I wonder how often Hanni and Minji have used the make-​­out blanket for that purpose, but I don’t try to access the memories.

Instead, I bring the blanket back out onto the beach and put it down for both of us. I lie down and face the sky, and Hanni lies down next to me and does the same.

We stare at the clouds, breathing distance from one another, taking it all in.

“This has to be one of the best days ever,” Hanni says. Without turning my head, I find her hand with my hand.

“Tell me about some of the other days like this,” I ask.

“I don’t know...”

“Just one. The first one that comes to mind.”

Hanni thinks about it for a second. Then she shakes her head. “It’s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

She turns to me and moves her hand to my chest. Makes lazy circles there. “For some reason, the first thing that comes to mind is this mother-​­daughter fashion show. Do you promise you won’t laugh?”

I promise.

She studies me. Makes sure I’m sincere. Continues.

“It was in fourth grade or something. Eric’s was doing a fundraiser for hurricane victims, and they asked for volunteers from our class. I didn’t ask my mother or anything—I just signed up. And when I brought the information home—well, you know how my mom is. She was terrified. It’s hard enough to get her out to the supermarket. But a fashion show? In front of strangers? I might as well have asked her to pose for Playboy. God, now there’s a scary thought.”

Her hand is now resting on my chest. She’s looking off to the sky.

“But here’s the thing: she didn’t say no. I guess it’s only now that I realize what I put her through. She didn’t make me go to the teacher and take it back. No, when the day came, we drove over to Eric’s and went where they told us to go. I had thought they would put us in matching outfits, but it wasn’t like that. Instead, they basically told us we could wear whatever we wanted from the store. So there we were, trying all these things on. I went for the gowns, of course—I was so much more of a girl then. I ended up with this light blue dress with ruffles all over the place. I thought it was so sophisticated.”

“I’m sure it was classy,” I say.

She hits me. “Shut up. Let me tell my story.”

I hold her hand on my chest. Lean over and kiss her quickly.

“Go ahead,” I say. I am loving this. I never have people tell me their stories. I usually have to figure them out myself.

Because I know that if people tell me stories, they will expect them to be remembered. And I cannot guarantee that. There is no way to know if the stories stay after I’m gone. And how

devastating would it be to confide in someone and have the confidence disappear? I don’t want to be responsible for that.

But with Hanni I can’t resist.

She continues. “So I had my wanna-be prom dress. And then it was Mom’s turn. She surprised me, because she went for the dresses, too. I’d never really seen her all dressed up before. And I think that was the most amazing thing to me: It wasn’t me who was Cinderella. It was her. “After we picked out our clothes, they put makeup on us and everything. I thought Mom was going to flip, but she was actually enjoying it. They didn’t really do much with her—just a little more color. And that was all it took. She was pretty. I know it’s hard to believe, knowing her now. But that day, she was like a movie star. All the other moms were complimenting her. And when it was time for the actual show, we paraded out there and people applauded. Mom and I were both smiling, and it was real, you know?

“We didn’t get to keep the dresses or anything. But I remember on the ride home, Mom kept saying how great I was. When we got back to our house, Dad looked at us like we were aliens, but the cool thing is, he decided to play along. Instead of getting all weird, he kept calling us his supermodels, and asked us to do the show for him in our living room, which we did. We were laughing so much. And that was it. The day ended. I’m not sure Mom’s worn makeup since. And it’s not like I turned out to be a supermodel. But that day reminds me of this one. Because it was a break from everything, wasn’t it?”

“It sounds like it,” I tell her.

“I can’t believe I just told you that.”

“Why?”

“Because. I don’t know. It just sounds so silly.”

“No, it sounds like a good day.

“How about you?” she asks.

“I was never in a mother-​­daughter fashion show,” I joke.

Even though, as a matter of fact, I’ve been in a few.

She hits me lightly on the shoulder. “No. Tell me about another day like this one.”

I access Hanni and find out she moved to town when he was twelve. So anything before that is fair game, because Hanni won’t have been there. I could try to find one of Minji’s memories to share, but I don’t want to do that. I want to give Hanni something of my own.

