#It's always the things that disrupt the emotional engagement that eventually take me out of a story | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

himbodjarin · 4 years ago

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LUNAR; CH14

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Gore, general violence, Din/Third person POV. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE BOTTOM Word count: 16,019 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist / Playlist

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THIS IS THE WAY

The Sun stands off to Din’s side, silent in a comforting way, a placidness he’s unable to recover within himself, and he savours the company with a gloved hand roosting on a curve. She twists to face him, bestowing a grand smile of rays that encapsulate inside and furnaces his figure until he’s blanketed in a toasty buzz, a swelling in his internal organs that he’ll just never become accustomed to. Din reacts to the sensations the only way he knows how and drags her into his side, a hand slithering to her hip to steady her there; little engagements that he’d never considered partaking in before the Girl.

Hands carved of dormant radiation fuss with the makeshift strap slung across her shoulder; one of the more unfortunate after-effects of her victory. Din had to utilise his craftsmanship to gift her with a lash capable of taking the weight of the disruptor rifle—the harness he relied on was built into his bandolier with a small metal clasp. He cares for the Girl but she is no charity case; the rifle against her back is plenty more than he would’ve ever thought of parting with.

The meddling persists, tinking the steel of the barrel against his vambrace.

“What’s the matter?”

Her head shakes and sinks to indolently survey the turf beneath their feet.

He glances at her hand. “I thought you wanted it?”

She buckles into submission from his queries, not that it took much effort on his part, and drags a hand down the front of her face. “I did - I do but it doesn’t feel right. It’s not mine… With your religion and all this feels awry. I shouldn’t have this.”

“I want you to have it.”

It’s the truth. He wants to be endowed with the ability to watch her manipulate something that’s been with him for so long. He wants to bookmark how it frames her body—he doesn’t know how but it does and he’s eternally grateful for that—but most of all, he wants a part of him to be forever touching her.

Nonetheless, it still doesn’t satisfy her scepticism and she scratches into the leather strap until it weathers and flakes.

“It’s just—”

“What?”

A relieving puff of stale carbon dioxide dispels from her slim parted lips. “I don’t want you to think I’m using you for your rifles, for your protection.”

Helmet inclines enough for the tip of his T to connect with her eyes; a small shake of his head as if to enquire what she’s talking about. She’s more than capable of protecting herself. She’s demonstrated it time and time again and Din is the last person who’d assume such things from her.

“I mean it’s the only reason I hitched a ride from you in the first place. I felt like I deserved compensation for my rifle and I needed a way off that damned planet.” She stiffly eases her eyes to the ground and scrunches a stone beneath the toes of her boot. “I never could’ve anticipated all of what’s happened...happening to—to happen…”

Jumbled and stuttering as if she’d downed six flasks of spotchka is a new look on her. It spawns a bounce in his lungs but he stifles the deep chuckle in the interest of not distressing her more than she obviously already is.

Serrated seams etch into the ridges of her eyebrows laced with insecurity, as though peering through a distorted mirror; one concerned expression switching with the other.

She elaborates, with such a hushed volume he almost activates his sonic detectors to register the mumbling, “It just feels as though if this is in my possession there’s no need for me to stick around. You’ve cleared your debt. I’m of no use to a reinforced Mandalorian like yourself. I appreciate the offer, I do, but…”

“What about…” he suggests, two fingers tilting her chin upwards, “you just keep it warm for me.”

It’ll technically remain hers—radioactive fingers having tagged the trigger with her insignia, the rifle imprinting its framework into the soft flesh of her back whereas it never could nestle into his beskar—even if Din is the only one who believes so. His proposal appears to hit the nail on the head of her insecurities and she allows that pesky hand to cease its unjustified carnage on the strap once and for all.

He’s entrusted with a significant smile that he cradles in his palms gently, nurturing it to ensure its growth and progression—a curve of her lips he’s not worthy of possessing but she donates it nonetheless.

“I can do that.”

It’s a witless justification to continue this worldless pact they’ve got going on and they couldn’t give a damn whether it was a phony excuse or not. She’s deciding to stay as opposed to leaving the parsec with pieces of himself attached to her back and around her neck; she wants to stay. Peradventure, it’ll only be for a little while—Din wasn’t accommodating enough for people’s liking and they’d always leave eventually—but maybe she’ll outride his past acquaintances and remain.

Din silently sighs and glances down the path they’re idled along. Caben and Stoke should’ve returned by now, though he suspects they did and that they might have been accidentally exposed to his fixation on the Girl. They weren’t exactly being quiet in the Crest after all.

Still, it provokes an irresistible grin; she’s his and only he could arouse those sounds from deep in her stomach.

“Sweet girl.” His finger pets the peak of her cheekbone. “I think we’re going to have to walk back.”

She groans. “So much for an easy-going day.”

With their intended excursion back to the settlement coming up empty-handed, the two set out from the Crest and follow the path they’d been adhered to for the past hour.

It’s nearing dusk; vibrant blues and greens numbing to darkened blends of orange and purples. The Eclipse formally so highly spoken of from their taxi service approaches as the moon makes its tiresome journey above.

“D’you think we’ll get to see it?” The Girl’s questioning disrupts the flow of crunching gravel underneath their synchronized feet.

The sky is victimised by a leering tinted slit of transparisteel, analysing the steadiness of thick clouds rolling across the surface of the dual spheres. It scales inwards to observe the shadows of craters beneath the puffs. Sorgan’s secondary moon, much smaller in size or perhaps simply further away, is smothered in the overcast and lags behind its twin, silent and colourless.

“Clouds are moving fast. It should be okay.”

She nods. “Never had the pleasure of seeing one before. Heard they’re real pretty, though. What about you?”

“No. I don’t frequent a planet long enough.”

There’s a fork in the road, diverging off into three different paths but he’s got it all memorised in the back of his mind and continues onwards without a falter in his steps, the Girl to his side with a bounce in her step as she mulls over his candour approach.

“That’s too bad. Not one for settling down, huh?”

It’s a rhetorical question but Din doesn’t want to leave her hanging regardless, “No.”

“Yet here you are—” She prods a finger at his unarmoured side prompting a light swat to her hand. “—settling.”

“...I’m not settling.”

“No?”

His shoulders broaden and he hooks a thumb in the front of his belt. “No.”

She chuckles at him but mercifully leaves it at that, well aware what he says isn’t true but she’s none the wiser to what he’s settling down for��and it’s not Sorgan.

Leather clings to her hip for dear life, refusing to surrender its residency even when they drift from one another to avoid a dip in the path; fingers merely burrow into the cloth and drag the warmth straight back once they’ve passed. Din exploits the absence of inquisitive glances and looming queries to dedicate cloying touches and he’s not afraid to demonstrate it. Where, even a week ago, he couldn’t express these emotions without the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the arousal pulsing in his core, but circumstances have changed—evolved into something fresh.

Something untouched that he wants to corrupt with his obscene hands.

It’s short-lived. Snooping eyes return.

Lanterns emitting orange hues reflect off the waters of the emerging krill ponds, softly rounded fluorescents mirroring against his polished beskar as he sweeps through the troughs. The majority of the inhabitants surround the central campfire, its flames a worthy competitor to the lanterns mellow gingers. They lick and lick and lick at the sky, the scorching embers puffing into the fading purples upwards; laughter and the tinking of spotchka-filled flasks circling the bonfire.

Leather collapses resembling the Crest plummeting through the atmosphere. Heavy, fast, and everything in slow motion while he processes he’s losing traction, a small hitch in his chest upon striking his own thigh. She’s right beside him, an inch away from brushing elbows, yet she’s still too far.

It’s not in his nature to act so possessively in front of people—out in the open for whoever to gauge thoughts, to probe his emotions—and he won’t start parading around now, in spite of the fact she’s accumulated fresh bruises that haven’t been fortunate enough to receive time to heal; or even grant the red inking to mollify into something a little less salient.

They’re the one factor he can pardon from his public displays of affection regulation. It’s simple and clean. An honest indication of what’s between them without needing to flaunt it, simply a demonstration to not infringe on their relations.

Din is accustomed to the turned heads, the watchful gazes as they make way to the midpoint, but the Girl still finds it intolerant; the exposure too confining and she slinks back a few steps. He continues onwards not wanting to draw further attention to her and they pass the spectators, eyes stooping and communication commencing after they’ve had a gander of their guests—their clothes and the Girl’s dishevelled hair evidence enough.

They’re really not as discreet as they pass themselves off to be.

Omera interrupts his motion with a sidestep onto their path. She offers a courteous smile. “Did you have an eventful day?”

“Yes.”

“Can we expect your participation tonight? It should only be a few more hours before the eclipse commences.”

Din nods, somewhat reluctant to agree. Social settings weren’t in his favour but there’s a persistent woman on the heels of his boots who longs to see the phenomenon, and whatever she wishes he will grant with a simple please Din.

Omera gleams at his accepted invitation and gestures past the campfire to a stationed bench compiled of dishes and brimming glasses of various liquids. “Help yourself to our delicacies. It’s all traditional for the celebration.”

He softly sighs, not enough for anybody to hear him over the uproar but it’s sufficient in getting his unimpressed thoughts regarding the taunting dishes—at least, the Girl notices. His helmet pans to the heft on his pauldron, caf-coloured eyes trailing along the limb and jumping to its partner gesturing in the direction of the hut.

“I’ll get you something to eat, all right?”

She doesn’t entitle him the opportunity to oppose her proposition before bounding through the crowd to collect a platter of high-grade Sorgan nourishments. He scouts for a moment, considering her with a slender tilt of his helmet; riveting, how enthusiastic and adaptable she is to the liability of his Creed.

The Way had forcibly distanced him from so many potentials, pulverised them before his very visor, and here she was, dirtying her faultless hands with the soot of his decisions simply to cater to him.

It wasn’t all that long ago he’d be seated up in the Crest’s cockpit, a helmet on his lap, a bowl of nutrients in his hands, a deadpan expression etched into his face as the stars skim past the viewport. Silence, he so often told himself he favours, accompanying him like a prodding rod at the back of his ears; loud and exhausting despite its very name.

It has been quite a while since he’s succumbed to the silence with the Child and all. While he wished the kid would actually comply with his requests, Din has a preference for the cooing and squealing of a baby than the hum and buzz of his haven.

Perhaps it won’t last long—the Child will be returned to wherever he originated and the Girl will journey on after some time—but at least he can savour the atmosphere until then; anything ranging from the snarky remarks to the comfortable quiet in contrast to the loud, resonating one he’s been inflicted by all these years.

“I’ll leave you to eat,” Omera announces, “I’m sure your boy would like to see you when you’re done.”

Another nod on behalf of him, another burden on his pauldron from her; a fleeting touch of her hand but it’s cold and sharp and Din yearns for the Girl’s radiation to cleanse him of the hypothermia.

He sighs and makes his way to their hut.

Their quarters are overfamiliar. The littered blankets untouched, the way Din liked it, lasting evidence of what occurred. The flimsy dress she despised neglected and long forgotten, though it resurges the crisp memories regarding Din’s Honour; how he nonchalantly stripped himself of what he’s constructed himself around simply to feel a smidge of liberation with the Girl—to highlight their connections in the cracks of their implicit relationship.

To show he’s more than just a rusting Creed.

Din exhales through his filters and sinks to the cot’s mattress. It’s not nearly as comfortable with all the beskar on but it’s not as though he’ll be inside long.

“Oh yeah, you just relax there why don’t you?” The Girl grumbles from the doorway, balancing an assortment of bowls and plates in either hand and the crooks of her elbows—she would’ve made for a poor waitress in another life.

He makes no attempt to aid her. “That’s too much.”

“It’s not all for you. Other people eat, too, you know.”

Oh, he knows all too well. The sugary goodness of a thick syrup running down her fingers and onto his tongue never strays far from his mind.

She tries for a bend of her knees to ease the dishes onto a surface but they more or less topple out of her grip, scattering pieces of fried foods across the burnished wood. “Shit...ah, it’s just yours.”

“Funny.”

“I like to think so,” she cracks.

Din strains from his position to observe the variety of consumables she’d pinched from the community; bone broth, assorted krill, an unidentified pastry of some sort—Din crosses it off his list, far too dry looking for his taste—among snacking foods.

They’re not worthy of the title ‘appetising’ but Din’s acquainted with tasteless stock; he only ever eats it for the nutrients anyways.

She hoards a bowl of bone broth to her chest. “I’ll be outside. If you want seconds just call me, yeah?”

Leather wraps around her wrist before he properly registers her words. “No—you can stay. It’s not like I haven’t taken this off around you before.”

“I thought you might’ve wanted to eat in peace.”

Din exhales a laugh out of his nose. “A girl of your build should be smarter than that, no?”

It rises a simper out of her, a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head. Din retrieves the extended plate of krill prepared in a vast abundance of methods—fried, broiled, roasted, sauteed—he unenthusiastically considers a crustacean between two gloved digits.

Vibrant cobalt had grown to a dim grey underneath the golden breading, a fine sheet of oil coating leather skin and a drop of grease slipping down the curve of his thumb. Reluctance and dissatisfaction are apparent in his mannerisms and vocoder, emitting an exhaust laden sigh that crackles into the quiet lodge.

The mattress dips with her weight, the press of her back against his beskar. “Not one for krill?”

“I think I’ve had my fair dose,” Din broods.

“Still pent up about getting a little bit of water in your circuits?”

Another cheesy droid joke that pushes his eyes into the back of his skull but he lets it slide. Din’s famished. It’d been a while since he ate; well, not exactly but the Girl wasn’t much of a meal more than a treat. If he could draw out sustenance from her he’d never have to endure another stale dessert or salty meats from who knows where.

Their backs are pressed firmly together, practically leaning on each other for support, and Din doesn’t need to verify whether she’s looking away for him to unlatch his helmet. Its casual hiss signals for her to keep her eyes trained forwards and he lays the steel to rest beside him.

It’s the first time her eyes are open while the helmet is detached. Well, maybe not the first—he had lifted it the slightest back on Tatooine, in the cockpit while she busied herself with his Crest’s maintenance. The circumstances don’t much differ from now; both scenarios involve food of some sort and resolute trust.

Cobalt of the sweet dessert transferred to a chewy crustacean that’s comparable to grinding tar in his mouth, tough and fudgy but in all the worst ways. Din isn’t a selective person; he can consume the coarse flavourless product without a second’s worth of hesitance but he’s had the best of the best—jatnese be te jatnese, he’d said so himself—a gluttonous intake of the Girl’s taste and nothing will ever equate to that.

The mound of unchewable meat slips down his pipes, buttery and peppery but overall bland. Nutritional enough. He crams another cluster of the crescents into his gullet to appease his appetite.

The Girl sips on the pale cream broth behind him, head tilted against his as the liquid leaks from the carved bowl and between her lips. Din can’t imagine the taste is much better than the krill with the colours being so dull—as though they were eating the incarnation of unstimulating hues of greys and blacks.

“Do you want to try some?” she asks, extending the half-empty bowl to their side.

Din retrieves the grub with a low hum in his throat, uncertain, but ultimately decides it can’t hurt to give it a try. It’s obviously edible if it’s a Sorgan delicacy—how wrong he was. It’s saltier than the oceans with chunks in it; he doesn’t even want to think what they could be. He refrains from spitting the soup back into the bowl or onto the cot and feebly swallows the lukewarm puddle, a nubby leather wrist wiping the residue from his lips with disgust.

She bellows at his reaction, the back of her shoulders bouncing against his pauldrons as she struggles to contain herself.

The base of the bowl knocks against the closest surface available, a flimsy stool that accompanies the table, and he scowls with his arms crossed against the hump of his chest. “You’re wicked.”

“Seemed like you wanted a taste with the way you were looking at me.” Din’s head slightly tilts as he watches from the corner of the visor. “I can feel your eyes. Not sure how you ever catch bounties when all you do is stare.”

Bounties are intimidated by my staring, they’re smart, he wants to retort but saying bounties and smart in the same sentence is comical.

Appetite long gone, by consequence of broth that would serve a better purpose as blurrg feed, Din clips the rim of his beskar between two fingers and considers it among his lap. There’s no intent to lift it up and over his face. No intent to distance himself from the Girl just yet. It gawks at him; captivating in its own methods but still so ransacked of life. The black void of his false eyes darker than that of Space’s vacuum.

Din’s eyes ricochet from the slit to the back of the Girl’s head like a blaster bolt within a room of reflective duralloy and nowhere to go; pondering the morals of his very character as he aligns the crown of her head with the vacancy in his clutch.

She noticeably stiffens as his helmet envelopes her, the rim slack around her neck with nothing to latch onto. Fingers dismiss the fried krill she’s been feasting on and orbits the surface; Din amicably smacks them away and lays his hands on her shoulders to loosen the knots.

“Greasy,” he simply explains his reaction.

One would think such a valuable material as beskar could be cleaned with a small wipe of a damp cloth. One would be wrong. It’s a nuisance to maintain its condition and he’d been lagging behind with its upkeep as of recent—he couldn’t afford greasy fingerprints.

Soft vocals are replaced with a crunchy crackle, an unnatural graininess as if she digested a bucket’s worth of Arvala-7 terrain; sand and grit forming lumps in her ducts and spluttering into the internals of beskar, “What are you doing?”

His fingers rub into the base of her neck, the deepness of his unaffected tone eliciting a hum within the helm. “The rifle won’t be used to its full potential without the helmet.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not giving you the helmet. I just want to show you what it can do.”

“Is this...allowed?” She goes to scratch the back of her head but knocks against the steel and limply drops her hand. “It doesn’t feel like this is allowed. I’m sure there’s a rule in that big ol’ Manual for Mandalorians you’ve got hiding around.”

He scoffs. “Do you want to see it or not?”

It dips to a dainty nod.

“Gods, this is heavy. Don’t you get a sore neck?”

Din neglects her questioning and extends his vambrace before her, his other arm reaching around to point at the buttons—effectively sandwiching her between his gauntlets—and his finger focuses on one in particular. It’s a small circular button, a clone to all the others, but more weathered from the abrasive leather. “Click this,” he instructs.

She complies, her digit dainty beside the stocky hide, helmet perking up once the thermal activates and submerging her vision in cool hues of blues. Her curiosity matches that of the Child’s as she twists and turns her head side to side, surely discovering the warm tones of candlelight and heat signals radiating from their hands before her.

“Wait a damn minute—” The Girl aims to toss a suspectful glare in his direction but quickly dismisses the desire, his exposure never far from the forefront of her mind, “you cheating-”

“I told you, Cyar’ika,” Din coos against the side of the helmet. “Not a gentleman.”

“I...I demand a rematch.”

Din chuckles into her, the leaps of his laughter ricocheting against her back but he pays her decree no attention. There’s no way she’d reign successfully in a no holds barred condition, not when his visor contributes half of the rifle's potential of force. Then again, if things were to pan out the same way it did earlier perhaps he’ll take her up on it—just for fun.

“Good for calculating how many threats there are--”

“Yeah, that, or being a little-”

“Next,” he navigates her hand to a second preset.

The thermal deactivates with one push and the sonic detectors engage with another.

It must be disorienting for her to focus on all the surrounding sounds of the settlement, the steel swallowing her senses, Din remembers the first time he donned a helmet—one much smaller and lighter than his current but all the same in terms of abilities and desensitising him from the outside world. Pair that with the power to be able to hear a whisper from over a hundred metres away, it can turn situations sticky and muddled if not appropriately centred.

“What do you hear?”

She’s mute and motionless, suspended in the limbo of space and time.

Din presses a kiss to the nape of her neck in an attempt to declutter her mind but it does very little; sharp claws of concern grasping at the back of his head and scampering upwards until the pressure against his temples is unbearable and it finally conquers him.

He shouldn’t have imposed this on her. He of all people should’ve known better. It takes years of getting accustomed to it.

“Hey. Hey, okay, no more.”

It’s eased up halfway before she interrupts and pulls it back down. “I’m fine. Just trying to focus. There are too many conversations, it’s distracting.” She chuckles. “Good thing I didn’t have it this morning. You snore, you know. Would’ve rendered me deaf.”

Din grumbles beneath his breath—something even the detectors can’t distinguish with the crackles in his vocal cords—and sharply flicks the back of the steel with his forefinger, grinning when she compresses a hand against the side where her ear resides.

“Ow,” she whines. “Okay, okay, turn it off. I’m sick of hearing you breathe down my neck.”

It disables with a final push of his vambrace.

The Girl explores the surface of the beskar with either hand and Din subconsciously annotates how dilatory she is with it—her fingers dipping from the cheek ridges to the face and around the ear caps before resting against the sealed cooling vents at the back—solely dedicating the time to recognise the only face she can put a name to but from his perspective.

Combine that with being endowed with the pleasure of seeing her in his shirt and helmet provokes Din’s heart to stammer against the bones, his jaw to tighten and he seizes the beskar by the edge and twists it to face him. He enables virtually no time for her to comprehend what he’s planning and it’s undetermined whether she managed to shut her eyes before his face is frontwards, but he trusts they are.

It’s outlandish to gaze into the cold dark visor when there’s another lifeform beneath it. Sure, he’s encountered incalculable Mandalorians in his lifetime but never has anybody worn his helmet—it’s a fragment of his Creed, of Him, and he’d rather fall victim to a sarlacc and endure the agony of being digested for millennia than to witness another being wield his persona.

Omitting the Girl from the equation, naturally.

She could carve out his heart with his vibro-knife and he wouldn’t complain one bit. It’s incomprehensible what she does to him. Just a touch of her finger on his face and he’s primed to brandish a blaster and confront her greatest enemy even if he’s incapable of victory.

Nonetheless, it astonishes him how she can gaze into the nullity of a slit and not request—demand—for more. She’s more than deserving of it and yet she doesn’t wish for it.

Perhaps she sees a mirrored image of what’s before him. Not a slab of shiny steel nor a devout Creed but merely the living tissue, the pumping blood, beneath it.

Din trails a digit along the steel jawline and lifts as he reaches the transparisteel visor connecting to the curve at the bottom. It lifts only a little, just enough for her lips and the point of her nose to peek beneath. The soft hills separate instinctively and he wastes no time slotting his own in their place, cupping the back of her neck with his free hand to drag her in close.

Those damned words. They utterly refuse to vacate his mind—duplicating by the dozen and submerging his thoughts and sensations with foreign statements. It links together into a lengthy chain made of high-grade alloy, fortified greater than freshly smelted beskar, and packages his consciousness into overburdened disarray.

Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.

Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum. Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.

Din needs her to know; needs her to hear those words tumble out of his vocal cords.

He needs to enunciate them—to listen to himself admit the feelings hidden within him aren't pseudo.