“There was this one day when I was eleven.” I try to remember the name of the boy whose body I was in, but it’s lost to me. “I was playing hide-​­and-​­seek with my friends. I mean, the brutal, tackle kind of hide-​­and-​­seek. We were in the woods, and for some reason I decided that what I had to do was climb a tree. I don’t think I’d ever climbed a tree before. But I found one with some low branches and just started moving. Up and up. It was as natural as walking. In my memory, that tree was hundreds of feet tall. Thousands. At some point, I crossed the tree line. I was still climbing, but there weren’t any other trees around. I was all by myself, clinging to the trunk of this tree, a long way from the ground.”

I can see shimmers of it now. The height. The town below me.

“It was magical,” I say. “There’s no other word to describe it. I could hear my friends yelling as they were caught, as the game played out. But I was in a completely different place.

I was seeing the world from above, which is an extraordinary thing when it happens for the first time. I’d never flown in a plane. I’m not even sure I’d been in a tall building. So there I was, hovering above everything I knew. I had made it somewhere special, and I’d gotten there all on my own. Nobody had given it to me. Nobody had told me to do it. I’d climbed and climbed and climbed, and this was my reward. To watch over the world, and to be alone with myself. That, I found, was what I needed.”

Hanni leans into me. “That’s amazing,” she whispers.

“Yeah, it was.”

“And it was in Minnesota?”

In truth, it was in North Carolina. But I access Minji and find that, yes, for her it would’ve been Minnesota. So I nod.

“You want to know another day like this one?” Hanni asks, curling closer. I adjust my arm, making us both comfortable. “Sure.”

“Our second date.”

But this is only our first, I think. Ridiculously.

“Really?” I ask.

“Remember?”

I check to see if Minji remembers their second date. She doesn’t.

“Dack’s party?” she prompts.

Still nothing.

“Yeah...,” I hedge.

“I don’t know—maybe it doesn’t count as a date. But it was the second time we hooked up. And, I don’t know, you were just so . . . sweet about it. Don’t get mad, alright?”

I wonder where this is going.

“I promise, nothing could make me mad right now,” I tell her. I even cross my heart to prove it.

She smiles. “Okay. Well, lately—it’s like you’re always in a rush. Like, we have make-outs but we’re not really...intimate. And I don’t mind. I mean, it’s fun. But every now and then, it’s good to have it be like this. And at Dack’s party—it was like this. Like you had all the time in the world, and you wanted us to have it together. I loved that. It was back when you were really looking at me. It was like—well, it was like you’d climbed up that tree and found me there at the top. And we had that together. Even though we were in someone’s backyard. At one point—do you remember?—you made me move over a little so I’d be in the moonlight. ���It makes your skin glow,’ you said. And I felt like that. Glowing. Because you were watching me, along with the moon.”

Does she realize that right now she’s lit by the warm orange spreading from the horizon, as not-​­quite-​­day becomes not-​­quite-​­night? I lean over and become that shadow. I kiss her once, then we drift into each other, close our eyes, drift into sleep. And as we drift into sleep, I feel something I’ve never felt before. A closeness that isn’t merely physical. A connection that defies the fact that we’ve only just met. A sensation that can only come from the most euphoric of feelings: belonging.

What is it about the moment you fall in love? How can such a small measure of time contain such enormity? I suddenly realize why people believe in déjà vu, why people believe they’ve lived past lives, because there is no way the years I’ve spent

on this earth could possibly encapsulate what I’m feeling. The moment you fall in love feels like it has centuries behind it, generations—all of them rearranging themselves so that this precise, remarkable intersection could happen. In your heart, in your bones, no matter how silly you know it is, you feel that everything has been leading to this, all the secret arrows were pointing here, the universe and time itself crafted this long ago, and you are just now realizing it, you are just now arriving at the place you were always meant to be.

We woke an hour later to the sound of her phone. I keep my eyes closed. Hear her groan. Hear her tell her mother she’ll be home soon.

The water has gone deep black and the sky has gone ink blue. The chill in the air presses harder against us as we pick up the blanket, providing a new set of footprints. She navigates, I drive. She talks, I listen. We sing some more. Then she leans into my shoulder and I let her stay there and sleep for a little longer, dream for a little longer.

I am trying not to think of what will happen next.

I am trying not to think of endings.

I never get to see people while they’re asleep. Not like this.

She is the opposite of when I first met her. Her vulnerability is open, but she’s safe within it. I watch the rise and fall of her, the stir and rest of her. I only wake her when I need her to tell me where to go.

The last ten minutes, she talks about what we’re going to do tomorrow. I find it hard to respond.

“Even if we can’t do this, I’ll see you at lunch?” she asks.