But he can’t; his lips cease their endeavours against hers yet he still can’t discover the courage to say three little fucking words. Thank the stars he disabled the sonic detectors because he wouldn’t be able to take the speculative questioning upon hearing the thumping in his chest, deep and muffled pulses of his heart struggling to compete with his nerves.

“Din,” she whispers. “You’re overthinking again, aren’t you?”

“No…”

“Come on, you need to get some fresh air. Let’s go see the kid.”

No, not yet, he thinks. Please, just a little while longer.

She hoists the beskar from her head slowly, inches of her impeccable face unmasking at a time. He cups her jaw and tilts her head to peck at her chin, her cheeks, and forehead as the helmet is relieved from each section.

Din records the movement of flesh underneath his lips as she smiles against his intimacy and it urges something intense and unexplored in his centre, his core, and the helmet bounces off the cot and crashes to the floor below with a small push of his three fingers; his lips refusing to curb their hunger for cushiony skin and his weight slowly applies against her until she inclines onto her back with him above.

“Din.”

“Mmm,” he hums, leathers stroking the strands of hair out of her face before reconnecting his lips to her cheekbones.

“We—we can’t. The kid is waiting for you.” Her actions overpower her words; a hand slides down his cape feebly, her fingers catching on the folds to thrust him closer.

“You’re addictive.”

“Not so bad yourself.”

Din emits a gravelly groan and slides a knee between her legs, the edge of his cuisse brushing against the peak of her groin. “Can I have a taste, Cyar—sweetheart, please?”

They don’t have the privilege of time on their side, Din’s more than aware of this fact and yet he can’t stop the glove from slithering down her neck and the curve of her chest to idle at the hem of her pants.

“You’re insatiable,” she says, fingers firmly rooted within the scratchy cloak.

She’s hitting the nail on the head with that proclamation; he’s utterly unsated and deprived of her sweetness. Din requires it like sustenance—like medicine.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Never.”

The aftertaste of her slick is on his tongue and he needs more. He wants to binge on her for eternity and, maybe, then he’ll finally be content; a belly full of her translucent flavours, the gums of his throat and mouth coated in the thickness to the brink of suffocation.

Din’s fingers toy with her buckle loosely, queuing for approval.

“Can’t,” she whines pitifully. “We’ve already made our presence known. They’ll be expecting us out there. Besides, you should spend time with the kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No?”

She grins. “Well—maybe back to the Crest. Has that offer got an expiry date?”

“Offer?”

“Already forgotten, huh? If I remember correctly, you said you’ll fuck me in your bunk whenever I want.” She mimics his words, “Name the time.”

Shit—it wasn’t just pillow-talk.

“Why didn’t you mention it while we were there?”

“Oh no, Din.” He’s dragged inwards, his lips brushing the tip of her ear as she diabolically whispers into his, “I got something special planned for that.”

A chill runs beneath his beskar, brandishing his flesh with a bumpiness the dunes of Tatooine would envy. There are endless possibilities for what she’s got in mind but Din’s been excluded from her brainstorming. It doesn’t cease his imagination to run wild with disgusting thoughts of deviancy; ones involving her bent over on that shitty cot of his, the familiar manacles capturing her wrists, shameful noises slipping past those beautiful lips as he takes her night long and into the rise of the sun.

It had to be bigger than that. Don’t get him wrong, he wants to give her all of that, badly, but she could’ve done it earlier. They would’ve had the equipment on hand, no preparation necessary. No, she’s suggesting something else. Something bigger.

But she won’t indicate anything further, won’t give him a little taste of what’s to come, and cruelly urges him back onto his feet to recollect his helmet with a heavy hand.

She observes him upon hearing the click of his locking system inside the helm, either hand on his hip with an inclined head that just reads don’t leave me hanging.

“Suspense makes it all that much better,” she sweetly says.

He’s beginning to realise that sweetness is all exterior, a disguise for all the hot and heaviness she possesses within. A decoy that he’s fallen victim to. He’s like that of a fish foolishly nipping at a too good to be true enticement, the Girl laying in wait for him to latch on and reel him into his doom.

But she’s inexperienced. Unsuspecting of his abilities. Oblivious to his attachment to her lure.

She’s sweet but she’s also sour.

Salty in the heat of the moment.

Bitter in times of hurt.

Saliva constructed of pure savoury goodness.

She’s got all the nourishments he requires and there’s an endless supply; flavours he can taste straight from the source.

So, one can assume the agony, the clenched fists in his gloves, as they saunter through the chatty crowd, her hips swaying ahead of him a little too provocatively. She knows what she does to him, he’s demonstrated his need in various positions, and she’ll go above and beyond to find one way or another to fuck with him—to poke and prod to test his self-control before he drags her behind a hut and fucks her against the walls, whether it was outside or not he couldn’t care.

To fuse her fingers with the puppet strings attached to his pauldrons.

“This should be quiet enough,” she announces and throws herself onto the handcrafted bench, tossing a leg over the other and patting the empty space beside her. “I know you like quiet.”

Din plops down with the Child on his lap, a slothful hand massaging the green wrinkles at the summit of his head. There’s a handful of farmers in their own respective groups scattered around them, producing enough noise that allows thoughts to wander without concerning themselves with maintaining a conversation.

Sorgan’s moons are at their pinnacles, puffy grey plumes illuminated into off-whites from their luminescence. One sphere perches in the vast black, performing as a repellent to the swarms of haze, while the other is blinded by the thickness of the clouds; a circular radiance perceived through the fluffiness the only indication the planet possessed more than one.

A vague shadow surmounts the moon’s edge, the dawdling process of the eclipse having commenced but it’ll be quite some time before anything worthwhile transpires—Din sullenly groans at the missed opportunity to give her his tongue back on the cot. It’s not as though they were missing out on anything. It would’ve only taken him a couple of minutes to work her up to the brink, a couple more to—

“I never asked,” she says. “What’s the deal with you and the kid?”

“What do you mean?”

She shifts in search of a comfortable position among the splinters. “He’s a bounty and you’re a bounty hunter; please don’t make me explain further.”

Din sighs and swipes a finger across the leafy brim of his ear, provoking a gentle burble into the Crest’s gear knob. “I handed him over but they were doing experiments on him and I couldn’t leave him there. Things didn’t go to plan--”

“Because you don’t plan.”

“--and there was a shootout with the Guild.”

“So,” She ponders, “you’ve got a bounty of your own now.”

He scoffs. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Too late.”

Din entertains her amusement with a quiet huff of air through his filters, soft enough for her to register it’s not an annoyance. The subject of the Guild raises some questions he’s not wanting to voice—they’ll only ruin the mood and he doesn’t want to admit defeat—but he’s to play the hand he’s been dealt.

“We need to discuss where we’re heading next,” he says.

“So soon? It’s only been two days.”

“Should consider ourselves lucky we’ve managed to survive this long here. There could be hunters stationed from the last time I was here.”

“Right—and the Crest would’ve got their attention,” she agrees. “Okay. Where are you thinking?”

Somewhere reclusive. An isolated backwater planet much like Sorgan but one where nobody knows their names or reputation. Although discovering a planet with the aforementioned qualities is easier said than done, especially with the threats of audacious bounty hunters on their thrusters. Idling in space until they stumble across a safe-enough planet—or if pirates picked them off—was always an option.

Din sighs.

The Girl was right; he doesn’t plan. He’d just been traversing from parsec to parsec all his life, picking up commissions for fuel and a bite to eat, partaking in activities that simply aided his survival. Now with the Child, he’s expected to have a procedure—to shield him from the dangers Din automatically puts him in upon rescuing him from the client. But he doesn’t have the scheme to save their lives, literally.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Nothing wrong with not knowing. With my skills behind a rifle and your—uh… Point is, we’ll figure it out. Lighten up a little, you’ll wrinkle that pretty face of yours.”

With a roll of his eyes behind the visor, he settles for her words of reassurance and heeds her suggestion to relax his forehead.

“Mandalorian—Mando,” Omera’s abrupt panic-stricken tone is plenty for both of them to straighten their posture and bury the quips. Din twists his helmet to where she stands behind him, noting the fumbling hands before her lap, the twitch in her eyebrow ridges.

Din deposits the Child into the Girl’s arms and stands. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Caben and Stoke...they—they weren’t with you?”

“No, they never returned for us.”

The Girl interjects, “We assumed they headed back before us.”

“No, no. Nobody has seen them.”

Shit—he should’ve realised something was wrong when they failed to show up. Raiders? There was no sign of them on that trail—but Din wasn’t exactly in the right mindset, being too haunted by the Girl’s temptations.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you...at an unfortunate time, no less, but-”

“I’ll go trace their route and see if I pick anything up,” Din says.

“Thank you, thank you.” Omera clasps his hands in gratitude, her thumbs brushing along the stitching.

“It’s not a problem. If I don’t come across them on the trail, I’ll question the neighbouring settlement. They should have some information.”

“I’m coming with you,” the Girl pipes up.

“No. Stay with the kid here.”

She shoots him a curved eyebrow and places a hand on her hip, her other cradling the Child into her side. “I hardly think watching the moon is of importance right now. I won’t let you go out there alone and it’ll be quicker if there’s two of us looking.”

“I don’t want-”

“Don’t want, what, to drag me into this? I think we’re far past all that, no?”

Din sighs. “Fine.”

No use arguing with someone so cocksure like her. Besides, when push comes to shove she’ll be resourceful with the rifle.

The Child isn’t happy at the circumstances, to say the least. He finally finds serenity wrapped in cold beskar edges and has been stripped away so soon—he glares at his guardian in the warmth of poncho-clad arms while Din and the Girl retreat into the woods once more. He’ll make it up to the kid when he gets back; Din’s certain he’ll face the wrath of a foot-long baby if he doesn’t.

“I think you should take the rifle. Just in case.”

“No. You need something to protect yourself.” Din brushes her suggestion off and activates the thermals on his vambrace.

“I’ve got my blaster.”

“That’s not enough. Here, hold it up. Press that. Be careful with the bayonet.”

She glances at him with questioning eyes and rests the rifle against her hip. “What’d you do?”

“It’ll administer electricity to anybody who touches it. There're only so many cartridges—” Din presents a cluster of steel cylinders in his glove and she shoves them in a pocket in her pants, “Pair your blaster with the bayonet and use the ammunition sparingly.”

“You think we’ll need them?”

“Just be prepared.”

They fall into a sharply cold silence, Din utilising his sonic detectors as they trudge through the bush to discern any commotion that may be of use. The Girl retains a pace a few steps behind his own, purposefully slotting her boots into his prints to avoid a stray twig snap here or a tumble there. It’s wordlessly recognised if there are raiders in these parts it’s best not to disclose their presence, especially not when there’s two of them. It supplies them with a lead on their opponent, at least until they identify how many there are.

The thermals are nothing but counterproductive. If they had passed through recently the track would surely be lit in fire-orange but it’s all blues and greys; Din thumbs the button to restore his vision, relieving the burden of having to focus on where he steps and clicks another for his sonic detectors. His vambrace was really getting put to the test today.

“Where——or….hurt you.”

Din freezes, the Girl sharp in his guide, and adjusts his helmet to pinpoint the muffling in his sensors. It’s quiet. Shallow. It could be flooded with a singular flask of water.

“Does….Child,” It’s speech tears.

East, about ninety metres out. The forest is thickened around these parts—too dense to trace any campfires or shadows—but there’s somebody there and they’re referencing a child; there’s not a doubt in his mind it’s The Child.

They’re not raiders. They’re not people who’ll go down without a fight.

“Guild members,” Din slips.

“Any clue how many?”

He hones in on the vocals, isolating each individual muffle or change of tone that could indicate there’s more than just the one. Even if he’s wrong, it’s best to be over-prepared. “Two. No, wait...three. I think.” She quietly mulls the possibility over, the strap of the rifle flinging over her shoulder as she makes way inwards. Din seizes her wrist and suspends her movements. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll get the high ground and see if I can spot Caben and Stoke. There’s no point starting something if they’re not there.”

“High ground?” Din questions.

She grins and breaks his grasp. “How’d you think I got those targets up in the trees?”

The Girl cracks her knuckles, the clicks and pops of joints puncturing his eardrums through the detectors like a bubble underneath a needlepoint. Either of her hands sprawls on the sides of a trunk, fingers dig into the bark for traction, and she hoists her feet up—she’s like the Crest in its ascent, agile and coordinated as she frog-kicks herself up into the branches.

Din’s eyebrows raise in dismay; he didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t that.

The potential one possesses outside a suit of steel is still an astonishing concept to Din even after all these years of branding himself to the insides of his helmet. There’s an endless list of skills he’ll never be able to master—untapped aptitudes that have greyed into a colourless nothing.

Steel platings obstruct his movements, the helmet an obstacle to his sensations; his birthrights.

Brittle tree arms creak and whine above him, the leaves rustling as she navigates the long-arm’s lens to her sight. He’ll be left in amazement if she can distinguish the bodies from the swaying of blunted foliage. The land is too compact with trunks reaching the clouds, even with the magnified scope it’ll be near impossible to identify how many there are or whether the missing duo is being held captive.

His thermals would come in handy right about now for her; with her height advantage and his helmet, she’d assuredly recognise their precise positioning. Hell, she’d be an unstoppable force—a marksman even the greatest of bounty hunters would shake in their armour witnessing.

The Girl’s low tone sails through the treetops, gliding with the bitter night edge, and into his sonic detectors, “I see them—they’ve got them in the middle of the camp. Minimum six hostiles. All equipped with blasters. I can take two of them out from here.”

Well, he’s definitely left in amazement.

That’ll leave him with the remaining four, so long as there’s not more concealed within the shadows.

A lack of communication between them serves as nothing but an impediment, but time isn’t on their side and Din can’t waste any more of it to collect the comm units from the Crest. Weapons locker, second drawer, to the left.

If only he had thought of it earlier.

Din’s helmet inclines skywards, his visor scaling in and outlining her frame.

They’ve got each other's credibility and that, strictly, is sufficient for Din to jump into action; cutting through the undergrowth and stealthing between pillars of wood, each succeeding stride premeditated.

His scanners crackle against his ears, a gruff voice laced with croaks and coughs slipping through the beskar, “Where is he? Look at me! You’ll tell me where he is, boy, otherwise I’ll gut you right here. Perhaps watching you die will encourage your friend to speak, yeah?”

Caben and Stoke quake ahead of the lambent light illuminating their features; previously happy expressions replaced with terror, identical to when the AT-ST had broken through a dozen sturdy trees to gaze upon its victims with hollow eyes.

A burly Weequay paces before them, twin thumbs hooked on the hoops of his trousers in an attempt to appear stockier.

Fuckin’ Weequays.

Din’s blaster will come up short in a confrontation with that layered flesh of his and, with the lack of communication between them, he can’t depend on the Girl on being able to snipe him—he may not be one of the two she can manage. Another Guild member sits off to the side of the farmers, intimidatingly polishing a small vibro-knife in his fist. The remaining four she spoke of patrol their encampment; all either human or made with skin he can puncture.

It won’t be easy and the Weequay has the advantage; Din will need to take him out first and foremost.

He’ll put his faith in the Girl’s abilities that she can ward off the other’s long enough.

Din shovels a cluster of rocks into his hand and hurls them overhead and into the copse recesses, the rustling effectively tearing the hunters’ focus from their posts—Din springs to action and leaps from behind the greenery boscage, blaster pistol in his dominant hand and vibro-knife in the other.

The Weequay’s back faces Din and he exploits the factor, pouncing like a predatory loth-cat onto him and slicing a gash into the leathery hide of his neck. It does minimal damage, a small notch for a dribble of blood to meet with the neck of his shirt. He’s thrown off of the hunter and stumbles backwards into a tree, grunting and raising his blaster outwards; the trigger snaps against the alloy hold, a burning beam of cherry drilling into a fleshy build. It drops to the dirt, blaster bouncing astray.

“Mandalorian!” Caben exclaims into his detectors.

Din doesn’t reply nor impart his eyes to analyse their condition - they’re alive and that’s all that mattered while in the midst of battle.

The Weequay restores his attention to his surroundings, scowling at the Mandalorian before him and dipping calloused fingers into the wound of his neck. He snarls at the amassed blood on his tips. “You’ll pay for that, Mando, just as soon as you tell me where the bounty is.”

Child--bounty.

Any doubt that he had about them being after the kid is shattered, obliterated entirely.

Din’s vibro-knife pulses in his fist, his finger planted against the trigger in his other. The four scrawnier minions gather around his position against the tree, brandishing arrogant smirks as they languidly handle their blasters.

“I said-” The Weequay spits between his boots. “-tell me where the bounty is. You may have taken one of us but there are plenty more. There’s only one of you—your friends here aren’t much fighters.”

One. He scoffs.

A henchman, typically made of flesh and bones and blood, pops beside the Weequay; organic matter dissolving to flaky dust onto the forest floor. It leaves nothing behind that proves it was once a humanoid, barring the hunter’s blaster which plummets to the soil and knocks against the boot of his partner.

“What the pfassk!” One of them cries.

His detectors pick up the familiar whistle of a rifle pellet.

The Weequay raids his surroundings, concluding Din’s ally to be the in the only place that’d see them from this distance: “In the trees! Go!”

The hunters follow their orders but abruptly stop; a second member obliterating the moment his boot sole leaves the ground. Particles scatter with the breeze through the leafy canopies. They lie in wait, suspecting of another incoming granule but Din knows it won’t come—they’re well out of her sight.

But he can’t let them head in her direction; Din flicks the point of his blade between two fingers and slings the knife through the air and into the Weequay’s gullet once more—deeper and thrumming out splotches of plasma, an unnerving outcome of the intensity the knife is throbbing.

He staggers backwards in shock but Din focuses on the others, administering two perfectly aligned bolts into either of their unsuspecting chests; they nosedive into snapped twigs and gravel where sticky liquid accumulates underneath their bodies.

One to go.

Din didn’t act in accordance with his plan—the Weequay winding up as the last he’s to tend to—but this works, too.

The blade is ripped from his gullet, a spurt of hot blood following its dislodging, and the Weequay balefully boasts the dagger in his clutch. “Come now, Mandalorian. It’s going to take more than that,” he snarls.

He scoffs to himself in response and edges closer to one of the hunters drift melee weapons, footsteps precariously slow to ensure he doesn’t allude to his intentions—the bushes swish, a deep crack of a stick, and they freeze as one.

Visor and darkened pools of black sharpen against the lightless forest, apparently having forgotten about each other’s threat to concentrate on their snooping bystander.

The Girl steps out from the dusk, amban rifle hoisted forehead level with the Weequay. She stands stout on her feet, the wooden stock butting into her shoulder, eyes perfectly trained on her target before her. She doesn’t shoot, she won’t without his expressed permission.

The hunter recognises defeat and tosses the Mandalorian’s vibro-knife before his boots.

Din decompresses somewhat, allowing a sigh to flee from his filters and swoops up the knife and creeps past the defeated frame to shred through the rope bindings around Caben and Stoke’s wrists. “Thank—thank you,” Caben hisses and rubs the rash they’ve left in their wake.

Stoke imparts a gratified nod and smoothes out his clothing. “We’re sorry. They ambushed us on our way back---wanted to use us as leverage to draw you out. We’re just glad they didn’t track us back to the settlement.”

“Are you okay?” Din asks and quickly glances over their appearance. Some creased clothing and maturing bruises but for the most part untouched - no blood, no wounds.

They nod their heads in unison.

“He’s--” Caben glares at his captor warily. “He’s after the kid—your kid.”

Din suspected as much. “We’ll deal with him. Where’s the speeder?”

“Destroyed!”

He sighs and contemplates his options as if he had any. No speeder, no ride. “Follow the trail back to the village. We’ll be right behind you.”

They share a concerned look between each other but heed Din’s instructions, slipping past the growling figure and bounding through the bushland towards their escape route without glancing back.

“Quit wasting moonlight, boy. Get your hands dirty,” the Weequay sneers.

Judging by the bravado performance he puts on, he reckons he won’t suffer at the hands of an irritated Mandalorian tonight—he couldn’t be more incorrect even if he were to claim Din was of another species underneath his armour. A nettlesome Gungan. A hard-headed Klatoonian. An emotionless droid. He’s heard it all and they’re all closer to being more correct than he assumes of his safety.

There could be a message to send; violate every bone in his body to signify not to challenge the wrath of a well-equipped storm.

He’ll be in pain, Din’s sure of it, only, it’s undecided to what extent.

The Weequay grins, a sharp menacing clenched-teeth smile that puts Din back in his place, a guffaw that transmits a surge of electricity down the bumps of his spine; sounds of self-assuredness he shouldn’t possess in his perspective, unless...

No—he’s laughing at their idiocy. He’s pending for the upper hand.

Din spins on the heels of his boots, blaster pistol scanning the thicket. There’s more. There’s fucking more of the bastards and they’re smart about it; they laid in wait and let Din kill their teammates, let Din think he had the advantage, and only to fucking swoop in once they’ve noted all of his abilities—his sonic detectors. They’re too quiet for him to sense.

He thumbs his vambrace to activate his thermal but he doesn’t get the opportunity before he’s kicked in the back, staggering a few steps before crashing to the ground in a heap of steel. Grunting and groaning, he surveys behind him for the abruptness. The Girl is preoccupied in a feud of her own with three ambushers, applying his previously described strategy of paralysing with the bayonet before finishing them with her pistol.

She’s tossed around a bit; slammed into the trunks of trees and thrown onto the ground but she recovers and snaps the trigger of her sidearm with such ease. She’s capable, she’ll be fine.

Din needs to focus on this fucker—he needs to kill the scumbag.

Who knows how many of these guys there are. They literally came out of the fucking woodworks; the Girl wasn’t the only one who thought of taking the high ground and with it being so dark out Din hadn’t even thought to assess the treetops.

But they still didn’t know the extent of his capabilities. The hidden gems implanted in his vambraces. They weren’t just for show, after all.

The lurkers are dismissed for the time being—they’re distant, patient until he makes a miscalculation, and he can work with that—his attention focuses on the leathery neck oozing taunting blood. Din’s fingers curl around the vibrating hilt of his blade and lunges while the Weequay is empty-handed, delivering another slash across an arm this time.

It’s too protective, too tough for him to pierce and really leave some damage.

If Din can get one good stab in his throat, he could fucking skin him alive.

But he’s being surrounded. Hunters making their debut from behind bushes and circling him as if he were a fire in the midst of a snowstorm. It just doesn’t end; this was supposed to be a calming few days away from combat and here they were. Din anticipated this happening—tranquillity scarcely presenting itself to him—but he didn’t expect it so soon. The last he was on this planet, he’d been endowed with a few weeks at the least.

A shrill scream erupts, resonating through the forest and waking the creatures dormant in their hides, but it’s so much louder within his helmet on the account of his detectors. His ears pulse with frigid blood. His windpipe snaps closed, lungs thumping against his ribs.

He doesn’t want to look, he doesn’t. But he needs to - needs to reassure himself that it wasn't the shriek of a girl who’d just obtained something severe, something that makes her screams force time to fall dead.

It’s blurry and hazy, his cloddish eyes simply refusing to cooperate, like observing the scene unfold through a brimming glass of steaming caf. Din manages to discern a pillar, mobile with a rifle in its arms, but it’s not the Girl. Din’s learnt her figure greater than the Creed he wears. He’s felt all of its curves and bumps underneath his callouses. He’s dedicated the inches of his tongue to its sweat.

Din could sculpt her physique out of a slab of concrete with nothing but his fingernails.

That pillar isn’t the Girl—so why does it have her rifle?

Eyes stoop lower, the haze clearing and the Girl becoming so clear-cut it aches his retinas. She’s on the ground—the dirty fucking ground—being suppressed with a boot on her midsection; her hands claw at what little shin she can reach but her efforts are depleted, slowed and weak.

The knife thrums intensively and numbs the tips of his fingers, complementing the tingling billowing through his veins, his organs, wrapping around his bones and urging his legs towards her but a hunter steps before him to block his view.

His heart stutters inside his ribs. Stopping and starting. Leaping and dropping.

Pull your head in and kill these assholes, Din demands himself the willpower to snap his scrutiny around the four hunters caging him in a circle. He’s not in the mood to entertain their wishes for a brawl and triggers the flamethrower in his gauntlet, swirling on his feet to enkindle them with orange heat that’ll leave a mark if not end them.

Clothes of two of them ignite, hastily engulfing their frames and biting its brand into their flesh.

Din relishes in their screams, their desperate tries to distinguish the unforgiving flames, and, in his foolish stupor, he’s forced onto the ground—two thickset weights on either of his arms, the front of his helmet slamming against the dirt and knocking against his nose with a vengeance.

He struggles underneath their grip but hardly moves an inch.

The Girl whimpers, faint but oh-so lively with his detectors. Din’s helmet scrapes across the ground as he cranes his neck to peer at her—the hand that’d been working at a shin now flat against the ground, her writhing the only indication she’s still conscious.

Din wants to look away, wants to shut off his sonic detectors and close his eyes.

It hurts to look at her; that pain he’d receive the day after a tussle with a high-end bounty but intensified by a dozen and stripping away at his internal organs as opposed to muscle tissue.

She’s being brutalised. A boot on her abdominals milking her of pained mewling.

“You’re impudent, Mandalorian,” the Weequay gurgles. “Should teach you some manners. Oi, bring her ‘ere.”

Din’s muscles tense. No armour can conceal the visible discomfort those words bring to him but he tries for his voice anyways, “What is it you want? To take me back to the Guild? I’ll go--leave her alone, she’s not a part of this.”

“She killed my men.” Leather-face huffs a breath. “Bring her ‘ere.”

The lackey complies, rugged gloves tearing into her skin and thrusting her in their general direction. Din scans her body for injuries, the spotlight of his eyes staring at the dark vermillion patch seeping through the black of his shirt at her belly. He struggles for a breath. Struggles to swallow the rising liquids that burn the back of his throat. Struggles to not implode with cusses that’ll only edge their retaliation over the brink.

Fucking vermillion.

A colour that looked fantastic on his foes but so fucking unsettling on His Girl.

Her competitor wears the same colour as her, a circular bolt wound in his shoulder and it doesn’t take a genius to piece them together. She must’ve been fooled. She must’ve been attacked with the knife in his hand while tending to the other hunters that now lay dead among the bark.

She can’t stand upright without the arm fisting her shirt and she drops to her knees and successively her stomach before him. They’re both a quivering mess, though for wholly different circumstances, and Din can’t fucking take the look she gives him. So painful. So devoid of that sweetness.

“Sorry, Me’suum’ika,” she whispers.

She feels as though she failed him—that somehow her getting injured resulted in him immobile, anchored to the forest floors and staring at his companion face-to-face while she bleeds out unattended to. Not the fact he can’t control the emotions that overwhelm him. Not the fact that it’s his own incompetence.

“No—pretty girl, look at me. Look at me.” Din trashes his weight against their hold but the position is awkward and his legs are unable to administer any power into his core. He’s as hopeless as captured krill, simply flailing about in hopes it’ll get him somewhere.

The Weequay wipes blood from his neck and nudges a foot into her side, squirming it underneath her stomach and flipping her onto her back to expose that hellish colour tainting her midsection. It melts through the shirt and adheres the fabric against the invisible wound beneath; Din’s eyes refuse to cut away.

It’s painful. Identical to those atrocious holodramas that’d screen late at night in the sketchy areas of town—it’s a shootout of a mess and he just can’t look away.

“She’s dying,” the Weequay announces. “There ain’t no medicine out in these parts. She’ll be gone before you can even lift her off the ground.”

Din’s stunned into silence. What’s he to do? His Girl is an arms-length away from him, bleeding out and moaning in pain, and he can’t do so much as stroke the hair out of her face and reassure her that she’ll be okay.

The Weequay snatches her rifle from his men, twisting the framework in his arms and hovering the prongs directly over her forehead—barely an inch of space between beautiful soft skin and a fatally paralysing influx of electricity.

“Don’t,” Din warns, tone more emotional than he wants to display. “Touch her and I will never stop looking for you.”

“I can end it all for her right now. Turn her to dust. Take mercy on her. Look at her, she’s in agony.”

The Girl’s mouth opens and closes rhythmically, an arm strewn across her front to stop the gush of blood—it’s fucking bad. It worsens when she looks at him, the angle causing tension to find a path along her neck and down to her belly but she shuns the idea of glancing away. Din’s throat tightens.

“All you need to do is point me in the direction of the bounty.”

The fucking choobies on this guy.

“Get her assistance and we’ll talk,” he bluffs.

They’re not impressed by his demands, a singular knee from either of the hunters digging into his forearm. The vambraces support a majority of the weight but it’s still hefty, still——

Vambraces. He’s exhausted what little fuel remains for his flamethrowers but there are still a few tricks in wait up there—techniques that they’ll never anticipate.

Din strains his arm beneath the hunter, flicking his fist as best as he can manage for specks of bright blue to ignite within the cavities of his wrist. A handful of the explosive tips dispense into the still air above him. The birds sing their tune as they coordinate their attacks, dedicating themselves to targeting each individual quarry. One dives into the side of a hunter to Din’s left followed by another to his right, the muscles pinning him down becoming limp, the third impact into the chest of the Girl’s half-defeated foe.

They lay lifeless among the forest; scorch marks where they’d been touched with his beskar sparrows.

Two birds remain circling overhead.

Two?

One dips through the air targeting the Weequay like a missile with his name written on it but Din conducts a staredown with the last, his eyes swiftly tracing the projectile. It makes its move—identifying the bleeding woman coiled on the floor as a threat to his safety, but Din matches its tempo and hurtles himself atop of her body.

His weight stimulates a displeased groan from her throat.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says.

Din cages her head in with his arms and tucks her face into his cowl before caving in on himself, a poor attempt to cover every inch of soft flesh with reverberating beskar and it works.

He feels the menacing tink through his spine as it bounces off the steel and into a tree.

He peels himself from her, cherry liquid having been smeared across his beskar platings, and examines her condition—the shirt drags up and tracks the blood to her ribs, a wide three-inch chamber in her stomach that convulses with each unsteady exhale.

She grunts incoherently and latches her fingers onto the perimeter of his vambraces, beseeching eyes demolishing the resolve within him. “We’ll get you fixed up, all right?” Din examines the incision with trained eyes, plush grey-purple tissue beneath all the vermillion causing his heart to drop.

It’s not that she was trying to stop the bleeding; she’s trying to prevent her fucking intestines from spilling out.

They’re still tucked away inside, where they belong, but if she moves too much they’ll slip out with ease.

His glove compresses around the fabric, wringing out the garment of her insides. His helmet sharply tosses in the direction of a small explosion by his final whistling bird. Weequay remains upright. Din’s insides boil.

This fucker. This son of a bitch.

This is his fault.

His Girl lays beneath the stars, her essence draining from her disoriented body, all because a handful of good for nothing guild members needed to get their hands dirty for a lousy couple thousand credits.

Din’s knees crack as he raises to his feet, his shoulders contracting and fingers crunching around a blade’s hilt. She sputters for a breath, her lungs failing to cooperate with her demands; the distressing audio flourishes the growing rage within him and he scowls under his visor.

He wishes it wasn’t there—wishes he could pluck the damned steel from around his face to burn the Weequay’s leather hide with stewing caf; a tribute of his ire. To permit the one who attributed so much agony on his beloved to gaze into his eyes as he snips his vocal cords through the wound in his gullet; darkened eyes that haven’t touched daylight in decades to swallow him whole in their shadows.

Like a hibernating beast longing for its first meal upon awakening.

Din cocks his vambrace controls and fires out his grappling cord, cleanly winding it around the maimed throat of his opponent, jerking forwards and concurrently rushing into his physique so they tumble to the turf and fend off each other’s clamouring.

That message he had been planning on distributing for the galaxy’s eyes is burnt to ash, much like that of the Weequay’s comrades. Din simply wants to murder the bastard—murder. An act far worse than killing. Killing somebody had always implied his survival, a requirement to take matters into his own hands so that he returns to the Crest with a beating heart.

This wasn’t survival.

This is harsh tidal waves crashing against the foundations of a lighthouse.

This is the crack of lightning in the sky in an unstoppable catastrophe.

This is a whole new side to Din that he’s never witnessed before. Anger that drowns him from the inside out. A bitterness that prods his taste buds. Overheating caf scorching holes through the visor.

Din registers the whipcord and how his fingers hook around the thread.

Din registers the dire clawing at his helmet, the Weequay’s desperation urging him on.

But what Din can’t register is anything in between; his consciousness, usually so clouded with his own grievances, is utterly blank as if he were a wiped droid. All circuitry and no sentiments.

“Ash’amur,” Din spits and applies every pound in his build.

The whipcord is constructed of refined shivs that slice through the thick neck and into Din’s gloves, drawing blood from his palms and fingertips.

It’s the gurgling that does it for him. That vile bubbling of blood and saliva in his pipes as it rises upwards and leaks from clenched teeth down his frilled jowls. It’s too horrendous to sustain—Din cringes and seizes his vibro-knife, only to be punched in the side of his neck the moment he removes a hand from that rubbery fucking throat.

Din groans and slams the cord-entangled hand into his jaw, roughhousing his cranium into the dirt and presenting the vulnerable wound like the perfect target to practice his precision. The blade dips through the seams and excavates deeper through the muscles, intensifying his suffering and crackled spluttering. Coriaceous hands fumble at slippery beskar, mouth belching and spraying ruby drops across the surface of his Creed.

He digs his knee into the fleshy stomach beneath him, extracts his knife and plunges it directly through the crevice once more.

The appendages slink down his torso and thighs, accumulating in a motionless mound atop of twigs and stones—dull eyes rolling into the back of his skull.

That filthy noise pollution continues—fluids frothing and popping in the oceanic limbo of fucking somewhere. Din’s mouth reshapes into a sneer and he impales the blade through the muscle again and again, but the ruckus persists; striking his eardrums with more zeal than his efforts to numb it.

It’s too loud, too distracting, his senses simmering down to solely auditory perception as it spikes in volume. It needs to be stopped, he needs to vanquish it.

Din white-knuckles the rubber hilt and repeatedly thrusts the blade in and out of the wound with rigid movements, his chest heaving with floundering breaths as he falls into a mania of knife-plungings.

The Weequay is long-lifeless but its body rocks with each frantic stab, the blood squelching within the open wound, and Din doesn’t realise the chilling mass beneath him isn’t the cause of the carnage on his sonic detectors until it’s splintered and calling his name between cracks and coughs.

He visibly recoils.

That agonised suffocating on blood wasn’t him at all.

The Girl coughs again, liquid gargling in the deep of her throat.

Vibro-knife rips through the skin as he withdraws the blade and reverts back to the Girl’s aid, flipping her onto her side and smoothing out the hair. “Spit it up, Sweetheart,” he instructs. Vermillion amasses into a puddle beneath her mouth and floods the forest floors. “That’s it, keep going.”

She mewls, incapable of urging up the last swish of metallic liquid—Din intervenes and slips his hand free of his glove to wedge two fingers into her mouth, sweeping out the remainder of accrued blood and clearing her airways.

“Breathe in, there we go, and out.”

She exhales and nods to her wound. “Didn’t—didn’t see the knife in time. Thought I-I killed him.”

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay, all right?”

There’s disbelief written on her face, her eyebrows and teeth tense as she chews on soft gums, but she gives him the faintest of smiles and a nod that’s more to reassure him than it is her.

She’s lost too much blood and the volume is only ballooning with time. Din acts fast and slashes a load of his cloak with his knife, again, the woollen trimmings serving as a tourniquet around her midsection; it’s a shitty solution and functions more to irritate the wound than anything—the fibres of the garment eating away at the uncovered pulsing muscle—but it’s all he’s got. They’ve got nothing going for them here and the Crest had to be a decent twenty minute trek outwards on a good day which this is fucking not, maybe thirty with her condition.

It has to last until then. It needs to.

If he can make it to the Crest in time and without dumping her guts out she has a chance—a chance, not a high one, but a fucking chance—of survival but he needs to go now.

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

She’s light. All that weight sitting on his shoulders mere hours ago is replaced with a floatiness that makes her feel non-existent, like a figment of his imagination. She compresses against the beskar while he zips through the forest like the pellets she’d administered to the hunters; agile, coordinated, but his concentration bounces from his path to her face every few leaps.

“Hey! Hey. Open your eyes. Show me your pretty eyes, sweet girl...there they are. Keep them open for me.”

She strains, “Sorry.”

The syrupy goodness of her tone he starved for—binged on—has boiled over to a sticky mess that only drags him in closer at the touch of his heart. It coats the organ like tar and hardens until it struggles to continue beating, slinking downwards and catching along the walls of his lungs to harass his breathing.

Din chews on his lower lip, his teeth burrowing into the pillows with each step of his boots and shredding them with his enamel until he tastes his blood at the back of his tongue.

She hums and allows her head to roll into the soft bicep beside it, situating her lips against the flight suit to commit a forceless kiss onto the only part of him that she can reach.

“Guess - guess I won’t be taking you up on that offer.” She smiles and exhales a breath—a laugh but she’s too weak to give anything more.

“Don’t… Stop acting like you’re--”

“Dying?” She scoffs. “Well, I-I am, aren’t I?”

No, you can’t Din thinks, you can’t fucking leave me here.

The urge to vomit creeps upon him; disguises itself among the churning of his stomach and the soreness in his throat. Perhaps he would empty his stomach right here and now, discount the concealing of his identity before the Girl just to have the opportunity to bend over and heave until there’s nothing but saliva expelling, but he doesn’t have the luxury of slowing down. In fact, he needs to pick up his pace.

He does just that—albeit not by much but every difference counts.

Din risks another glimpse at her; skin all pale and face scrunched to not let the pain escape from her throat or eyes. She struggles to restrain herself from allowing her eyelids to snap close, to let that twinge in her retinas finally rest—because Din asked to see those pretty eyes and what Din asks, Din receives.

She takes notice of his lack of reassuring words, the shortage of comforting glances, the cold absence of her Mandalorian as he distances himself from his emotions.

“Me’suum’ika.”

He regrets teaching her that word. It sounds so pleasing coming from her vocals, all soft and bouncy like a mattress he wishes to rest on, but currently, it’s pained. It’s croaky and poorly pronounced. It sounds dreadful—tainting the beautiful memory of exchanging nicknames.

She tries for his attention again, “Me’suum’ika…”

No. No, no. Don’t say it. Do not fucking say it.

“Din.”

Their motion suspends as fast as a string snaps. Boots kick pebbles ahead of their path. They’re in a wide clearing, the firs having been repelled at least a twenty-metre radius around them. Quiet. Open. Peaceful.

Forearms quiver with her maturing weight, mysteriously so fucking heavy like he was supporting a thruster of his Crest. The helmet is inert on his shoulders, staring off into the distance where the path narrows between rows of evergreen. Fingers on her waist and the underside of her thigh tunnels into the flesh, his one ungloved hand perceiving her dwindling warmth.

Despair overcomes him like an explosion. No ticking to warn him, no preparation. Just one big fucking detonation that blasts against his calves, staggering his stance and plugging his lungs and helmet with clotted smoke particles that stings his eyes and throat. His tongue liquefies and slips down his pipe where he gags on his own muscle.

“Put me down.”

“No,” he chokes. “I can do it, we can make it. I just—”

His vocals fissure. They crack and pop and it’s not on the account of his vocoder.

The hook underneath the rim of his helmet drags it downwards and every bone in his body tenses at the sight. The sight of His Girl so emptied of expression that she can barely hold eye contact with his black slit. The colour deficiency in her face leaves a sharp taste of salt on his lips, streaks on his cheeks.

Din she says softly, no—not softly but so devoid of strength that it comes out oh-so weak and quiet, put me down Din.

His knees buckle. His arms quake. He sinks to the gravel brutally.

The stones poke and prod against his caps, sharp edges cutting through his garment but he’s completely numb except for his hands and face—enduring the physical touch of a falling star versus the tides that roll beneath the steel.

He doesn’t want to drop her.

He doesn’t want to let her touch the planet's crust because he knows she won’t get back up.

“Me’suum’ika.” She wipes at his armoured chest with her sleeve. “You’re all bloody.”

Din shakes, scrambling not to cave into the overwhelming itch in his forearms—to not permit her perfect figure to be tainted with more grime than it already has been subjected to—except she’s made of duracrete, weighing him down like an anchor on a flimsy rowboat and he can’t come out victorious.

It’s a sluggish descent, all slowed to record each millimetre until she’s flat on the ground. A vermillion reservoir spawns beneath her and trails to seep into his flight suit, his ungloved hand gently laying rest on her concealed wound—the cloak lumpy and outlining something soft, squishy.

He retracts his hand as if it were in the mouth of a rancor.

There’s an unspoken statement that floats above them, circles them and weighs their shoulders down.

She’s dying.

Din knows it. He can see it. He can see her life vacuuming out of a three-inch slit in her abdominals and there’s nothing he can do to delay the inevitable. There’s nothing he can do to save her life. He’s never felt more incompetent but there’s a flicker of hope that she’ll make it. That she’ll just reabsorb the sticky liquid and suture her tissue back together—denial. He’s in utter fucking denial.

“Come here,” she breathes, fingertips stroking the scruff of his jaw underneath his cowl.

His teeth clench. “No, Cyar’ika. Sweetheart, please. I can make it. Just hold on for a little longer.”

“I can’t.”

Eyelids pinch together behind the tint but it doesn’t stop the nipping at his retinas. Gloved hand remains at the rear of her skull, cushioning it from stray rubble but he clenches around air when she hoists herself onto her elbows—approaching him since he’s too shaken to go to her—and knocks against the front of his helmet.

Din forces his eyelids to peel back and it’s a huge mistake.

All he can see is the bottom of her chin, the curve of her jaw, but he’s clever enough to string the clues together; the diminishing heat of her breath warming him on the inside.

The gentle press of her lips against the summit of beskar.

She doesn’t allow him to think, to speak, she does it all for him. But they’re not words he wishes to hear. They’re not I’ll be okay or let’s go home.

“Look.” She nods upwards. “Me’suum’ika.”

She’s not referring to him, but the real moon; its silver-white glow snuffed out and overtaken with oranges as warm as the sunrises that’d rebound off his beskar as he strides back to the Crest, a bounty in hand and dark crescents forming underneath his eyes. Reds as deep as the blood besmirching her gorgeous soft skin.

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

Pretty?

It’s obscene. It’s nauseating. It’s not fucking pretty.

It’s mocking them—mirroring the scene laid underneath it reminding Din of his foolish missteps; she’s all red and bloody because of you; she looks like me because you allowed her to tag along.

Din wants to pilot his Crest all the way up there and put an end to the disrespectful satellite.

How dare it look so full, so complete, while he’s disintegrating before it.

The Girl said he was one and the same with the moon—she fucking said that—so how can it be so unaffected by the loss of life beneath it?

The loss of their Girl.

Din isn’t the moon. He’s the abyssal milky ways that attract eyes at first impression only to exploit that and drag unsuspecting victims into the black holes in the galactic centre of his chest—he’s destruction and chaos and unrelenting, his gravitational pull too great for escape and it only ever ends one way.

“Don’t...don’t look like that.”

“Like what?” he snaps.

It’s unintentional. An overload of emotions that’s been festering for too long and shows its ugly face in the form of a pitch curated with venom and tears.

“You can’t even see me.”

He’s going about it all wrong except he’s right—she can’t see him nor can she feel his warmth but that never intimidated her. She’d found ways to adapt; ways to read his mannerisms and speech rather than facial expressions.

Din has the opportunity to seize that from her; to show rather than tell.

Explosion smoke splutters from his lungs and his fingertips ache as they fumble for the switch beneath the rim, the Girl’s blood soiling his clothed throat and the insides of his Creed. It unclasps, detectors maximizing its violent hiss. He has it maybe below his lips before she pulls and pins it down.

“You’re not ready.”

Din’s heart fractures; the beskar steel of his organ—that’s made to withstand a lightsaber—cracking and creaking at her words.

“No! No, no. You told me you weren’t going anywhere—you said that. You said you would look if I wanted you to see and, Mesh’la, I want you to fucking see.” Din’s fingers tremble against the back of her hands. “Sweetheart, please look at me. Let me do this...I don’t have anything else to offer.”

“Din…no.”

“Let me,” he demands but all the authority is suppressed with a heartache that chews him up and spits him back out.

There’s an attempt to conceal the groans and hisses—an attempt—as she breathes in deep, gathering as much fresh oxygen in her lungs as possible.

Din tries for his helmet again, employing her hands beneath the rim to lift, but she overexerts herself to stop him; tight fingers latched on the insides, knuckles brushing against a sharp jawline and collecting the wetness that streams directly into her grasp.

“This is the Way,” she says it as a reminder and a reassurance that she’s content with never seeing his face because This is the Way, but it only frustrates him; boils the tears on his face until they convert into vapour that attacks his visor, leaving only the crust of salt residue on his cheeks.

You’re dying in my fucking arms he thinks the least I can do is desecrate my Creed.

It wouldn’t even be a desecration, not really. That would imply a disrespectful act was to occur and this was anything but. It’d be an honour, a homage of an unspoken pledge uttered in the dead of the Crest that outweighs the one he took among tinted visors and enkindled torches.

Din’s taut. Rigid muscle constructed of resolute alloy.