I nod.

“And maybe we can do something after school?”

“I think so. I mean, I’m not sure what else is going on. My mind isn’t really there right now.”

This makes sense to her. “Fair enough. Tomorrow is tomorrow. Let’s end today on a nice note.”

Once we get to town, I can access the directions to her house without having to ask her. But I want to get lost anyway.

To prolong this. To escape this.

“Here we are,” Hanni says as we approach her driveway. I pull the car to a stop. I unlock the doors. She leans over and kisses me. My senses are alive with the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, the sound of her breathing, and the sight of her as she pulls her body away from mine.

“That’s the nice note,” she says. And before I can say anything else, she’s out the door and gone.

I don’t get a chance to say goodbye.

I guess, correctly, that Hanni’s parents are used to her being out of touch and missing dinner. They try to yell at her, but you can tell that everyone’s going through the motions, and when Minji storms off to her room, it’s just the latest rerun of an old show.

I should be doing Minji’s homework—I’m always pretty conscientious about that kind of thing, if I’m able to do it—but my mind keeps drifting to Hanni. Imagining her at home. Imagining her floating from the grace of the day. Imagining her believing that things are different, that Minji has somehow changed.

I shouldn’t have done it. I know I shouldn’t have done it. Even if it felt like the universe was telling me to do it. I agonize over it for hours. I can’t take it back. I can’t make it go away.

I fell in love once, or at least until today, I thought I had. Her name was Danielle, and it felt so real, even if it was mostly words. Intense, heartfelt words. I stupidly let myself think of a possible future with her. But there was no future. I tried to navigate it, but I couldn’t.

That was easy compared to this. It’s one thing to fall in love. It’s another to feel someone else falling in love with you, and to feel a responsibility toward that love.

There is no way for me to stay in this body. If I don’t go to sleep, the shift will happen anyway. I used to think that if I stayed up all night, I’d get to remain where I was. But instead, I was ripped from the body I was in. And the ripping felt exactly like what you would imagine being ripped from a body would feel like, with every single nerve experiencing the pain of the break, and then the pain of being fused into someone new.

From then on, I went to sleep every night. There was no use fighting it. I realize I have to call her. Her number’s right there in her phone. I can’t let her think tomorrow is going to be like today.

“Hey!” she answers.

“Hey,” I say.

“Thank you again for today.”

“Yeah.”

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to ruin it. But I have to, don’t I?

I continue, “But about today?”

“Are you going to tell me that we can’t cut class every day? That’s not like you.”

Not like me.

“Yeah,” I say, “but, you know, I don’t want you to think every day is going to be like today. Because they’re not going to be, alright? They can’t be.”

There’s a silence. She knows something’s wrong.

“I know that,” she says carefully. “But maybe things can still be better. I know they can be.”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “That’s all I wanted to say. I don’t know. Today was something, but it’s not, like, everything.”

“I know that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I sigh. There’s always a chance that, in some way, I will have brushed off on Minji. There’s always a chance that her life will in fact change—that she will change. But I have no way of knowing. It’s rare that I get to see a body after I’ve left it. And even then, it’s usually months or years later. If I recognize it at all. I want Minji to be better to her. But I can’t have her expecting it.

“That’s all,” I tell her. It feels like a Minji thing to say

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you will.”

“Thanks again for today. No matter what trouble we get into tomorrow for it, it was worth it.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you,” she says.

And I want to say it. I want to say I love you, too. Right now, right at this moment, every part of me would mean it. But that will only last for a couple more hours.

“Sleep well,” I tell her. Then I hang up.

There’s a notebook on her desk.

Remember that you love Hanni, I write in her handwriting. I doubt she’ll remember writing it. I go onto her computer. I open up my own email account, then type out her name, her phone number, her email address, as well as Mniji’s email and password. I write about the day. And I send it to myself.

As soon as I’m through, I clear Minji’s history. This is hard for me. I have gotten so used to what I am, and how my life works. I never want to stay. I’m always ready to leave.

But not tonight. Tonight I’m haunted by the fact that tomorrow she’ll be here and I won’t be. I want to stay. I pray to stay. I close my eyes and wish to stay.

[whumpdoyoumean]

The fic is up! It’s a tag to season 3 and therefore has spoilers (: Everyone who sees this, go watch Slow Horses! It’s a genuinely excellent show, and River Cartwright is just a little guy. And the new season starts today!