It’s not comfortable to rest among sharp edges that prod into her sore skin but rather than peel away—rather than let her breathe without the weight of steel to her side—Din cradles her against his chest, transferring the most minuscule amount of body heat that slips through his seams into her.

His hand is glazed with sticky deep vermillion that oozes from his fingertips, the gravity magnetising droplets onto the beautiful cheek it hovers above. Din wants to touch her, wants to feel the sun warm his flesh and blood, but he’s scared that if he touches her he’ll ruin her iconic softness with coarse fingers.

Blood smears onto her face and fills her sinuses with metallic scents to match those flavours in her mouth, her cheek gluing itself to his hand for him. She offers him a weak smile and entitles herself to a moment to browse his solid face, following the edges of his cheeks and swiping a thumb across the chin’s rim.

“Kiss me,” Din requests. “Just—just once.”

“Just once?”

He nods. “Just once. Do—can you manage one?”

The Girl chuffs out a laugh but cringes at the disturbance in her core. “I might have one in the bank for you.”

She elevates the beskar to the dip in his nose, scenic eyes securely held shut to preserve the Creed he’s already decided he would renounce for her if she would just let him. She deserves to see him, to gaze into his simmering caf. His thoughts range from disloyal alternatives that scour against the sincerity of his mind, wiping him clean of the trust he’s built around himself, all the way to options where he doesn’t go against her words—thoughts where the beskar lifts no higher than his mouth.

He condemns both of the options; either tricking her into seeing him for his own greediness or listening to her pleas despite how much it fucking hurts.

It’s not fair.

Din’s lips hurtle themselves into her; hungry and distraught, a false hope that if he engorges on her taste alone it’ll dispel those macabre thoughts from his consciousness. All he can fucking taste is salt and metal that’s been left in the rain. Her zest, her sweetness, the flavours that taste of her, is gone.

It doesn’t stop him.

He compiles it in the back of his throat simply to have something of her inside him. He’s indulged in her tasteless saliva, the saltiness of her sweat, the syrup of her slick, and now the rancid warmth of her blood.

He can’t hear. He can’t see. He can only feel and touch.

She’s hardly lukewarm, the sun’s rays disappearing over her horizon.

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.” Din brushes the hair out of her face. “Not a minute passes where you’re not in the forefront of my mind, Sweetheart. I’ve never encountered somebody so...extraordinary as you. I just need you to know before—before…”

“Din…” Her voice pops, tears of her own brewing.

“I love you,” he confesses, wet beads plummeting from his jawline to her neck. “You taught me how to love; you are my love and that will never change. I love you, ner Cyare—my beloved.”

Din recoils like he’s poked in the chest. The snuffling and mewling that erupts from her vocal cords upon his confession burn him—singe his lungs until they’re tender with each inhale. Nothing could have prepared him for this reaction; the unmasked sobs and vulnerability she’s never shown, not to this extent.

Fingers that dig into his flight suit feel like minuscule vibro-knifes in his biceps. Statements that gush out of her mouth and landslide his heart into submission—I love you, Din. I love you. I love you.

A star and a satellite falling in love; it’s an implausible outcome bound for disaster.

The sun manipulates its flames that allows colourful flowers to bloom or for lively forests to ignite. The moon pushes and pulls the tides fit for a gentle roll across a beach or to capsize rigs with a single flick.

The Sun and the Moon.

Fire and Water.

They’re polar opposites and, despite everything in the universe working against them, they’ve merged as one. Two equally fractured vases exchanging their missing pieces for compensation; a bright orange that’s warm to the touch in Din’s heart and within her lies a sparkly silver shard, a piece of his beskar residing within her to ward off onslaught.

He’s trawled inwards, naked cheek against naked cheek; scruff pricking against the bone of her jaw. Their tears fuse as one and wedge between their pressed flesh. She sobs against him, the hand on his helmet dipping underneath the silver to tangle her fingers within his knotty locks.

I’m fucking scared Din she breaks, I don’t want to go.

Din’s lip trembles. He can’t paralyse the pain that brings forth the donning of a brave face when confronted—that crinkle in her brow isn’t fooling anybody—but, perhaps, he can distract her. Draw her attention away from the gnawing of her intestines against scratchy wool.

“I know, Darling, I know.” Voice so soft and comforting it encourages her fraught muscles to slack and abandon her awareness. “Focus on me, okay?”

Her lips part when he nudges against them, accepting the tongue that requests entrance. It’s one final deliverance on both sides; a diversion for the Girl and a concluding act of love for Din—something to burn into his lips for decades to come, something to remind him he’s deserving of love.

He takes it slow for her sake, concerned that his usual greed would be too overstimulating. They’re lackadaisical; movements so weakened they’re hardly moving, simply holding each other as they quietly sob into the others mouth.

His scalp is heavy with her fingers and he synchronises his own to the nape of her neck, dirtying her pretty hair with sticky plasma. Pretty hair he’ll never be able to touch again—he’ll never be able to feel the strands between his knuckles as he tilts her head back and deepens their devout kisses. Kisses he’ll never be blessed with again.

Fuck.

He can’t stomach it, can’t bear the thought that he’s going to be abandoned all over again.

First, his parents and now his beloved girl—everybody he cared for is slipping through the gaps of his fingers.

It’s not even a gradual process; there’s not enough time for him to tell her how much he loves her, how he’ll never love another lifeform a fraction as much as he does her.

It’s as rapid as a waterfall, a suffocating surge that’s stern against his protests; his silent pleas of please don’t take her away from me.

Din feels the pulsing in her tongue fade; acknowledges how her fingers lax against his scalp, registers how he’s been deserted despite their tongues intertwined. Beskar slips down the slope of his dewy face as he recedes within himself.

The Girl is static, still, silent.

She’s not got a fingernail’s worth of oxygen in her lungs, not a twitch in her eyebrows.

Din’s beloved Girl is gone.

The sun’s solace warmth has been wiped from the face of the galaxy, leaving residual liquid flames that paste in thick layers to his armour. Only an odious sphere of blended carmines remains perched in the celestials—a blood-red lunar eclipse that penetrates through the solid of his heartplate and devours his internal organs.

Din remains idle for what feels like a century, his consciousness paralysed with a stab of her amban rifle’s bayonet. Deprived of sensation—drained of emotion and thoughts—the tears have stopped and left behind an ache beneath his eyes.

When he does eventually move it’s wearisome. The momentum of a dawdling crawl; a by-product of the corpse in his arms and bedrock in his boots.

It takes him longer than it should to reach the Crest.

It takes him longer than it should to lay her body to rest atop the hold’s crates.

Din tries to tell himself she looks peaceful, that she’s somewhere better, that's what people said to others in times of grief, but what could be better than roosting between his arms in the comfort of a secure body of beskar?

The Razor Crest’s lethargic humdrum probes his sockets, the absence of a thumping heartbeat so fucking apparent that it’s harrowing and Din can’t tolerate it for another second. His Creed rips from his head and hurtles through the air to slam into the duralloy walls of his supposed sanctuary, denting a dome where the summit of beskar impacts but it’ll never be enough to damage that fucking helmet.

His trademark steely stoic persona is substituted for tan mien; his inability to conceal his expressions from years of never needing to palpable at the faintest indication of an eyebrow twinge.

Din presses his lips against her forehead, a frigid and stiffness that transfers to his mouth. He luxuriates on her, delivering docile pecks across her face that burns his lips. Din surrenders the last of his breath to her but he’ll never receive any equivalent ever again.

Memories are all that remains—reminiscences that tug on his lungs. They obscure his mind's eye with dull images of the individual circumstances he’d separated the man from the religion.

He wasn’t to ever remove his helmet. His heart sinks. Din had never contemplated the impact of the decree—the implicit statement that it included whether one’s eyes were shut or not.

His heart’s arteries melt into the muscle and flood it until it capsizes within itself.

Din had been subconsciously unearthing methods and plot holes to eliminate beskar from the equation to indulge in the Girl’s temptations—to permit him the opportunity of a lifetime and experience affairs that scarcely presented themselves to him—but it had backfired.

The helmet was removed, whether her eyes were shut or not it didn’t matter.

His Creed was tarnished the moment he even thought about being with the Girl and it only continued downhill from then on—a terminal illness that burrows its relentless claws into his core and carefully conquers each inch of his body without ever drawing attention to itself.

“Cyare.” His vocals crack and pop. “Open your eyes.”

Look at me. I’ve dishonoured my vows for you. Open your eyes and look into mine—savour the caf you were so curious about. You have to look at me. You need to. Please don’t let my sacrilege go undervalued.

They’d been wasting precious moments this entire fucking time. Din’s Honour was non-existent and he could’ve bestowed her with the knowledge of how his eyes brightened whenever she glanced his way, how indentations of shallow dimples formed in his cheeks when he’d smile at her snarky remarks.

His fist slams against the crate beside her. “Stubborn girl.”

Why couldn’t she be like the no-good schemers that yearned to see beneath the steel?

Why did she have to be so protective of his oath?

She died never knowing what the man who loved her looked like.

A sparkle beneath her shirt catches his eyes, solid alloy beckoning his hands. Beskar is still warm to the touch from her sternum. Din rubs the face of the pendant's skull raw, dried blood flaking off onto the steel, his thumb heating with the friction. It’s not much, hardly anything actually, but it’s something that she claimed ownership of—something physical that he can touch and hold that was once pressed against the beat of her heart. With nothing else in her possession of her own, it’s all Din’s got.

It’s knotted around his neck, the thread weighing like a bantha and the pendant torching a permanent mark into his chest. He welcomes it, remains stoic and unflinching as it intensifies and scars over—he wasn’t afraid of being burnt, after all.

Din wipes away the scarlet meadow of clumped hair adhered to her cheek and sets the hem of her shirt as low as it'll reach, concealing the hump of soaked wool. He believed himself to be incapable of shedding more salty liquid from his ducts but tonight is full of surprises. Their foreheads pin against each other, wetness streaming down the curve of his cheekbones and into her hair.

He’s uncertain where he stands with his Creed—it’s not of importance right now—but he was raised on their culture, their words so beautiful that it only felt right to say a final remembrance.

My Sun, Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.

----

jatnese be te jatnese - the best of the best ni kar'tayl gar darasuum - i love you me'suum'ika - moon choobies - testicles ash'amur - die ner cyare - my beloved ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum - i'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.

A/N: i'm so sorry. there might be an epilogue if you guys are interested in that.

taglist: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex, @omgreally, @spideysimpossiblegirl

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elliethesuperfruitlover · 4 years ago

Text

It’s Okay

A/N: I’m writing a self-indulgent fic due to fact that I’m feeling ✨ insecure and ugly ✨Yes this is me projecting. I like Heaven’s Design Team, and Unabara is one of my comfort characters, and he’s also v tall, and he looks like a good hugger. So why not write him being the fluffy being that he is.

Warnings: once again another breakdown, body image talk, mild nsfw mentions, mention of panic attacks

Tag List (even tho i know none of y’all dont know the show but shh): @misskittysmagicportal, @bisexualnathanyoung, @super-unpredictable98, @joz-stankovich, @hufflepuffheroine, @ghouls-buddy, @magic-multicolored-miracle, @seancekitsch, @the-freckled-luba, @neuroticpuppy

“What’s wrong?” Neptune asks, seeing you curled up on the corner of the bed, hands covering your face. He’d just come in from another day of work with the team. They were working on an animal that’s seen and heard from far away. It’d been going okay, and they were making a lot of progress.

You’d been denying him an answer to how you were feeling all day. Yes, he deserves to know. But something told you that you were being a burden. And that he didn’t need to hear your issues. He has a lot on his plate. And you didn’t want to stress the poor thing out. It’d only add fuel to your emotional fire. So you bottled it up. Seemed to be working just fine. Nothing a little forgetting can fix. You were really struggling. You can’t tell anyone how you feel, or else they may think it’s their job to help you. And it’s not. It never is. But they do it somehow. You’d always felt like a burden, maybe it was due to how everything in the past had worked out for you (horribly). Or maybe it was just due to your extreme anxiety issues, as well as being atrocious at keeping friends. They always left. And never came back. And somehow, that mean-spirited little voice always said it’s your fault. You’re the catalyst. You’re why everything falls apart around you. You’re the reason everyone’s stressed and upset. So that’s your philosophy. How’s that been working out, huh?

“I’m tired. And I’m upset for no reason. I’m also not feeling the most confident. But I can’t really remember a time where I did feel good about my appearance. I just straight up think I’m ugly. ” you mutter, tears forming in your eyes.

You’d been waiting for your body to finally cave in and let you cry. Weeks of missed panic attacks. Days without breaking down. First it seemed fine. Then the fatigue set in. So did the muscle aches. And feeling like sitting in the corner for the entire day. Thinking of what you could be doing. And shaming yourself for not being able to make a full meal. It was just so much all of the time. Everyone has their limits, but those also change. People grow. Somehow, though, it seemed that you were left out. And that everyone seemed to be doing just fine. Except for you, of course.

“Well, it’s fine to be upset, or tired. And I’ve mentioned that if you need help sleeping, I’m glad to help you. Be it cuddling or simply letting you be. But the latter part is where I find the issue. Your appearance is fine. But I know people can see each other differently.” he whispers, sitting down near you, but it seems as if he wasn’t close enough.

“Well, I honestly don’t know how you manage to call me cute sometimes. I really don’t see it. Never have.” you state, falling back completely onto the bed, arms spread out.

“I only say it because it’s the truth. If I think you look cute, or nice, I’ll tell you. There’s no use in me lying. What is this stemming from?” he asks, putting his hand on yours.

“I saw some of my old classmates from school and just....how? How do I equal to them? I feel like everyone’s moving on, and looking good. And feeling confident. But I just can’t seem to.” you say. Your eyes floating to a specific spot on the ceiling that looked like a snowman, and you thought about it for a while.

“Everyone’s different. And I think you look perfectly fine. And some people may just be feeling better. It doesn’t make you any worse.” he replies softly, twisting to face your flat form on the bed.

“Yeah, but I fucking hate everything about myself. Every time I seem to have something good, that dumbass voice comes back and I’m right back here again. I love my hair, then it’s a burden and I want to get rid of it. I look nice in these jeans, then I think I should lose the weight so they aren’t as tight. What the fuck is wrong with me?” you ask, tears finally falling onto the comforter.

“Aw, come here.” he says, laying down so he can look you at you closer. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Sure, you have anxiety, and yes, you have intrusive thoughts, but that’s okay. It doesn’t make you any less of a person. And it doesn’t make you any less attractive.” Unabara whispers, holding you close.

You begin sobbing into his chest, and your hands grasp at his sweater, trying to find something to hold onto before you fall from whatever was keeping you above the water. Dark, deep waters. Every part of you wants to scream, but you can’t seem to get that giant bubble from your chest. Neptune’s hand gently moves up and down your back, and you gasp for air as wave after wave of feeling go through you. It’s like you never get a break as tears fall repeatedly down your face, drowning you in a weird way. Your chest heaves as you wrap around Neptune, face hidden in his neck to get away from the reality of him seeing you like this. Vulnerable, and some would consider it torn to the ground. Somehow by your own feelings, you’d been torn to the ground and for what? Feelings were supposed to tell you what’s going on, not ponder if every person you’d met in your entire life was offended by you, and if they were it was always your fault. Never anyone else’s, always yours. That’s not true, but somehow you’d managed to get it engrained in your skull do much that no lobotomy would help.

They never seemed to leave you be, it seemed. One moment everything’s fine and it’s all good and the next you’re on the floor again, wondering whether or not you should’ve said this, or that. Or said these things, or even simply existed in their presence. You had done nothing wrong, yet only the most harsh and cruel punishments were reserved for you with your name in bold, bright letters. Nothing could help you at this point. Not the warmest, and most inviting of baths, or the coldest bowl of ice water to dip your head in, disrupting you from the shaking you’d been experiencing. Even his strong arms couldn’t help as you trembled in his grip. You hadn’t even noticed that his eyes were closed, almost as if he was trying to forego tears. See look what you’re doing to him. You thought, but it was shut down as he opened his eyes, and looked directly at you. Throwing you off for a moment before you went back to dreading everything about yourself once more. Except the hiccups were subsiding, and the feeling in your fingers and toes had begun to come back. Unabara’s head was tilted onto yours, and you matched your breathing to his, calming down somewhat.

“Can you do something really quickly for me...please?” he whispered, deep voice echoing in your mind. You gently nodded, and he moved to get up as you still sat on the bed, the ends of your jacket crumpled and partially wet.

“You don’t have to do this, but I’m going to go from your feet to your head. List what you don’t like about the body part.” he said, and you nodded once more as he gently nudged your foot, looking at you to engage.

You thought for a moment and replied in a quiet voice, rough from the tears.

“I don’t like how big my feet are. Sure, it may be fine with dancing, and it’s not that noticeable. But shoes my size are upwards of 70 dollars.” you reply, fiddling with your hands.

“Mm, I think they’re fine. I like the fact that we can share shoes sometimes. It’s more space for other things. Legs?”

“They’re oddly shaped. And they’re discolored too.” you stutter out, feeling goosebumps tickle your skin as his hands gently moved up your form.

“I think they’re quite lovely. And you’ve got quite a kick. Strong too. You can fit in more odd positions, may look uncomfortable. But you always manage somehow.” he says, kissing the top of your knee.

It went on like that for a while, with you talking about how you hated the fact that your thighs don’t match in color to how the divots in your hip made you feel like you should look different elsewhere. When one part of the body was talked over, you both removed a piece of clothing, the same for each person. Somehow you’d even managed to mention that you didn’t like the fact that your stretch marks could be seen with a simple flick of a waistband. And only he got to see the secret ones. Hidden from many views. Eventually, it got to the point where you were mostly nude in front of Neptune. His eyes averted from where some would be looking most. When his eyes did, however, drifted southwards, it wasn’t one of sexual thought.

“What about here?” he gently asked, hands landing on your hips.

“I don’t think I can complain about her. So much to learn. And so many feelings, good and bad. But none to blame.” you mutter, gasping as a skilled finger made its way to where you seemed to want it most.

“I think it’s wonderful. And not in the “I think vaginas are nice because I only think of it in a sexual manner way. I think they’re neat. And there’s a lot to learn, and much more to unlearn as well. I always like how you feel on the precipice of orgasm. Almost like a vice, but not one that I’d be upset about. You’re usually the most vocal, pillow over your face, or face pressed into my shoulder. Then, you’re there. And I’m there, or close enough. You just look so peaceful and emotional in the most wonderful of ways. You’re not worried about how you look. Or how your hair looks spread across the sheets unevenly. You just feel everything at once. And I find that so amazing.” he whispers into your ear, and it took everything in you not to take him right then and there.

Unabara didn’t give you a quickie that night. Or the ol’ suck and fuck. He took his time, even after you cried on his shoulder. And admitted your flaws to him. He made sure you were fine every step of the way. Holding your hand. Breathing into your neck as to not overstimulate his own ears. He even took the time to kiss over every last mark and scar from childhood on your legs before eating you out. I mean, yeah, you were ready to shove his entire face in your vagina. But the sheer amount of effort he went through to make sure that you were comfortable, and happy (in that moment at least). It honestly could push you to tears. How could someone care so much about another? They’d go through hours of love and appreciation, just to see you smile, or almost wake up the neighbors.

Tears fell down your face once more that night as you cuddled into Neptune’s chest. You listened to his heartbeat as his hands lay once more on your back. He looked at you with so much love and support. And you couldn’t help but crack under that pressure. Pressure to reciprocate. You always did. Somehow. Even in those moments where you pondered researching panic methods just to feel some relief. But you made it. And he found you worthy. Then slowly, slowly, you found yourself worthy as well.

Masterlist

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inevitably-johnlocked · 5 years ago

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Hi :) I... really wanna read a fanfic or two but I can't find one I vibe with xD So... do you know one that's not too long (around 100k words maybe), has hurt and comfort, smut (am I allowed to ask about that?? Ahhhh) and a happy ending? Top!lock would be a bonus but it's not necessary. And if it's a nice AU (like... any kind but no crossovers pls), it would be perfect! :D By the way, I found your blog only a few hours ago and I already feel really comfy and Idk, kinda at home here ^-^

Hi Nonny!!!

Welcome to my corner of the Tumblrsphere!!! I’m so happy you’ve found me, LOL, because I love all my followers and friends! <3

First of all, I think it’s super cute that “not too long” to you is “around 100K” LOL LOL LOL!!! <3 That said, I’d argue all my fic recs are fabulous, LOL. But again, I’m stupidly proud of the wonderful lists I’ve accumulated, because it satisfies my organization kink LOL. And yes, you’re ALWAYS allowed to ask for smut here LOL.

ANYWAY, so I’m gonna use this ask as an excuse to post up a long-overdue part two to my 50 to 100K fic list! But first, here’s some past lists for the genres you’re looking for:

FIC MASTER PAGES: PG1 || PG 2 || PG 3

Toplock (Mar 2020)

Omegaverse

Please Check PG 3 for all my AU fic lists. There’s a lot :)

Hurt / Comfort Pt. 1: Under 5K Words

Hurt / Comfort Pt. 2: 5K to 10K Words

Fandom Favourites / Popular Fics

I hope those will get you started! So now, here’s the main event!! Hope you enjoy them!

50 - 100 K WORDS Pt. 2 (Novel Length)

See also:

Fics Under 2000 w.

Fics Under 2000 w. Pt. 2

Fics Under 2000 w. Pt. 3

E-Rated Johnlock for Newcomers Pt 1 (Short Fics under 20K)

Novella Length Fics: 25 to 50K (Aug. 2019)

Novel Length Fics: 50 to 100K (Nov. 2018)

Novel Length Fics: 100K+ w. (May 2019)

Long S3/Post-S3 Fics (20K+ w.) [Apr 2020]

Top 20 Fave 40K+ w. Fics (April 2017)

Smut-Free Fics Over 50K (Aug 2019)

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by SilentAuror (E, 50,635 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4/S4 Divergence, Case Fic, For a Case / Reverse Fake-Relationship, Conferences, Marriage Equality, Travelling / New York, Pride, Homophobia, Bottomlock, Marriage Proposal, John POV, Sexuality, Love Confessions, Emotional Love Making, Public Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Passionate Kissing, Needy/Clingy Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Touching / Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Little Spoon Sherlock, Intense Orgasms) – John and Sherlock go to New York to attend a conference run by the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition in order to investigate the potential bombing of the annual Manhattan Pride parade. As the conference unfolds, John finds himself repulsed by the toxic ideology being presented, which becomes relevent to his own unacknowledged issues and his friendship with Sherlock...

Repairing the Broken Things by BakerTumblings (M, 75,252 w., 15 Ch. || S4 Compliant, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Hospitals, Big Brother Mycroft, Misunderstandings, Realizations, Severe Accident, John Whump, Pneumonia, Medical Procedures, Bed Sharing, First Time, Healing, Happy Ending) – "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

Points by lifeonmars (E, 53,791 w., 42 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || HLV Rewrite / Canon Divergence, Married Life, Pregnancy / Baby Watson, Drinking to Cope, Boxing / Fisticuffs, Clueless John, Angst, Minor Medical Drama, Tattoos, Christmas, First Kiss/Time, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Doctor John, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Drugging, Blow/Hand Job, Emotional Love Making, Parenthood, Passage of Time) – What if His Last Vow never happened? This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary's wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn't exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues -- just in a different direction. And slowly, Sherlock and John find their way to each other.

Never Change a Running System by Lorelei_Lee (E, 54,246 w. || Pre-TRF, Romance, Humour, Drama, Sex Toys, Anal, Rimming, Masturbation, Frottage, Blow Jobs, Public Sex, First Kiss / Time, Virgin Sherlock / Loss of Virginity, Accidental Voyeurism, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Experiments, Naive Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Straight With an Exception John, Hand Jobs) – Sherlock discovers his sexuality – with far-reaching consequences for John.

A Hundred Crimson Sols by elldotsee (E, 55,536 w. || Astronauts AU || Mars Exploration / Space Travel, Slow Burn, Shy Sherlock, Scientist Sherlock / Biomed Engineer John, Alternating POV, Mutual Pining, UST, Angst with Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Suicidal Ideation, Zero-G Sex) – Will Holmes is a chemical researcher recognized widely for his contributions to the new Mars exploration program. Thanks to his ground-breaking developments, the IMMC (International Mars Mission Corporation) is one step closer to Martian colonization. Will and his team of scientists are headed out on the first of three manned missions before the first group of settlers arrive. Three days before launch, one of the crew has to be replaced. Will panics because...new people. The replacement is of course one John Watson, biomedical engineer and space hottie who was pretty sure he had retired from actual space exploration and was now content to work in the nice, quiet research lab. Can the crew survive this TOTALLY ROUTINE trip? Will they be able to endure each other for the looooooong trip in close quarters? Gonna be a wild ride... prepare for blast off. Part 1 of the SpaceBois go to Space series

The Thing Is by TSylvestris (E, 56,743 w. || Case Fic, Dev. Rel., Anal/Oral, Blow Jobs, Meddling Mycroft, Drama, Romance, Humour, Casual Encounters, Pining Idiots, Possessive Sherlock, Orgasm Delay, Rough / Alley Sex, Public Sex, John Whump, Drugged John, Emotional Love Making, Awkward Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Switchlock) – The problem with living with Sherlock, John thought, was that you never, never, ever knew the significance of anything. Like your flatmate's nose buried in your hair. Whilst you're in bed. Part 1 of Nitroglycerine

One Little Change by jadztone (E, 58,312 w. || ASiB Divergence, Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bi John / Gay Demisexual Sherlock, Switchlock, Alternating POV, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Case Fic, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Love Making, Butt Plugs, Cuddles) – Our story begins right after John and Sherlock's first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other. Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.

floating through a dark blue sky by Lediona (M, 58,966 w. || Notting Hilll AU || POV John, Celebrity Sherlock, First Date / Time / Kiss, Past Drug Addiction, Angst with a Happy Ending) – Of course, I’d seen his films and always thought he was, well, brilliant -- but, you know, a million miles from the world I live in. Or, when John is the owner of a travel book shop and the famous Sherlock Holmes stops in one day.

The Burning by SrebrnaFH (M, 60,658 w. || Reverse Reichenbach, Suicide, Depression, Hurt Sherlock / John, Separation, BAMF John, Good Big Brother Mycroft, Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Fake Character Death, Rescue Mission, Reconciliation / Reunion, Hospitalization, Marriage Proposal, Illnesses, Physical Therapy, Happily Ever After) – Something went very, very wrong. John had seemed, if not happy, then reasonably content with his life. Sherlock had never predicted something like THIS might have happened. Not in his worst nightmares. He was the lousiest friend ever, apparently. At least Mycroft found him something to occupy his mind with, so that he didn't have to go back to 221B and stare at the walls and the chair, where John Watson would never sit again.

This Thing All Things Devours by cypress_tree (E, 63,844 w., 15 Ch. || In Time AU || Science Fiction, Dystopian Universe, First Meetings, Action / Adventure, Romance) – In 2169, time is money—literally. Humans are genetically engineered to stop aging at 25, when the numbers on their arm start counting down from one year. When that time is up, they die. The only way to get more time is to earn it, borrow it, or steal it.John Watson lives day-to-day in the crowded slums of Zone 13. He never imagined living any differently—until he meets the practically-immortal Sherlock, and helps him on a case to track a local time-thief...

The Bells of King's College by SilentAuror (E, 64,019 w., 5 Ch. || Post-S4, Missed Opportunities, Angst with Happy Ending, Fake Relationship, Case Fic, John POV, Jealous John, John in Denial, Travelling / Holidays, Virgin Sherlock, Wedding Proposals) – It's only been two weeks since Eurus Holmes disrupted their lives when Mycroft sends John and Sherlock to Cambridge to pose as an engaged couple at a wedding show in the hopes of solving six unsolved deaths...

Hell Sent, Heaven Bound by ConsultingHound (M, 64,381 w, 16 Ch. || Angels / Demons AU || Fallen Angel Sherlock / Angel Cop John, Alternate First Meeting, Slow Burn, Case Fic, John & Lestrade are Friends Before Sherlock, BAMF John, Mind Palace John, Friends to Lovers, John in Denial, Sherlock Picks Out John’s Clothing, Clubbing / Dancing, Mildly Jealous John, Awkwardness, Kidnapping, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Sacrifice, Worried / Anxious Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Immortal to Mortal) – Ex-War healer and current angelic guard John Watson is not having the best day. He overslept, he’s underpaid, and now there’s someone tagging the Council’s building walls. However things may be about to get interesting: there’s an unusual stranger hanging around (the definition of tall, dark, and handsome), a literal underground cult is brewing, and rumblings are coming from hell. Can he keep his neighbourhood safe, how and why is he being connected to all this, and who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

White Knight by DiscordantWords (M, 69,840 w., 13 Ch. || S4 Compliant/Post S4, Marriage For a Case, Jealous John, Pining John, Janine / Sherlock Fake Relationship, Serial Killers, Case Fic, Undercover as a Couple, Weddings, John is a Mess, Misunderstandings, Wedding Planning, Jealousy, Drunkenness, Love Confessions, Angst with Happy Ending) – Green. The word green was used to convey a great many things. Illness. Envy. Inexperience. Standing there amidst Janine's chattering bridesmaids, watching Sherlock furrow his brow and study fabric swatches, watching him smile and simper and flirt, John thought it a remarkably apt colour choice. Because he felt quite sick to his stomach, he feared the source of said sickness might very well be jealousy, and he had absolutely no idea at all what to do about it. Or: Sherlock needs to fake a relationship for a case. He doesn't ask John.

Being John Watson-ish by elwinglyre (E, 69,902 w., 17 Ch. || Bodysnatcher AU || Author John, Cranky Sherlock, Angst, Sexual Tension, First Kiss / Time, Falling in Love, BAMF John, Past Soldier John, Feelings, Inside Someone’s Brain, Shy Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, POV Sherlock, Switchlock, Slow Burn, Internal Dialogue, Mental Turmoil) – When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he's consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.

Just To Hold You Close by sussexbound (E, 70,841 w., 18 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting, Sherlock POV, ASD Sherlock, PTSD John, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Cuddling/Snuggling, Platonic Cuddling, Enthusiastic Consent, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Sexual Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cuddle Negotiations, For a Case Until It Isn’t, Hair Petting, Sexual Negotiation, Anxiety, Trust Issues, Slow Burn, Panic Attacks, Frottage, Hand/Blow Jobs, Referenced Self Harm / Abuse / Suicidal Ideation, First Kiss/Time, Anal) – When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

The Vapor Variant by 88thParallel (M, 72,684 w., 18 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-THoB, John Whump, Protective Sherlock, Guilty Sherlock, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Suspense, Virus, Sickfic, Big Brother Mycroft) – They stood face to face in the middle of a clearing. The dim light of the moon barely allowed Sherlock to see the glassy terror in John’s eyes and the sweat that glistened off his forehead. His nose was bleeding again, blood dripping in a slow stream from his right nostril. They were both gasping for air, John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. There was no recognition there, just wild animal fear. Time stood still for an eternal few seconds, and Sherlock took a shaky breath. “John—”Spell broken, John spun and bolted back into the woods. Still heaving for air, Sherlock took off after him.

Summit Fever by J_Baillier (M, 78,802 w., 18 Ch. || Mountain Climber AU || POV John, Angst, Tragedy, Suicidal Ideation, The Himalayas, Mountain Guide / Doctor John, Mount Climber Sherlock, Loneliness, Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Injured Sherlock / Sherlock Whump, Pining John) – After graduating from medical school, John Watson followed his heart to the Himalayas. Ten years later, he's a haunted cynic working for his ex-lover's trekking and mountaineering company. Will leading an expedition to Annapurna I—the most lethal of all the world's highest mountains—shake John out of his reverie, and who is the mystery client added to the group at the last minute?

The Monument of Memory by J_Baillier (M, 79,663 w., 14 Ch. || Post S4 Fix It Fic / S4 is Canon, Angst, Family Drama, Guilt, Case Fic, John Loves Sherlock, Complicated Feelings, Mentalism / Hypnosis, Murder, Grieving John, Sherlock is a Bit Not Good, Team Work, Trust Issues, BAMF John, Psychological Trauma, Protective John, Autistic-Spectrum Sherlock, Parentlock, John POV) – A genius traumatised by a past he's only beginning to recall. The psychopath sister that time forgot. A missing woman and a mentalist who may or may not be a murderer. And, in the middle of it all, stands John Watson.

Thermocline by J_Baillier (M, 83,557 w., 14 Ch. || Scuba Diving AU || Adventure, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Marine Archaeology, Asexual Sherlock, Horny John, Relationship Drama, Technical/Scuba/Wreck Diving, Slow Burn, Underwater / Medical Peril, Doctor John, Hurt Sherlock, Anxious Sherlock, John POV, Protective John, Body Appreciation) – John "Five Oceans" Watson — technical dive instructor, dive accident analyst and weapon of mass seduction — meets recluse professor of maritime archaeology Holmes. As they head out to a remote archipelago off the coast of Guatemala to study and film its shipwrecks for a documentary, will sparks fly or fizzle out?

The Summer Boy by khorazir (T, 94,706 w., 6 Ch. || Post S3/Post TAB/Alternate S4, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Sussex, Bullying, 1980′s Kid Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, Grief/Mourning, Pining Sherlock, Background Case Fic) – About half a year after the fateful events at Appledore, Sherlock and John embark on a private case in Sussex. For Sherlock, it’s a journey into his past, bringing up memories both happy and sad that he has locked away for almost thirty years. For John, it means coming to terms with the present – and a potential future with Sherlock. Part 1 of the The Summer Boy series

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU || BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

31_Days_of_Porn_Challenge_2017 Series by distantstarlight (E, 96,540 w. across 31 stories || Prompt Ficlets, Assorted Kinks, PWP) – A collection in response to the 31 Days of Porn Challenge issued by AtlinMerrik! Thanks for doing that because this has been buttload of fun (that joke never gets old). All stories will be brief stand-alone one-shots.

The Baker Street Nativity by SwissMiss (E, 99,662 w., 23 Ch. || Nativity! AU || Teacher Sherlock / TA John, Pining, Sherlock POV, UST, Angst, Christmas, Music/Song Fic, Anal / BJ’s, First Kiss / Time) – Fusion between Sherlock (BBC) and Nativity! (2009 movie starring Martin Freeman). Sherlock is a primary school teacher and John is assigned to be his classroom assistant. Together, they are charged with putting on the school's Nativity play. What could possibly go wrong? Part 1 of The Baker Street Nativity Verse

Given In Evidence by verityburns (M, 97,884 w., 19 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Angst, Drama, Case Fic, Romance, BAMF!John, Submissive Sherlock, First Kiss, Humour) – Coming back from the dead can be a complicated business. With a new case on the horizon, rebuilding a life is one thing... rebuilding a friendship quite another. For Sherlock and John, things may never be just the same...

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #long fics #50 to 100k #Anonymous #fic rec wednesday #e-rated fics

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adastraperfortuna · 3 years ago

Text

I Played Cyberpunk 2077

Ultimately, Cyberpunk 2077 is an excellent video game. It’s hard to talk about it without acknowledging the backlash that it received around its launch, but the backlash was directly proportional to the amount of marketing that it got. This happens to a lot of games – and frankly, a lot of my favorite games. If I were working at CD Projekt RED and I was responsible for the kind of marketing that resulted in the kind of expectations that they built for themselves, I’d have to take that sort of stuff into deep consideration. But, as someone who bought the game, enjoyed the game, and desperately wants to talk about the game, I’m not sure that it matters. So, to reiterate: Cyberpunk 2077 is good.

There’s so much game to Cyberpunk that it might be easier to start by talking about my favorite part of it that isn’t a game: the photo mode. I’ve joked before about my favorite gameplay loop in Star Citizen being “taking screenshots,” and that’s not my intent here, but some of my favorite games in recent memory have made it easy to look over the memories I made during their runtime. Interspersed within this review will be some of my favorite screenshots that I took – the inclusion of precise controls for things like depth of field, character posing/positioning, and stickers/frames helped to make my screenshot folder feel less like a collection of moments in a game and more like a scrapbook made during the wildest possible trip to the wildest possible city.

And what a city it is. Night City is my favorite setting in a video game in recent memory. It’s not incredibly difficult to make a large environment, but to make a meaningful environment where every location feels lived-in and the streets are dense with things to see and do? That’s a challenge that very few studios have managed to step up to. More than that, Night City feels unique in the landscape of video game cities – whereas a city like Grand Theft Auto V’s Los Santos is rooted in a reality we’re familiar with, Cyberpunk’s retro-futuristic architecture (and overall aesthetic) help lend it a sensibility that we’re unfamiliar with. It really feels like stepping into another world - fully fleshed-out, fully envisioned.

The environment is obviously beautiful and unique, but I was surprised by just how ornate it was. The thought and consideration that went into details as minor as the UIs you’ll encounter in and on everything from car dashboards to PCs and menus both diegetic and otherwise helps the entire world feel diverse, detailed, and cohesive. While everything feels of a kind and everything is working towards the same design goals, the sheer amount of variety was shocking.

The biggest thing that stuck out to me about Night City itself within just a few hours of playing was how vertically oriented it was. Not just in the “there are tall buildings” sense, though there certainly are tall buildings – I’m talking about the way that Cyberpunk uses verticality to tell stories. The first time that you end up high enough above the skyline to see rooftops will inevitably be during one of your first encounters with Night City’s elite. The hustle and bustle of street life fading away as an elevator climbs up the side of a building and you emerge into a world you aren’t familiar with was astounding. That claustrophobic feeling of being surrounded by monoliths isn’t only alleviated by attending to the rich, though – for similar reasons, my first journey out of the city limits and into the “badlands” will stick with me. Cyberpunk successfully manages its mood and tone by controlling the kind of environments you’ll find yourself in, and while that may seem like a simple, sensible, universal design decision, its consistent application helped ground the world for me in a way that made it feel more real than most of its contemporaries.

Something else that makes Night City feel real is how Cyberpunk implements its setpieces. In a decision that reverberates throughout the rest of the game, CD Projekt was clearly all-in on the notion of immersion and seamless transitions. While it was consistently surprising and exciting to find bombastic moments embedded in the world’s side content (one standout involves Night City’s equivalent of SWAT descending from the sky to stop a robbery in an otherwise non-descript shop downtown), it never took me out of the world. And, on the other end of the experience, the number of memorable, exciting story moments that were located in parts of the city that you had wandered by before helped make the world feel almost fractal, this idea that every building and every corner could house new adventures or heartbreaks.

One thing that did take me out of the experience, unfortunately, were a few of the celebrity (or “celebrity”) cameos. While I think that the core cast was well-cast, with Keanu Reeves as Johnny Silverhand in particular being an inspired choice, the game, unfortunately, wasn’t immune to the tendency to include recognizable faces just because they were recognizable. Grimes plays a role in a forgettable side quest that felt dangerously like it only existed because she wanted to be in the game. There are also an almost concerning number of streamer cameos (“over 50 influencer and streamers from around the world,” according to CD Projekt), and while most of them completely went by me, the few that did hit for me only served to disrupt the world. The only perceived positive here is that most players won’t have any idea who these people are.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only thing that broke immersion in the game. Due to what I can only assume are particularly harsh memory restrictions imposed by the game’s release on last-generation hardware, the game has some of the most aggressive NPC culling that I’ve ever seen. While NPCs don’t strictly only exist in screen space, it often feels like they do, as simply spinning the camera around can result in an entirely new crowd existing in place of the old one. This is obviously rough when it comes to maintaining immersion in crowded spaces on-foot, but it gets worse when you’re driving. Driving on an empty road, rotating the camera, and finding that three seconds later there was an entire legion of cars waiting for your camera to discover them, far too close to slow down, was always a deadly surprise. It doesn’t help that your cars take a while to slow down.

Cyberpunk’s approach towards cars in general is interesting. While I certainly had trouble with them when I began playing, I eventually began to get into their groove. If you want to learn how to drive effectively in Cyberpunk, you have to learn how to drift. After the game’s latest substantial patch, the team at CD Projekt finally fixed my largest problem with the game’s driving – the minimap was simply too zoomed-in, making it difficult to begin to make the right decisions on when and how to turn when traveling at speed. Now that that's resolved, however, whipping and spinning through the streets is fun, and the cars feel appropriately weighty. I’ll still occasionally boot up the game just to cruise around its streets and listen to the radio.

Speaking of the radio, did I mention that Cyberpunk 2077 has one of the greatest game soundtracks that I’ve ever heard? The radio is filled with great original songs from some pretty great musicians, but that’s not where the soundtrack’s beauty starts and it certainly isn’t where it ends. The original soundtrack (composed by P.T. Adamczyk, Marcin Przybylowicz, and Paul Leonard-Morgan) was consistently beautiful, moving, and intense. The world feels gritty and grimy but ultimately beautiful and worth saving, and a great deal of that emotion comes from the soundtrack. While the heavy use of industrial synths could’ve lent itself towards music that existed to set tone instead of form lasting memories with memorable melodies, the sparkling backing tones and inspired instrumentation helped keep me humming some of its tracks for months after last hearing them in-game. I’m no musical critic, I don’t know how much I can say about this soundtrack, so I’ll just reiterate: it’s genuinely incredible.

It certainly helps that the encounters that so many of those tunes are backing up are exciting as well. I was expecting middling combat from the company that brought us The Witcher 3, and while the experience wasn’t perfect, it was competitive with (and, in many ways, better than) the closest games to it than I can point to, Eidos Montreal’s recent Deus Ex titles. Gunplay feels tight, shotguns feel explosive, and encounter spaces are diverse and full of alternate paths and interesting cover. My first playthrough was spent primarily as a stealth-focused gunslinger, using my silenced pistol to cover up the mistakes that my feet made when trying to avoid getting caught. Trying to sneak into, around, and through environments helped emphasize how complex the environments actually were. While it’d be easy to run into a wealth of the game’s content with your guns loaded and ready to fire, that may contribute to a perceived lack of depth in the game’s world design. I’m trying to write this without considering what other people have said about the game, but this particular point has been something of a sticking point for me – there are individual, completely optional buildings in Cyberpunk that have more interesting, considered level design than some entire video games, and the experience of evaluating and utilizing them was consistently mechanically engaging and exciting.

The sheer number of abilities that the player has can be almost overwhelming. While leveling does encourage the player to specialize into certain traits, especially when said traits can also serve as skill checks for the dialogue system and some traversal opportunities, every trait houses a bundle of skills that each house a sprawling leveling tree. Far from the kind of “three-path EXP dump” that you’ll find in a great number of AAA titles, Cyberpunk’s leveling experience can be legitimately intimidating. It’s difficult to plan the kind of character you want to play as when you’re trying to project eighty or a hundred hours forward for a character that will be constantly encountering new kinds of challenges. I certainly didn’t begin my playthrough by wanting to be a stealth-focused gunslinger – in fact, I was originally aiming for a melee-focused hacker build. While I was drawn to what I was drawn to, hearing stories from other players about the kind of builds that they ultimately considered to be overpowered made one thing exceedingly clear: Cyberpunk is a game that rewards every kind of play, possibly to its own detriment.

Cyberpunk’s main story is notably short. I wouldn’t consider this to be a problem, considering the sheer amount of engaging, exciting, heartfelt side content, but it might be the core of the difficulty scaling plateauing so early on. As you progress deeper into the game you’ll find that almost every build, as long as you are willing to commit to something, is more than viable. Look around long enough and you’ll find people saying that every single build is overpowered. For me, that fed into the central power fantasy in an exciting way. By the time that I rolled credits a hundred hours in I was more or less unstoppable, walking into rooms and popping every enemy almost instantly. For others, this was a problem – it can be frustrating to feel like all of your work to become stronger wasn’t met with an appropriate challenge when the time came to put it into practice. This is a difficult problem to solve, and I don’t have a solution. I’ll fondly remember my revolver-toting, enemy-obliterating V, though, so I can’t complain.

Regardless of the scaling, however, the content you play through to arrive at that pinnacle of power was consistently, surprisingly robust. While the differentiation between “gigs” and “side quests” is confusing (word for the wise: gigs are generally shorter and more gameplay-centric missions that are designed by CD Projekt’s “open world” team while the side quests are made by the same team that made the main quests and are generally longer and more narrative-centric), both kinds of side content are lovingly crafted and meaningful. Of the 86 gigs in the game, every single one of them takes place in a unique location with a hand-crafted backstory and (almost always) a wealth of different approaches. These don’t exist separately from the rest of the game’s design philosophy, even if they are made by a separate team, and you’ll often find that decisions made outside of gigs will reverberate into them (and, sometimes, the other way around). I’ve played a great deal of open world games, and never before has the “icon-clearing content” felt this lovingly-crafted and interesting. While the main quests will take you traveling across the map, the side content is what really makes it feel dense and real. You’ll be constantly meeting different kinds of people who are facing different kinds of problems – and, hey, occasionally you’ll be meeting someone who has no problem at all, someone who just wants to make your world a little bit brighter.

It’s surprising, then, that one of the most obvious ways to integrate that kind of content in Cyberpunk is so sparsely-utilized. “Braindances,” sensory playback devices used to replicate experiences as disparate as sex, meditation, and murder, play a critical role in some of the game’s larger quests, but they almost never show up in the side content. You would imagine that the ability to freely transport the player into any kind of situation in a lore-friendly way would’ve been a goldmine for side content, but its use is limited. This isn’t even a complaint, really, I’m just genuinely surprised – I wouldn’t be surprised if they used them more heavily in 2077’s expansions or sequels, because they feel like an untapped goldmine.

Another thing that the game surprisingly lacks is the inclusion of more granular subtitle options. While the game does let you choose the important stuff – whether or not you want CD Projekt’s trademark over-the-head subtitles for random NPCs, what language you want the subtitles to be in, what language you want the audio to be in – it doesn’t include something that I’ve grown to consider a standard: the ability to turn on subtitles for foreign languages only. As the kind of player who avoids subtitles when possible, I went through most of Cyberpunk with them off. Unfortunately, a tremendous number of important cutscenes in the game take place in languages other than English, and I didn’t know that I was supposed to understand what these characters were saying until I was embarrassingly far into one of the prologue’s most important scenes.

NOTE: I was pleasantly surprised to discover after replaying the ending of the game earlier today that they've fixed this issue in a patch. Nice!

I can only complain about the game’s language support so much, because there’s something important that lies between the player and the story they’re there to experience: a fucking incredible English localization. Ironically, it’s so good that I can’t help but imagine that most players won’t even think about it. It’s easy to notice and talk about an excellent localization when it’s from something like a JRPG, something with a clearly different style from what you’d expect from a work made in English, but never once in my entire playthrough did I even briefly consider the idea that it was natively written in anything other than English. I knew that CD Projekt was a Polish studio, but I just assumed that they wrote in English and localized it backwards. The language is constantly bright and surprising, the jokes land, the characters have memorable quirks, everything feels natural, and the voice acting is legitimately some of the best that I’ve ever heard in a video game. Both versions of the main character’s voice were damn-near instantly iconic for me, landing up there with Commander Shepard in the upper echelon of protagonist VO. I can’t praise it enough.

That said, even if the localization was incredible, it’d be hard to appreciate if the meat of the story wasn’t up-to-snuff. I was ecstatic to discover, then, that Cyberpunk 2077 has an incredible story. Every great story starts with a great cast of characters, and Cyberpunk hit it out of the park with that. The core cast of side characters are some of my favorite characters in years. Judy, Panam, River, and Kerry are all memorable, full, charming people. Kerry Eurodyne in particular is responsible for my favorite scene in a game since the finale of Final Fantasy XV. The quest “Boat Drinks,” the finale of Kerry’s quest line, is quietly emotional and intensely beautiful. He, and the other characters like him, are more than the setting they’re in, and the way that the game slowly chews away at the harsh and bitter exterior that the world has given them as it reaches to their emotional, empathetic core consistently astounds. Night City is a city full of noise, violence, destruction, and decay, but you don’t have to participate in it. You don’t have to make it worse. You can be different, and you can be better. You don’t get there alone, you can’t get there alone, and Cyberpunk is a game that revels in how beautiful the world can be if we are willing to find the light and excitement in the people around us.

Of course, Cyberpunk is a video game, it’s an RPG, and the story is more than a linear progression of memorable moments. Something that struck me while making my way through Cyberpunk’s story was how expertly and tastefully it implemented choice. I’m used to games that give you flashing notifications and blaring alarms whenever you're able to make a decision that matters, so I was initially confused by how Cyberpunk didn’t seem reactive to the things I said and did. The game would give me a few options in conversations, I’d select one of them, and then the story would progress naturally. However, as I continued, I began to notice small things. One character would remember me here, a specific thing I said twenty hours before would be brought up by someone there, an action that I didn’t even know I had the choice to not take was rewarded. The game slowly but surely established a credibility to its choices, a weight to your words, this sense that everything that you were saying, even beyond the tense setpiece moments that you’d expect to matter, would matter. It was only after going online after completing the game that I realized just how different my playthrough could’ve been. While nothing ever reached the level of the kind of divergent choices that The Witcher 2 allowed, there were still large chunks of the game that are entirely missable. Three of the game’s endings can only be unlocked through the completion of (and, in one case, specific actions in) specific quests, and multiple memorable quests were similarly locked behind considerate play. This isn’t really a game that will stop you from doing one thing because you chose to do something else, most of the choice-recognition is simply unlocking new options for the player to take, but it always feels natural and never feels like a game providing you an arbitrary fork in the road just for the sake of making it feel artificially replayable. CD Projekt has already said that they made the choices too subtle in Cyberpunk, but I deeply appreciate the game as it is now – more games should make choices feel more real.

It helps that the dialogue system backing up some of those choices is dynamic and the cutscene direction backing those scenes up is consistently thrilling. The decision to lock you in first-person for the entire game was an inspired one, and it resulted in a bevy of memorable scenes made possible by those interlocking systems. There are the obvious ones – being locked in a smoky car with a skeptical fixer, getting held at gunpoint by a mechanical gangster with his red eyes inches away from your own and a pistol’s barrel just barely visible as it presses against your forehead, having to choose between firing your weapon and talking down someone with a hostage when in a tense, escalating situation. There are also a million smaller ones, situations where the scale of the world becomes part of the magic. The first time that I sat down in a diner and talked with someone I had to meet or the first time that I rode along through the bustling downtown of Night City as a politician sized me up will stick with me because the perspective of the camera and the pacing of the real-time dialogue interface combine to make almost everything more powerful. There’s so much effort put into it – so many custom animations, so many small touches that you’d only see if you were staring intensely at every frame. All of that effort paid off, and the controversial decision to strip third-person out of the game was ultimately proven to be one of the smartest decisions that CD Projekt has ever made.

Another decision that helped power an exciting, engaging story was how the game freely manipulates the time and weather during key story moments. It’s a small touch, it’s one that you won’t notice unless you’re looking for it, but every once in a while you’ll walk into a place during a crystal-clear day and come out five minutes later to discover that it’s a cold, windy, rainy night and you have a city to burn. Along with the first-person limitation, this initially feels like something that could only harm immersion, but when it’s backed up by a story that motivating and scenes that thrilling you’d be hard-pressed to notice it outside of the flashes of telling yourself that this scene or that scene is the best that you’ve played in a long time. This also helps avoid a problem that games like the Grand Theft Auto series consistently face – instead of letting scenes happen at any time, compromising direction, or doing something like a timelapse, sacrificing immersion, Cyberpunk manages to always keep you in the action while also presenting the action in its most beautiful and appropriate form. There are moments where it truly feels like it’s meshing the kind of scene direction that’d be at home in a Naughty Dog game, the gameplay of Deus Ex, and the storytelling of the WRPG greats, and in those moments there is nothing else on the market that feels quite like it.

I sure have talked a lot about this game’s story, considering the fact that I have barely brought up its central hook. The early twist (unfortunately spoiled by the game’s marketing), the placement of a rockstar-turned-terrorist-turned-AI-construct firmly in your brain after a heist goes wrong and your best friend dies, helps establish a tone that the rest of the game commits to. Johnny Silverhand starts as an annoying, self-centered asshole with no real appreciation for how dire your situation is, but by the end of the game he had more than won me over. Reeves’s performance was really stellar, and the relationship between him and V is incredibly well-written. More than that, his introduction helps spur on a shift in the way that you engage with the world. The first act is full of hope, aspiration, the belief that you can get to the top if you hustle hard enough and believe. After you hold your dying friend in your arms and are forced to look your own death in the eyes, though, things begin to turn. Maybe the world is fucked up, maybe it’s fucked up beyond belief. But there Johnny is, telling you to fight. Why? Every time you fight, things get worse.

But the game continues to ruminate on this, it continues to put you in situations where fighting not only fails to fix the problem, but it makes it worse. Despite that, it’s positive. For me, at least, Cyberpunk’s worldview slowly came into alignment, and it’s one that I can’t help but love. Cyberpunk 2077 is a game about how important the fight is, how important believing in something is, even if you’re facing impossible odds, even if there’s no happy ending. It’s a story that posits that giving up is the worst ending of all, that your only responsibility is to what’s right and to the ideals that you and the people you love want to live up to. The game uses every story it can tell, every character it can introduce you to, and every encounter it can spin into a narrative to drive that home. And, when the ending comes, it was phenomenal. All of the endings were powerful, effective, and meaningful to me, but I’m more than happy that I went with what I did.

Cyberpunk 2077 is an excellent video game. It’s not flawless, but no game is, and at its core it's one of the most fun, beautiful, narratively engaging, and heart-filled games that I’ve ever played. I couldn’t recommend it highly enough, and I sincerely hope that everyone who has skipped out on it because of what they’ve heard is able to give it a shot someday. Maybe they’ll love it as much as I do. Wouldn’t that be something?

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pruinesce-a2 · 4 years ago

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META: TODOROKI FUYUMI + COMPLEX PTSD.

this meta is gonna probably going to heavily reference child abuse and domestic abuse, so please don’t read if you’re vulnerable to those topics. i used a read more but i don’t think they’re working. ON TO THE META

complex ptsd ( c-ptsd ) generally develops as a result of chronic trauma, over months or years, most often experience throughout childhood; it’s rare ( but definitely not unheard of ! ) that it will develop in an adult, because, as the article i’m going to pick apart states, “ when an adult experiences a traumatic event, they have more tools to understand what is happening to them, their place as a victim of that trauma, and know they should seek support even if they don't want to. children don't possess most of these skills, or even the ability to separate themselves from another's unconscionable actions. the psychological and developmental implications of that become complexly woven and spun into who that child believes themselves to be -- creating a messy web of core beliefs much harder to untangle than the flashbacks, nightmares and other posttraumatic symptoms that come later. ”

emotion regulation. “ survivors with c-ptsd have a very difficult time with emotions -- experiencing them, controlling them, and for many, just being able to comprehend or label them accurately. many have unmanaged or persistent sadness, either explosive or inaccessible anger [...] they may be chronically numb, lack the appropriate affect in certain situations, be unable to triage sudden changes in emotional content [...] it's also very common for these survivors to re-experience emotions from trauma intrusively - particularly when triggered. these feelings are often disproportionate to the present situation, but are equal to the intensity of what was required of them at the time of a trauma -- also known as an emotional flashback. ”

the first things that stand out to me here: fuyumi easily fits the criteria of unmanaged or persistent sadness, but what really catches my eye is the concept of inaccessible anger. the boys very clearly fall under explosive anger, but fuyumi ... is seemingly never angry. it's a common point of contention in many posts i’ve seen about her; that she’s not reacting the way she should as a victim of abuse, that she “undermines” her brothers’ trauma by wanting to forgive her father. first of all i shouldn’t have to remind the fandom that she, too, is a victim of that abuse but it’s also entirely untrue that she’s disregarding her brothers because she even canonically identifies that she feels the same way they do - she identifies that yes, she is angry, yes, she understands they’re well within their rights to be so. but unlike them, this anger is ... far away. fuyumi, physically, emotionally, cannot bring that anger to the front. it’s frustrating for her, too.

i also want to point out the last sentence in this point: emotional flashbacks + the phrase “ what was require of them at the time of a trauma. ” an important thing to note is that often times, throughout fuyumi’s experience with these events … she’s the level-headed one. she’s the calm one. she’s the one mediating. this isn’t a new behavior - in an effort to mitigate her father’s abuse, this calm, peaceful nature is what these traumatic events have required of her, and as such, when anything begins to show potential for going wrong, she reverts back to this behavior.

explosive anger + disproportionate intensities in a certain situation definitely apply to natsuo; see the way he gets so angry over seemingly minute comments. touya / dabi is just. all over the place w/ this one he’s in all of it

difficulty with self-perception. “ in its simplest form, how they see themselves versus how the rest of the world does can be brutally different. some may feel they carry or actually embody nothing but shame and shameful acts - that they are "bad". others believe themselves to be fundamentally helpless; they were let down by so many who could've stopped their abuse but didn't [...] many see themselves as responsible for what happened to them [...] and, countless others may feel defined by stigma, believe they are nothing more than their trauma, worry they're always in the way or a burden, or they may sense they're just completely and utterly different from anyone or anything around them - they are alien. startling as it is, all of these feelings and more can live inside someone whom, to you, seems like the most brilliant, competent, strong, and compassionate human being you know. ”

she holds herself partially responsible for her father’s abuse - this is ALSO outright stated as canon, as seen here and here. the idea of helplessness, and particular bringing in the idea of learned helplessness ( thank u @/unsighty for pointing that out ) is ALSO very important to note here ... note in the shifuku page she says, “ i couldn’t do anything for shouto. ” both fuyumi AND natsuo also probably struggle with the idea of being a burden ( that neglect says hello ! ) / being in the way, too.

i also really like this note about how these feelings can be present in someone labeled “ brilliant, competent, strong, and compassionate ” ... because that’s exactly what fuyumi is seen as.

interruptions in consciousness. “ some may forget traumatic events (even if they knew of them once before), relive them intrusively, recall traumatic material in a different chronological order, or other distressing experiences of what is called dissociation. dissociation is a symptom that exists on a spectrum, ranging anywhere from harmless daydreaming or temporarily "spacing out"; to more disruptive episodes of feeling disconnected from one's body or mental processes, not feeling real, or losing time; all the way to the most severe, which includes switching between self-states (or alters), as is seen in dissociative identity disorder. episodes of missing time can range anywhere from a few minutes, a couple days, or even large chunks of one's childhood. The larger gaps in time are typically only seen in did, but those with c-ptsd alone can still endure 'interruptions in consciousness' that result in memory gaps, poor recall, traumatic material that is completely inaccessible, or, conversely, re-experiencing trauma against their will (e.g. flashbacks, intrusive images, body memories, etc.). ”

while this is definitely a symptom we see more of in shouto ( my boy is dissociating 24/7 ) , fuyumi experiences it sometimes as well. memory gaps, poor recall, and particularly re-experiencing trauma applies to fuyumi here - i think by and large she deals with intrusive imagery; i.e., while she’s in the kitchen, if she hears shouto nearby, or sometimes if she hears the kettle whistling / crying on the tv, she gets a flood of memories of shouto and her mother on the floor in the kitchen.

i think dabi can definitely be HEAVILY attributed to the idea of these losses in time, disconnecttions and self-states - and like with fuyumi, he definitely experiences intrustive imagery. we see that here, i think.

difficulty with relationships. “ this refers more to a survivor's potential to feel completely isolated from peers and not even knowing how to engage, to harboring an outright refusal to trust anyone (or just not knowing why they ever should), trusting people way too easily (including those who are dangerous, due to a dulled sense of alarm), perpetually searching for a rescuer or to do the rescuing, seeking out friends and partners who are hurtful or abusive because it's the only thing that feels familiar, or even abruptly abandoning relationships that are going well for any number of reasons. ”

fuyumi, first of all, definitely struggles to know how to engage with her peers. she’s outgoing and clearly a people person - so it’s often a question why she’s so nervous and struggles to make relationships and ... well. here’s why.

i don’t think fuyumi outright refuses to trust anyone, but there is intense hesitance and unsureness, particular for certain groups of people: men, people who are much taller & bigger than her, people who have some kind of fire affinity / ability, and people who are loud. the idea of perpetually searching for a rescuer, or to do the rescuing ... while typically you might think she falls under the former ( and i think she does, in a way. fuyumi never talks about her trauma, but her concept of love ties into this - someone who can take her away from her father, someone who has the power to do that? someone who is unafraid of him, or someone that he has no hold over? yeah. looking @ kenta n nishiki w this one ), fuyumi also searches to do the rescuing. once again i’m referencing this page - “ she became a teacher to compensate the fact that she couldn’t protect her younger brother. ”

i’m also pointing at the “dulled sense of alarm” - in my canon, fuyumi, for example, went out and put herself in the way of danger and met with less than savory contacts in an attempt to find information on dabi, once she got the inkling he might be touya.

obviously shouto and natsuo also have this urge to rescue, and dabi doesn’t trust anyone.

the perception of one's perpetrators. “ this can be one of the most insidious battles for some survivors with c-ptsd -- even if it seems crystal clear to those on the outside. victims of such prolonged trauma may eventually surrender, assuming their abuser(s) total power over them, possibly even maintaining this belief once they're 'free'. "i'll always be under their thumb, they call all the shots, they may even know what's best for me more than i ever will." others may feel deep sadness or profound guilt at just the thought of leaving them - including long after they've successfully left, if they were able. some may remain transfixed by their abuser's charming side or the warm public persona that everyone loves; it may feel truly impossible to think ill of them. many hold a constant longing for their abusers to just love them - craving their praise well into adulthood, slaving away in their personal lives just to make them proud. alternatively, there are others who may obsess about them angrily, holding only hatred and disdain for them to the point of persistent bitterness and/or vengefulness. some can even stir desires to seek that revenge. (though, it should be clearly noted that it's not at all common for them to actually do so. It's more about the thoughts than the actions.)

many survivors can have a primary, more surface-layer set of thoughts and feelings about their perpetrator(s), particularly when asked. they may know what they're "supposed to say" or "supposed to feel", and then follow suit. but it's helpful to know that a collection of all these responses can, and often does, coexist within one person, vacillating between extremes underneath what's shown to the world or even to themselves. day to day, and year to year, their feelings may shift - and - what the survivor knows to be true intellectually versus what they feel emotionally may remain incongruent for a very long time. ”

OKAY SO. THAT’S A BIG ONE. THAT’S A LOT TO READ. but i think it’s very, very important to fuyumi’s reaction to her trauma, and also to the fandom misconceptions of her. fuyumi clearly is very attached to her father. there’s no denying that. and the particular sentences that stand out to me here are “some may remain transfixed by their abuser’s charming side or public persona” and “they know what they’re supposed to feel”. i’ve said continuously that her father being a hero, and one so well-known and praised at that, has HEAVILY affected her views of him ! as a child fuyumi conflagrated his public persona as the “real” him. she struggled with this...... idea that his violence + aggression were a kind of "fake" version of him - aka "that's not the real him", "he's not always like that", "he used to be a lot nicer", etc. etc. and it’s only as she got older that she moved away from this line of thinking, though she still catches herself with it now and then. and, of course, fuyumi only ever wanted his attention and praise. she worked tirelessly to please him, trying to get him to come to her skating competitions, getting top marks in school, attending todai, always having dinner on the table in spite of her obligations.

it’s also so important to note the second paragraph in this section. fuyumi knows she should be enraged, she should want nothing to do with him, but that’s just ... really difficult for her, i think, especially when unlike shouto and natsuo, she remains in that environment. so there’s this disconnect between her desire for his love + making him proud, to defend him, to make their family “whole” again vs. the knowledge that she shouldn’t want anything to do with him.

natsuo holds that persistent bitterness, and dabi definitely wants revenge so um. yes. next point

one's 'system of meanings'. “ of the many, many well-observed developmental disruptions those with c-ptsd face, one that many find to be the toughest to conquer [...] is what's referred to as one's 'system of meanings' ; an area that, after being subjected to such tumultuous trauma, can feel almost irreparable. what this criterion is referring to is the struggle to hold on to any kind of sustaining faith or belief that justice will ever be served to indiscretions of ethics and morality. these survivors' outlook on life and the world at large can be unfairly contorted, and understandably so.

they may doubt there is any goodness or kindness in the world that isn't selfish-hearted. they may worry they'll never find forgiveness. others may even believe they only came to this world to be hurt, so there can be no good coming for them. this level of hopelessness and despair, as well as these greater meanings assigned to their suffering, can fluctuate greatly over time. there may even come several years where things no longer feel so bleak or as though they were conned of a meaningful life. but, as more layers of trauma are processed in therapy, or new memories bubble to the surface, they may wrestle with it once more as new feelings strike a devastating chord inside their chest. this is a common experience for so many survivors, and can have lasting ramifications with each plunge. ”

this point is, clearly, much more extreme in her brothers. shouto’s aggravation at being reprimanded for breaking the law when it meant doing good; natsuo’s clear resentment of heroes; and this one is, of course, most prevalent in dabi. see: “ the struggle to hold on to any kind of sustaining faith or belief that justice will ever be served to indiscretions of ethics and morality, ” or “ they may doubt there is any goodness or kindness in the world that isn't selfish-hearted. they may worry they'll never find forgiveness. ” LIKE HELLO. the hatred of heroes, the idolization of stain. SCREAMS DABI

i think fuyumi’s ‘system of meanings’ is ... much less disturbed than her brothers’ ( COUGH DABI COUGH ), but there still is some disruption there. by and large, fuyumi still believes that the good in the world outweighs the bad - but the disruption in her belief is also going to be that the hero system is a falsity, it’s a sham, it’s glorified and she inherently dislikes the concept of heroism.

so anyway. i’m upset hbu

#✲ \ 𝚃𝙾 𝙸𝚂𝙼𝙴𝙽𝙴 ‚ meta.#head empty FUYUMI ONLY !!!#abuse //#child abuse //#domestic abuse //#ask to tag //#long post //

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mbti-notes · 4 years ago

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What do you think is the best way to deal with the fear of things getting even more conservative and harsh? I'm so scared about the future, living in a dystopian society and having all my rights taken as a non binary queer person. Infj.

I suppose you’re referring to US politics? Please be more specific because the majority of my readership isn’t from the US. You’re asking a loaded question that basically requires me to agree with the premise that everything will be doomed. I can’t agree with that, since I purposely don’t approach politics in a reactive way.

When you’re drowning in fear, you’re not thinking straight. One of the reasons political discourse has reached the lows that it has in the US is because of incessant screaming and hyperbole. The political mediascape is a for-profit machine that is designed to work people up, manipulate their emotions, and keep them living in fear of “enemies”. This creates the mindset of being in a constant fight for survival against various abstractions of “evil”, and it’s much easier to separate you from your money when you’re so threatened that you’re willing to pay to feel safe/validated. The more that people get sucked into this war mentality, the less capable they are of making wise political decisions, since every important problem gets made into an oversimplified “wedge” issue to test your loyalty to your team.

The world is a lot more complex than red vs blue. To make a living, I have to follow news from around the world very closely. Yes, people get heated about politics, but observe the political reporting from other countries and you will see a difference in the tone and quality. In some countries, there are, gasp!, more than two viable political parties, and thus, more ideas and approaches to choose from. The US has commodified political fear and outrage like no one else by purposely pitting people against each other like rival sports teams, in a state of perpetual conflict, and, most importantly, always distracted from the underlying power structures that are making their lives worse.

To be clear, I’m not a conservative, though I’ve been surrounded and preached to by conservatives my whole life - I engage with them continuously. I am certainly angered by people being stripped of their rights and opportunities. I am certainly depressed when I see people abused and oppressed. I am certainly frustrated when my life suffers from the decisions of politicians I did not vote for. However, I staunchly defend freedom and diversity of beliefs and values. I often have to remind people that many countries and cultures around the world are conservative, and they are not abject hellscapes. Do not equate conservatism with dystopia, barbarism, fundamentalism, extremism, terrorism, xenophobia, or lord of the flies - it doesn’t matter who is doing it, hyperbole and stereotypes are dehumanizing, which enables the violence of war mentality. Conservatism, at its best, is actually needed by society to function well. Progressivism, at its best, is actually needed by society to function well. Intelligent political discourse begins with each of us getting our facts and concepts correct, otherwise, there’s no hope of cooler heads prevailing. It’s important to correctly identify the cause of a problem by labeling it properly.

Every system has flaws and every system will eventually fall apart when those flaws are left to fester and worsen. The US is supposed to be a democracy, right? A democracy is only ever as smart as the people participating in it. Can you say, with a straight face, that Americans have a deep understanding of their political system and work hard to be well-informed of all the political, economic, social, and international issues that the country grapples with? Can you say that the majority of people even understand the political terminology they use?

The US is admired around the world for its individualism. Individuals succeed and fail by their own hand. Individuals are free to pursue their own happiness and well-being. “The Land of Opportunity”, right? Americans have exported this idea, drawing immigrants from all around the world. However, individualism, taken to an extreme, exacts a very steep price. The bonds which hold individuals together to form a well-functioning society gradually weaken over time. This is a huge problem if you hope to make good collective decisions, which is what elected officials are tasked to do.

The language and currency of politics is power. With power, you get to write the rules. Without power, you are subject to someone else’s rules. It’s really that simple and crass. The purpose of there being many different voices in a discussion is to make sure that no 1 agenda/group gets to dominate the discussion and become too extreme. Opportunists, corporations, and media companies figured this out a long time ago, so they do what they can to shut down nuanced debate and discussion. They all have a deep vested interest in hyping up the individualist ethos of American culture, not because they actually care about “culture” in any noble sense, but because they know that individuals have very limited power. One person alone cannot disrupt the status quo, and keeping everyone psychologically isolated means that those with power can keep enriching themselves without disruption.

Currently, almost every major aspect of American society is designed to stop you from realizing and using your power. Media keeps you locked in fear, feeling victimized, demonizing each other. Big corporate interests keep you hyperfocused on your own emotional vulnerabilities, telling you to earn and consume your way to a false sense of power, as they quietly dismantle workplace and social supports that would preserve your actual power. The prevailing social mandate to be ever productive and “successful” keeps you running like a hamster on a wheel, with little energy to spare for anything else. You are expected, at adulthood, to become a self-made person, never having to rely on anyone for anything, thereby eroding your ties to your roots and kin. If you fail, you are shamed and dubbed a loser, and expected to redouble your efforts to chase higher social status. And some people simply choose to drop out completely, thus relinquishing any social power they had.

In US society, those in power abuse the archetype of the “individual” and the virtue of “independence” to siphon more and more power. Individualism, in its most immature form, is really just self-centeredness. Everyone is only out for themselves and grabbing what they can before someone else does. People fight each other for scraps. And the ultimate goal of life is to have more than the people around you, such that you have the power and privilege to shield yourself from the other hungry dogs. There is no bigger picture to aspire to beyond one’s own survival and daily pleasures. If this is the underlying ethos of your society, are you surprised that the political system reflects it? A lot of people around the world look at the US and mostly see a bunch of immature adolescents.

Transcending social forces isn’t easy. Power is always unevenly distributed, so it is always ripe for abuse, and fighting against abuses of power requires sustained effort. Therefore, it’s important to understand the many ways that power is used to oppress. I’ve spent a lot of time studying historical movements, political philosophy, and power dynamics, so my view of politics is always the long view. I believe that political progress is constant work. I don’t believe in end goals or being free to rest on your laurels. I believe history teaches us that, whatever your political allegiances, the complacent eventually become the victims. I believe that social change is relatively easy to understand by observing the way that power changes hands in society.

Politics boils down to an endless series of change-and-backlash sequences. Whenever one group takes a significant political step, someone somewhere will lose out on some power and privilege, and they’re not going to take it lying down. Fear and anger drive the changes, and fear and anger drive the backlashes. Rinse and repeat. When the tide turns against you, it only means that it’s your turn to step up again. Fear and anger are not reasons to give up, rather, they are the wake up call that spurs the next round of changes. From conflict comes motivation.

Political power is gained through organization. The fastest way to accumulate power, especially in a democracy, is to stand together and pool your resources. But what is the motivation for organizing? Usually anger. Civil rights are never won by waiting around for the privileged to relinquish their power. No, people get together to claim their rights, DEMAND change, and MAKE the changes that they want to see, refusing to surrender to oppression. They loudly infiltrate social spaces, influence officials, run for office as representatives, and accumulate the political power to rewrite the rules. This is true whatever your political stripe. This is what conservatives have excelled at for the past thirty years in the US.

However, as soon as you change the status quo, there will always be people that want to reverse it. It is difficult for younger people to grasp, but politics has no end, it is merely an ongoing struggle for power, as power changes hands from the complacent to the aggrieved, and then back again. For example, LGBTQ people view a right-dominated supreme court as a danger to their existence, for good reason, and that should motivate them to fight back even harder to reclaim their right to equality. Conservatives view a right-dominated supreme court as progress, and having achieved that success, they will become complacent, which provides the opening for progressives to regroup and rise again.

The only escape from this cycle comes in the form of death or transcendence. To transcend means to see the bigger picture of what can be achieved, so that you are able to set aside the petty and work for something greater. Human beings have had their transcendent moments here and there throughout history, so they are certainly capable of it. Progress on civil rights has indeed been made over many decades, but there is always more work to do, as long as there are people that don’t view it as “progress”. For example, the fact that, after decades of tireless activism, the majority of Americans now support same-sex marriage, is something you should be building upon, rather than only focusing on the setbacks.

If you think that I’m singling out the US, I’m not. Oppression happens everywhere. It is a part of human nature to be egotistical, complacent, and short-sighted. But that’s not the only part of humans. For a democracy to work at its best, we have to appeal to the better parts of our human nature, i.e., the parts of us that: understand and care about how we affect each other, appreciate hard-won freedoms and never take them for granted, and envision a better future and plan well for it. The best changes come from passion and inspiration - not fear and anger. If you, as an individual, are not capable of bringing out and offering up your own better nature by transcending the worst parts of yourself, you can’t really expect the sociopolitical system to be capable of it, either. If you, as an individual, always lose sight of the bigger picture that you’re aiming for, then how will you help others see the importance of your cause?

Gandhi said: “We but mirror the world. All the tendencies present in the outer world are to be found in the world of our body. If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him. This is the divine mystery supreme. A wonderful thing it is and the source of our happiness. We need not wait to see what others do.”

IMO, the job of a good citizen involves: 1) caring about the broader impact that your vote has and educating yourself properly so that you make wise voting decisions, 2) exercising your power by actively participating in organizations that advocate for the changes that you want, and 3) having enough self-awareness to avoid being emotionally manipulated into making destructive political judgments. Humans aren’t perfect, but they don’t have to be to create a well-functioning society. Humans make better decisions when the social atmosphere encourages them to open up the mind and heart. We all have a part to play in creating an encouraging social atmosphere for people to deliberate more carefully on their political beliefs.

Are you an unwitting pawn of the media, rewarding the players that only care about getting your eyeballs for ad revenue? Are you only caring about political issues because you read something that incited your outrage? Are you resigned to cynicism, indifference, gloom, or paranoia? Are you all about “owning the enemy”? Are you only concerned about your own prospects in life? Are you waiting helplessly for someone to hand you what you deserve?

OR: Are you joining organizations that create positive change? Are you listening to the experiences of the people around you and understanding how their reality informs their politics? Are you doing the hard work of inspiring the people around you to be their better selves? Do you hope that everyone in your country has a chance to live their best life? Do you stand up to support people in need and work to eliminate injustice? Will you learn the best way to (re)claim what is owed to you from those that deny or oppress you?

You are only one person, so your power is limited. What are you doing to amplify your voice and extend the reach of your power? Are you dying or transcending? A democracy is only ever as strong as the people participating in it.

#politics #lgbtq #history #conflict #power #media #social media #ask

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mediaeval-muse · 4 years ago

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Book Review

Confessions of the Fox. By Jordy Rosenberg. New York: One World, 2018.

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

Genre: historical fiction, queer fiction

Part of a Series? No

Summary: Set in the eighteenth century London underworld, this bawdy, genre-bending novel reimagines the life of thief and jailbreaker Jack Sheppard to tell a profound story about gender, love, and liberation.

Jack Sheppard and Edgeworth Bess were the most notorious thieves, jailbreakers, and lovers of eighteenth-century London. Yet no one knows the true story; their confessions have never been found. Until now. Reeling from heartbreak, a scholar named Dr. Voth discovers a long-lost manuscript—a gender-defying exposé of Jack and Bess’s adventures. Is Confessions of the Fox an authentic autobiography or a hoax? As Dr. Voth is drawn deeper into Jack and Bess’s tale of underworld resistance and gender transformation, it becomes clear that their fates are intertwined—and only a miracle will save them all.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: sexual content (as in sex acts, not the mere presence of lgbt+ people), blood, graphic depiction of top surgery, violence, racism, gender dysphoria

Overview: I didn’t know what I was expecting when I picked up this book, but something about it just hit all the right angles for me. I adore historical fiction that not only aims to imitate the aesthetics of the period, but also focuses on underrepresented identities, such as queer, non-white, and working or poverty class people; thus, it was inevitable that I would find Confessions of the Fox would be so engrossing. I do understand that this book might not be for everyone, as Rosenberg plays with a lot of academic ideas that usually fall in the realm of theory, but personally, I loved that this book wasn’t just about trans identity. While gender and identity and queerness were at the heart of this book, Confessions was also about archives and policing and commodities and so much more - things that were related and engaged the more academic part of my brain, but somewhat complicated for casual reading. Nevertheless, it was ambitious and smartly-constructed, so I’m giving it a high rating, even if I have quibbles here and there.

Writing: As a former academic and lover of history, I very much enjoyed Rosenberg’s approach to genre, form, and writing. It would have been easy to simply write a story using modern aesthetic tastes, but Rosenberg goes out of his way to imitate the prose style of the 18th century. I loved the richness of the vocabulary and the complexity of the sentences, as well as the juxtaposition of the sacred and profane. It was refreshing to read such beautiful prose that the author clearly put a lot of love into, and if you want to be so immersed in a story that you feel like you’re reading a historical document, I think Rosenberg does a wonderful job.

I also really loved the way Rosenberg wrote about trans identity in the 18th century. There are passages, for example, where Jack’s attention wanders while being dead-named, where Jack expresses feelings of confusion or freedom when talking about his physical body, where he talks about the process of coming into being when he heard Bess use his name, etc. I thought these passages were the most beautifully written and impactful, and they stayed with me the most after I finished the book.

These 18th century “confessions” are accompanied by a number of footnotes, written by a character named Dr. Voth in the present day. In these passages, Rosenberg shifts his tone and style, thereby differentiating between past and present without having to constantly remind the reader that Jack and Bess’s story is told through something of a frame. I think the choice to have footnotes instead of chapters where Voth’s POV takes center stage was a good one - it more effectively created parallels between the 18th century story and Voth’s personal story, and reminded the reader that history (especially trans history) evolves as a result of a kind of archival work, collected in pieces by many different people. In that sense, form matched function, which I am always delighted to see in my novels.

That being said, I can’t say I enjoyed Voth’s voice all that much. This criticism is probably a personal preference rather than anything Rosenberg did wrong - I just think Voth’s voice felt a little too conversational, like he was talking to someone instead of writing.

Plot: Most of Rosenberg’s novel follows Jack Sheppard and Bess Khan as they discover Jack’s identity, evade arrest, and disrupt a horrifying commodity trade (so to speak). In my opinion, the plot points surrounding Jack’s personal journey were incredibly well-constructed; I felt that the evolution of Jack’s gender identity, the romance between Jack and Bess, and their evolution as criminals were all very compelling and touched on a number of engrossing themes, from gender to poverty to anti-capitalism. Granted, there were some areas where I think the pacing dragged, but part of me thinks this was due to the 18th century style and genre conventions, more than anything Rosenberg was doing wrong.

In Voth’s footnotes, we also get something of a personal story which includes Voth being coerced into working for an exploitative publishing company at the direction of his university administrator. As we go through the footnotes, Voth recounts conversations he had with these figures while also disclosing details about his failed relationships - with one ex in particular. While I did like the parallels that exist between the manuscript and Voth’s own life, there were some things that challenged my suspension of disbelief. For example, I would never expect an academic to record personal anecdotes and intimate confessions in footnotes for an academic project. Maybe that happens in academic circles outside mine, and I understand it needs to happen for plot reasons (just reading references to critical theory or secondary sources would be boring for most people), so this criticism is coming from a place of being too close to the setting surrounding the text, in a way.

I also think that there were some passages where sexual activity would be mentioned where it was not needed. I do understand, on some level, that sex and sexuality is an important topic in trans studies (and queer studies as a whole), and I don’t want to appear too prudish. However, I think random references to a character masturbating, even if they were making a point, were a bit egregious. I was especially put off by the story of a 15 year old masturbating (in the present-day footnotes), and though I understand the story was illustrating an academic concept and books should acknowledge that (many) teens do have sex drives, it was also a bit much for me, personally.

Characters: Jack, our primary protagonist, is interesting and complex not just because he struggles with his identity as a trans man, but also because he struggles with acting in ways that are not out of self-interest. Though he is a thief and thus acts in self-interest in understandable ways, he eventually uncovers an operation which involves the production of a drug-like substance (or something - that’s the best I can describe it). Bess demands that he destroy all samples so that the substance can’t be reproduced by others, but Jack wants to confiscate the samples for himself to make a huge profit. I liked that this conflict existed, not only because it showed Jack as having other challenges in his life other than his gender identity, but it also spurred character growth and emotional turmoil.

Bess Khan, a prostitute and Jack’s lover, was written in a way that respected sex work and provided commentary on race and policing. I really liked that she had a strong set of principles and desires that were larger than herself, and I liked that she was confident and forceful where Jack could be meek and unsure.

Other rogues were equally loveable and admirable. Jenny, another prostitute, was a nice example of women forming networks of support within the criminal underworld while also showing how white women (even prostitutes) are treated differently than non-white women. Aurie, a black queer man, was also a supportive friend to Jack who is frequently instrumental in his survival. There is also a wide variety of named and unnamed rogues who were non-white and/or queer in some way, providing a rich array of characters that dispels the assumption that 18th century England was homogenously white and straight.

Our main antagonist, Jonathan Wild, is a bit less interesting in that he’s mainly just corrupt. I personally didn’t care for the chapters from his perspective, though I do understand that he functions as an important, symbolic figure that embodies all the things Jack and Bess work against (capitalism, police corruption, etc.).

Voth, our modern day commentator, has his moments, but sometimes, I would waffle back and forth between finding him engaging and finding him pretentious. I understand that he is supposed to be flawed, and I sympathize with a lot of his plights - mainly the pressure from his university and the anxiety he suffers from. But also, I found his voice to be somewhat combative, and if the point was to make a complicated, likeable-sometimes-unlikeable-other-times character, then I think Rosenberg succeeded.

TL;DR: Confessions of the Fox is a beautiful debut novel that engages with trans identity and history, though it does so in a way that may be a bit too academic for some readers. But while it definitely demands much of your attention, Rosenberg ultimately delivers a rich, engrossing story that reaches beyond the historical and textual boundaries of the page and invites the reader to see themselves as part of a vast network that is constantly “making” and “becoming” itself.

#book reviews

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years ago

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Survey #401

“my love is just waiting to turn your tears to roses”

Do you typically do your makeup the same each time? Or do you like to change it up often? IF I wear makeup, it's essentially always the same. Who is the last person you were in a room with just the two of you? What were you doing? Yesterday with Mom. We were trying to find the best deal on Eco Earth, a substrate we're getting for Venus. What was the last really good book you read, and what was it about? If we're talking REALLY good book, then The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. In short summary, it's a dystopian future novel where women are now basically just objects used only for repopulation, even having their names stripped from them. They follow very strict rules as society has returned to horrible misogyny. As a woman, the "oh my god, this is possible" aspect of it is terrifying, and it causes such a sense of disgust and urge to ensure women rights always continue to be fought for. Do you feel safe in your country? For the most part, I'd say. I guess. There are places I'd feel safer, though. How many meals do you eat a day? Three. Have you ever performed a solo dance in front of a crowd? No, but I was supposed to my senior year in high school; the seniors at my dance studio were always welcome to do a solo in celebration. Mine was a modern dance to "Coma White" by Marilyn Manson, wanting to tell a story about depression and how being medicated could feel, but I eventually decided like halfway through learning the choreography that I was just too nervous to do a solo. Have you ever sung a solo? No. When you go to McDonalds, what drink do you usually get? Coke. Have you ever had to call and complain about a product you bought? No. Do you own a designer purse? Definitely not. I'm not wasting that much money on something like that. What’s the weirdest rumor you’ve ever heard about yourself? Apparently, Jason and I had a baby in high school even though I was obviously never pregnant. To my knowledge, it was started by his ex. Who is now a good friend of mine lmaooo. Life is funny. What was your favorite Saturday morning cartoon growing up? Pokemon, of course. Would you ever have an affair? Nope. Would you ever have a one night stand? Nope. Where you present at any major historical events (e.g. 9/11)? No. What are your opinions on marijuana legalization? Legalize it, but treat it similarly to alcohol in that driving under the influence is illegal and punishable, and I believe you should be of a certain age. How about abortion? I am pro-choice. I was pro-life most of my own life, but now I am very firm about a mother being able to choose if she wants to endure a pregnancy or not. Like, that is a MASSIVE life event that almost inevitably changes - and sometimes traumatizes - people. I do believe a fetus is its own body and not part of the mother's, but rather in the mother's, but the belief that a woman decides what she wants in her body is her choice, too. I'm not very fond of people treating abortion as a simple, regular form of birth control, like it's nothing but an "lol whoops," but I still believe it is ultimately her decision, and she should always be free of judgment for doing what is best for her. Do you wear skirts or dresses more often? Neither. I wouldn't dare wear a skirt more so, though. What do you think about tipping at restaurants? There should always be an expected minimum, imo, unless the person was truly, sincerely, genuinely fucking awful. Waiters do not have an easy job, fight me about it, and they're just trying to survive while putting on a happy, jovial face, all the while dealing with hungry people who can be such assholes. I believe the actual tip should relate to actual service, but again, give them something. Would you ever get back together with any of your exes? One, absolutely. The other would take a shitload of consideration and proper communication on his part. Do you have a preferred coffee brand? No, because I don't like coffee. Do you usually befriend your coworkers, or do you prefer to keep work separate from your personal life? IF I had a job, I'd like to build a friendship with those I have to engage with almost every day. What is something you frequently forget? Dates, ages, names, what I was about to do five seconds before I forgot... Pretty much everything. My memory is frightfully poor. Is there any drama currently going on with your family? No. When you take a nap, do you nap in bed or on the couch? In my bed. Were you raised by both of your parents? If not, then who raised you? Both; my parents split when I was somewhere around 17, though, but I'd say there wasn't much more "raising" to do at that age. Have you ever stolen anything? If so, why? No. Have you ever plagiarized someone else's work? Hell no. What's your most-used mode of transportation? My mom's car. Have you ever taught someone else a useful skill? Not to my recollection. Does seeing everyone else's 'perfect lives' posted on social media ever bring you down or affect how you feel about yourself? It actually does, honestly. Not ALWAYS, but if I'm being honest, it does most of the time. I've contemplated deleting Facebook for that reason, but with is also comes things that make me happy, and I think I'd feel even more isolated without it. What is your favorite Hostess/Little Debbie snack? This is SO impossible for me to answer. I loooove Hostess and Little Debbie treats. I want to say honeybuns, but I also love those chocolate cupcakes with the white swirls on top, as well as Twinkies. Very few exist that I don't like. Do you/your family buy loafs from the bakery or bagged on the shelf? We just buy bagged bread. What’s the best news you’ve gotten lately? My APAP mask is definitively WORKING!!!!! :') Mom got an app that connects to the machine via Bluetooth that monitors the effectiveness of the mask, evaluating many factors of your sleep, and it's detecting a definite decrease in disruptive behaviors or something like that. It is so, SO encouraging to know that. ^And, the worst? Hm. Oh, probably some news on something serious a good friend is going through, but I don't feel it's my right to disclose what. It's just a very worrying and potentially dangerous issue that I wish I could help her with. Would you rather receive (or give) flowers, chocolates or jewelry? I'd appreciate any, but my fat ass is drawn to the chocolate, ha ha. What *I* would give would vary depending on what the person liked. How do you feel about coconut? Smells lovely, but is otherwise gross. ^ Ever cracked one open? No, but omg I've always wanted to, haha. What’s the best thing about being your gender? I guess the fact it's more "normal" and "accepted" to show our emotions. Fuck that generalization, though. I don't give a shit what your gender is, you experiencing emotions is NORMAL and welcomed to be expressed. ^ And the worst thing? The ability to be raped and impregnated by it. Do you do your part to save the earth? I don't do nearly enough. :/ We recycle, but that's about it. Well, none of us DARE to litter either, but I still don't feel like it's as much as the earth deserves from its denizens. Who do you think should have their portrait on a bill? I don't know or care. Why did you last feel exhausted? Yesterday was my niece's birthday, and I spent essentially ALL day playing with her and her brother. I have a very limited battery when it comes to kids, and I was running on empty for hours. My anxiety was SO high and I really needed a break from them, but they're too young to really understand that Aunt Britt can only socially run for so long before I'm completely burnt out, and TRUST ME, I was there for sure. I didn't want them to think they did something wrong, you know? I just had to keep going. I slept like a baby last night though for sure, haha. Have you ever used emotional blackmail to get your own way? Wow, no. Has anybody ever used emotional blackmail on you? No. Who did you last worry about and why? Sara for health reasons. Are you currently looking for a new place to live? Not actively, but Mom and I definitely want to move. We feel very out-of-place here in the suburbs. Which would you prefer as a view; mountains or the sea? Mountains. Do you have a mouse for your laptop? (Assuming you have a laptop) Yes. I canNOT play games with a trackpad. Do you apologize a lot? Extremely excessively. When you get married what do you think you’ll put most of your focus and money into? Do you mean like, for the wedding? In that case, probably the venue. Being a photography buff, I want a place I think is really pretty to have pictures taken. What’s something you complain about frequently? My legs hurting, my weight, and being hot. Do you have anything planned for the summer? Nope, and that's fine with me. I'd rather stay inside away from the heat. Who usually makes dinner in your household? My ma. Do you have a blog? Just on Tumblr. Does anyone in your family snore loudly? My mother does because of gerd, and at least when my father still lived with us, he snored super loud, too. Do you want to fix anything with anyone? Yeah, a few people. What shows do you watch? Right now, only Meerkat Manor: Rise of the Dynasty. Whenever The Edge of Sleep comes out, I will 110% be watching that, too, because Mark is a key actor in it. :') Plus the concept seems super cool. Have you ever broken someone’s heart? I don't know. Who was the last person you had a conversation with on the phone? Me mum. Does the song you’re currently listening to remind you of anyone specific? No, given it has like... one lyric, haha. Do you own any TV show soundtracks? No. Last thing you did that made you feel like an adult? I mean I guess sign myself in at the doctor's. What’s your favorite picture of your mom? Dad? Oh my god, there's a candid one I got of Mom laughing when she was posing as my subject for a photography assignment, and I cherish it with ALL my heart. I want to share it with essentially the whole world, but yeah, I'm not gonna put my mom's picture here. As for my dad, I like this one I took of us at Red Lobster for his birthday a year or two back. Last TV show series you finished? Fullmetal Alchemist with Sara. Favorite flavor of cream cheese? Regular. What US state would you like to visit? Alaska. Last meal you made yourself? I put a chicken pesto thing in the microwave earlier for dinner.

#survey #surveys #random questions #lyrics: ''whispers in the dark'' by skillet

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magicofthepen · 4 years ago

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Gallifrey Relisten: Lies

In the chaos of.....all of November....totally forgot I meant to relisten to this episode sooner! Which is odd because Series 2 is definitely one of the high points of Gallifrey for me (apparently listening to everything slowly collapse into the civil war is super engaging and interesting? idk Series 2 just does a lot of solid character work and storytelling and good narrative progression to the “ahhh everything is very bad” finale...and I’m not sure how to feel about this, given *gestures at the world these days*). But anyways, now for some thoughts on the series opener:

Fun fact: From the TV show alone, Romana I was my favorite. (This had something to do with her having more character growth in season 16 than season 17, since her early days on the TARDIS involve the “wait my academic success does not necessarily translate to the real world” realization and learning about worlds and people different from her own and growing from High-Achieving Student to Adventurer in her own right. Also I loved the grudgingly-working-together to actual-friends arc with her and the Doctor. I was a bit less interested in her character when she was just going around being a capable adventurer, although I did become invested in Romana II in her last episodes, as she quietly grapples with the issue of what she wants to do next in life and eventually chooses to go off on her own. Also to be fair, I appreciate the fun times of Season 17 a lot more now because Romana being happy and having a good time traveling around the universe? What a concept.)

All this to say: me on my first listen of Gallifrey was very excited about Romana I being in this episode. And even though it’s not quite as much of a !!!!! thing for me these days (the Gallifrey audios have long since solidified Romana II as my favorite), I do love the (sort of) multi-Romana interaction that happens in this one.

Brax essentially going “yeah the education system is supposed to be shitty and take an emotional toll on you” sir.

“I am not xenophobic” — Oh yeah, this scene is Narvin at his most unlikeable. “I’m not being bigoted, I’m just trying to protect Gallifrey, the fact that I assume that people who aren’t from here inherently can’t be trusted, and also go on about how they’re too loud and disruptive and don’t belong is definitely not a bigoted worldview nope.” Yikes. Very glad he’s going to see the error of his ways.

The Narvin and Darkel rant session does actually do a good job at explaining what’s been happening and establishing the primary conflict of the series while not feeling like it exists solely to be an info dump to catch up the listener. Like, it’s definitely a setup scene, but it is an interesting setup scene.

“But she is my President, and it’s my job to ensure that she gets what she wants and needs, efficiently and without question. Well, too many questions anyway.” Okay this moment and Darkel and Wynter’s conversation later about Narvin’s weakness (“Loyalty. An unswerving loyalty to his office and his precious CIA. And above all, loyalty to his president.” “He despises President Romana!” “Oh yes, of course. But it’s the position, not the person, he places that trust in.”) are really setting up some key Narvin Character Theses that we’re going to see play out this series (and also that the narrative is going to push in really interesting ways later on..... “position not the person”.....just you wait....)

Darkel and Narvin being indignant that Romana changed the law is just....hilarious in a kind of horrifying way? Oh no, the President worked with the legislative body to actually get a law passed. The horror.

“She has a temper. And a very long memory.” This is definitely about the CIA trying to overthrow her in Neverland but uhhh also it’s about Etra Prime and the Powers That Be on Gallifrey never making a serious effort to save her (at least from her perspective).

Yeah Darkel as antagonist is a bit abrupt (not that I particularly mind, she’s a good enough “love to hate” character that her not being set up as an antagonist from Series 1 doesn’t really bother me). But yeah, not sure what was going on behind the scenes, but it doesn’t seem like in Series 1 the plan was for her to be the primary Series 2-3 antagonist.

Darkel to Narvin: “You will let me know when you’ve decided.” Ooh yeah, this moment is quite a good setup of Narvin’s arc throughout this series — he has to decide where his loyalties truly lie.

Wynter is really interesting as far as character dynamics go, because he breaks the whole “Romana and Leela are the youngest people in the room” vibe — and it is just really interesting to see Romana interacting with this quite young Time Lord and specifically compare/contrasting it to how she interacts with young Time Lords in the later series when she’s older and a bit more emotionally mature and has more of the “mentor figure” vibes. (There isn’t really a conclusion to this thought, it’s more of a “huh, I’m thinking about this now” thing.)

“It’s been seven weeks, Andred. It’s hardly a lifetime.” Romana: please you have not been in a cell for that long, calm down.

“I thought you two were friends.” “A president of the High Council of Gallifrey cannot allow herself the luxury of friends.” Ahhhh, where it begins!! I’m extremely weak for the arc of Romana opening herself up to friendship and love, what of it.

Honestly, Andred’s politics have always been very confusing to me? And it probably doesn’t help that the show is all “he’s fully Andred now” but also “he lived as Torvald a long time and that’s still influencing him.” Like both of those things can be true, but it’s a bit unclear what Andred’s true priorities and motivations really are right then — and honestly, it just comes off like his primarily desire is to be useful to someone, and be granted some form of autonomy/power/respect in return (aka he doesn’t have any real clear principles that are motivating him). Also complaining about Romana opening Gallifrey up to aliens is such a bad look dude.

Romana to Andred: “I control your future. I control whether you have one.” Umm???? The foreshadowing?????

Andred, no. Andred, the free time pun was too much.

“I wish I had databanks. With a flick of a switch I could turn myself off, become unaware of all that has happened.” Leela ahhhhhhhhhh. (The desire to give Leela all the hugs and emotional support is very very high throughout these next couple seasons especially.....her mental health is in such a rough place ahhhh.)

Andred regenerated “nearly six months ago” and it’s been six and a half (or seven, depending on which character is speaking) weeks since A Blind Eye, which took place an unspecified amount of time after The Inquiry, which took place two weeks after Square One...(don’t mind me, just taking some notes on the timeline math...)

I believe a couple times in the Gallifrey audios, they reference the position of “Vice President,” which is very weird because that doesn’t seem to be a position that exists?? Chancellor is definitely seen as the #2 spot?? Idk what’s going on here.

“You are appreciated, highly regarded, and were I to lose you I would be...disappointed.” Romana, you started strong and then you got a bit emotionally repressed there.

“Torvald was a fool, but he was my fool.” .....I am not saying anything.....I will not be commenting on the Narvin and Andred scene......I just.......you know. There are some fics you cannot unread.

Romana does really trust Brax here, doesn’t she. And she really doesn’t trust easily post-Etra Prime, so this is a big deal — making it all the rougher when she (in the short term) finds out he meddled with her memories and (in the long term) has to deal with him doing things like temporarily betraying her for the greater good of protecting her while not explaining at all what’s really going on.

Okay, yes the whole pearl-clutching about Romana changing the laws is kinda silly and horrifying in a “how dysfunctional is your society if passing one (1) law is drastic change??” way, but also the flip side of this, aka “we thought these things were entrenched as norms in our society and would not change and then here comes along one president who’s trying to undo all of these things and threaten the whole system”.....y’all that hits differently now in the month November in the year 2020. In the Gallifrey audios the context is different — they are for sure overreacting to Romana’s very mild idea of “perhaps....we could change some things about society” but the way they talk about her political changes in the episode — feels a bit too close to home!

Romana’s voice right when she sees Leela....she missed her.....

Pandora being the “first female president” is a very weird and very unnecessary bit of misogyny? Ah yes, we must specify that this ancient president of Gallifrey who was wildly power-hungry and cruel and went too far and almost ruined everything Gallifrey had built was a woman?? Why was that bit of dialogue needed?? Tbh early Gallifrey does have a problem in general with characters played by women tending to be power-hungry....which is partly down to the fact that they have so so few women in the cast in general, it’s Romana, Leela, and Villains, mostly. (The lack of women in the supporting cast in early Gallifrey is going to be an ongoing complaint.)

“You should not be afraid of your feelings, K9.” / “Yes, thank you, if we can move on from the emotional support group session.” Pffffff

I do choose to ignore the implication that Romana returned to Gallifrey and became President because of the subconscious influence of Pandora/the Imperiatrix Imprimatur nudging her towards power. Tbh it’s simply not interesting to me to have such a pivotal character choice reduced to genetic/subconscious manipulation. Yes, Romana ended her TV run insisting she didn’t want to go back to Gallifrey (and even staying in another universe to avoid it), and yes, it creates this initial emotional dissonance suddenly jumping to stories where she’s President of Gallifrey. But I already did the headcanon work before I jumped into Big Finish to make it work for me, I didn’t need this weirdness.

Elaborating on this a bit more: There is something interesting to me about a person who left home and slowly ended up rejecting the narrow worldview she grew up with, cutting herself free from the place she was born — and then eventually choosing to return because she genuinely wanted to make that messed-up world better and believed she could. And it also creates a really interesting contrast with the Doctor: two Time Lords who came to realize that Gallifrey was pretty terrible actually, and one of them kept running away from it and rejecting Time Lord society, and the other came back and said maybe I can change things. Because both are understandable and complicated reactions to have to a messed-up home world, and there are different ways of trying to do good. And regardless of how her choices turned out, I always liked the idea that it was Romana’s own choice that brought her to Gallifrey again, and I don’t think Pandora needed to be shoehorned in to explain her actions.

Okay, I want to hear the follow up where Leela insists Romana tell the whole Key to Time story after hearing all of these random out of context bits and pieces.

Why does Brax admit to breaking the Laws of Time? The fact that he’s in contact with his past/future selves isn’t actually relevant to what he needs to tell Narvin? He literally could have just said that he hypnotized Romana, without mentioning that it was his future self who did it? (Also, it’s implied in this one that he pushes for Romana to use the mind wipe on Narvin because he wants the memory of that reveal erased, but somehow that’s the one thing that Narvin keeps because he uses that information against Brax later? Aka: how did Narvin remember that Brax told him this?)

And final thought: general internal monologue during this episode is just: Pandora arc Pandora arc Pandora arc here we go!! Because the Lies through Warfare run is really one of the more interesting bits of Gallifrey for me (Imperiatrix specifically ranks very high on my favorite episodes list), and I’m excited to be re-listening to/thinking about/hearing other people talk about these episodes!

Next Episode Reaction: Spirit

Previous Episode Reaction: A Blind Eye

#gallifrey audios #romana #leela #narvin #irving braxiatel #going to listen to the pod of rassilon episode on a long car ride tomorrow (well. today at this point) so very excited for that!#ramblings #emily listens to big finish #the relisten of rassilon

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isolavirtuosa · 4 years ago

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U-Turn

[fanfiction] NaruSasu

Started out as a short story exploring Reason #837 why Naruto and Sasuke didn’t get together in canon, Naruto is STRAIGHT!, but then it became this.

U-Turn

Isola Virtuosa

- 10 -

I didn’t even know that they had reached a verdict in Sasuke’s trial when I opened my door to find him standing there.

“But… how…?” I trailed off, staring at what must have been a mirage.

“They released me,” he said with a shrug.

I felt my mouth fall open, but no words came out.

“Can I come in?” he asked irritably.

“I, uh, yeah, of course, of course,” I said, standing aside.

He pushed past me, kicking off his shoes and making a beeline for the living room. He closed the curtains with a harsh tug, his eyes stuck in a seemingly permanent squint. I had fought with Kakashi for hours over how keeping him blindfolded wasn’t right, because something about light deprivation that Sakura had painstakingly explained to me but I just couldn’t remember.

No one listened to me about anything.

I’d also been removed from the proceedings for being too ‘emotional’ and ‘disruptive’.

And now it was all over, and Sasuke was here.

He sat on the couch, an arm tossed over his eyes like it was still too bright for him here in the dark.

I felt myself drawn to him. I moved slowly, letting him feel me coming before I leaned over the back of the couch and wrapped both arms around him, stub and all.

He breathed out heavily.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said quietly, leaning in closer and pressing my cheek to his.

He swallowed. “I…” he started to say, and stopped, his arm dropping from his eyes as he leaned back into me.

I couldn’t help but grin, squeezing him tightly.

Sasuke’s eyes met mine and his cheeks flushed. “Enough,” he muttered.

I bumped my forehead to his, then backed away. “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Oh, you know what, we should have a party! We could get everyone together and-”

“No.”

“Whaaaat?” I protested, climbing over the back of the couch and sitting next to him. “But you’ve been in prison for like months, and you’re finally free and you can do all the things that you missed out on!”

“I didn’t miss out on anything,” he said flatly.

“But everyone-”

“My head hurts and I just want to be here with you, okay?”

“I, uh, yeah, I mean… yeah, okay,” I said, not sure how to take that, but overall feeling happy. I just felt right when Sasuke was next to me.

We were both quiet, but it didn’t feel strained. Since the Valley of the End, our relationship had gotten easy. Late night talks in the hospital faded into daily visits to his holding cell. We’d probably spent more quality time together in the last year than we had in total the rest of our lives.

“You can finish that book,” he finally said, eyes closed and his head leaned back.

“Ah-HA, so you do like it,” I said, grinning. I had been reading Sasuke an assortment of books during his blind imprisonment, and the latest had been what I had assumed to be a cheesy teen romance recommended by Sakura, but had ended up being a really interesting mystery that also happened to have a surprisingly engaging romantic plot.

“It’s fine,” he said with a shrug, because Sasuke could never say anything nice about anything or anyone.

I bounded off to my room to pull the book from my ‘prison visit bag’ that I suddenly realized I wouldn’t need anymore. I grinned, coming back to flop on the couch and cracking the book open to start reading. I realized it was too dark to read, so I flipped on the table lamp.

Sasuke kept his eyes closed, but his posture seemed to relax the longer I read.

I found my eyes darting over the book to watch him, so close I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. Sasuke was really here, and I could feel myself smiling stupidly.

I tried to focus on reading, but I was starting to spend more time staring, and Sasuke finally caught on, eyes drifting open to meet mine.

Those eyes were mesmerizing.

“You stopped reading,” he observed drily.

“Nuh-uh,” I said.

His lips quirked into a crooked smile. “You definitely did.”

“You stopped reading!” I declared.

The smile evened out, soft and secretive. “Idiot. Pick up where you left off.”

“Who is the idiot here?” I grumbled. Then I startled as I felt a squeeze around my hand.

Sasuke’s eyes were closed again. “I like hearing your voice,” he said quietly, already reclaiming his hand like he hadn’t just reached out.

I swallowed. It was one thing to have the new-and-improved, vulnerable and now-fifty-percent-more-honest Sasuke in front of me but out of my reach due to a set of iron bars. It was quite another to have him sitting on my couch. I wanted to move heaven and earth for him, but I settled for reading him some fiction instead.

We finished the book.

Sasuke slowly unsank from the couch, eyes blinking open. “Thanks,” he said, standing up and stretching. His nub of a left arm barely reached over his head.

“Anything for my felon best friend,” I said, standing up, too, since that seemed to be what we were doing. “Are you hungry? You sure you don’t want to see anyone else?”

“God, no,” he said, which I assumed was his reply to the second question. He did look a little thin, though. “I just don’t want to think for a while, okay?”

“How does one not think?” I asked.

“I don’t know, I just watch you and do whatever you’re doing.”

“Jerk,” I said, giving him a playful shove.

He definitely looked like he wanted to shove me back, but he somehow restrained himself. “Naruto.”

“Yes?” I said, standing at attention.

“I know you said I could stay if I got out…”

“When you got out,” I corrected him.

He half-smiled at that. When had he started doing that? I hoped Sakura didn’t see because she claimed to be over him and didn’t need to be having any relapses. “Yes, well, here we are.”

“Here we are indeed,” I agreed.

“You don’t have to feel obligated.”

“I don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Naruto.”

“Sasuke.”

He looked at me.

“I want you here,” I said. “I need you here,” I correct myself.

“Lame,” he muttered, but there was that crooked half-smile again.

“Stay as long as you need,” I said firmly.

And he did.

- 9 -

Sasuke was simultaneously an amazing and terrible house guest.

He was always picking up after me, which made my apartment really clean, but also resulted in me never knowing where anything was.

He also cooked for me, which was delicious and nutritious, but the lack of cup noodles was a little depressing.

He was always there for me to come home to, but I knew he was there because he had nowhere else to go, and I knew he wasn’t happy here.

It had been almost five months now, and when I came clomping through the door, Sasuke already had dinner on the table.

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” I chirped, snagging a piece of fried chicken from the table and munching on it as I moved towards my room to dump my bag.

“Wash your hands,” Sasuke grumbled after me.

I was starting to think that living with Sasuke was probably what having a mother would be like, if said mother low-key couldn’t stand me.

“I don’t hear running water!” he yelled when I had dallied too long.

“Yeah, and I’m touching everything I possibly can!” I yelled back. We did enjoy pissing each other off.

Sasuke was scowling at his rice bowl when I came back.

“All nice and clean,” I said, waggling my fingers at him. The fingers of the prosthetic were a little stiff as I did so, but Tsunade said the arm would start to feel more natural eventually.

“You’re a pig,” he muttered, picking up the bowl and starting to eat.

“Yep” I agreed, picking up my own bowl and shoveling in as much food as could fit in my mouth.

He sneered at me.

I grinned.

There was the smallest uptick at the corner of his mouth.

I couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, so I focused on eating instead.

“I’ve got a place,” he said suddenly.

I opened my mouth to protest, but it was stuffed with food.

“Disgusting,” he growled at me.

I informed him that he shouldn’t just spring stuff on me while I was eating, but I don’t think he understood a word of it.

Or he was just pretending not to understand.

I swallowed the last of the food in my mouth as loudly and dramatically as possible. “I told you that you can just stay here.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because we’re best friends!”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, seeming to actually be getting annoyed now.

“Uhhh, because best friends being roommates is awesome?” I said.

That seemed to irritate him even more. “I’m not really interested in being your live-in butler.”

“You’re not-” I started to say, but that was actually pretty accurate.

“Realized the truth, then?”

“It’s not like I asked you to do all this stuff for me!” I protested.

“It’s just that you’re a lazy, pathetic slob, and I have no choice as long as I’m here if I want to maintain my personal dignity?”

“You’re an asshole,” I complained.

“Naruto, really, really think hard about who the asshole is in this situation.”

I thought about it really, really hard. “Shit, is it me?”

Sasuke swallowed down a smile.

His eyes wouldn’t meet mine, so I leaned into his vision.

The whole smile came out, lighting up his face.

“Why are you so good-looking?” I complained.

He quickly looked away again. “Jealous?” he muttered.

“Yes!” I exclaimed.

“Good,” he grumbled.

“Sasuke, don’t go.”

“I already put down my first month’s rent.”

“Why would you go and do that?!” I cried.

“You’re a big boy, Naruto,” he said, looking down his nose at me. “I’m sure you can live by yourself.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to,” I said. “I like living with you, even if you’re a nag.”

‘A nag?’ he mouthed at me.

“I mean, you’re super uptight and obsessive combustive or whatever, but you’re pretty alright sometimes,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“You’re ridiculous,” he informed me, going back to eating like the conversation was over.

And it was.

He moved out the next day.

“This is dumb,” I told him as I dumped the one and only box of things he had from my apartment on the floor of his new place.

“You’re dumb,” he answered easily.

“You don’t even have any pots and pans!” I said, gesturing around. “How are you going to eat?”

“You have literally one pot, Uzumaki,” he said, shaking his head.

“I have TWO!” I yelled.

“I don’t count the rusty one.”

“Why not?”

“How have you survived this long living on your own?” he asked, shaking his head.

“Very well, thank you!” I snapped.

“Naruto,” he said, shaking his head harder.

It always gave me a strange thrill when he said my name.

Somehow we ended up getting take out, sitting on the floor of Sasuke’s semi-furnished apartment and passing a bottle of cheap wine between us that Kakashi had given Sasuke as a housewarming gift.

It got late and the bottle got empty, so I made myself at home on Sasuke’s futon.

“Why are we still living together?” he complained, nudging me with his foot to get me to slide over onto the second futon that he set out. “I specifically moved out so we wouldn’t be living together anymore.”

“I like living with you,” I whined, kicking my feet around to show my protest.

“You’re a child,” Sasuke said, throwing a blanket over me and getting into his own futon.

“Sasukeeee,” I complained, creeping over to him and snuggling in close.

“Knock it off,” he muttered, turning his face from me.

“Jerk,” I said, closing my eyes and starting to drift. It was possible that I was mildly intoxicated.

“Naruto, move,” Sasuke said, startling me awake as he pushed me away.

“Neveeeeeer,” I complained, attaching myself onto him tightly.

His face whipped around to glare at me, and then our faces were just right there in front of each other, millimeters apart. Whatever he was going to snap at me died on his lips.

I snorted at that. If he could only see his face. He looked so uncool at that moment, and it was a memory I wanted to treasure forever. I leaned in closer, feeling the heated skin of his forehead against mine.

Sasuke’s breath caught and his eyes locked onto mine. There was something… hopeful… in his eyes.

I could feel myself going soft, reaching out my hand to rest against his cheek.

Then he pressed his lips to mine, warm and gentle.

It was just a brief touch and then it was over.

I shook my head at him, smiling.

It was like a signal, and suddenly his lips were back and it was much more than a simple touch, it was full of need and want and other nameless things, and what had I just done?

“Sasuke,” I said gently.

His mouth paused against mine.

“Sas’, I’m not gay,” I said, stroking his cheek with my thumb.

He stared at me.

I stared back evenly, trying to convey with my eyes that I was unbothered by this turn of events and still loved him like a brother.

He seemed to get the message, and he seemed to not like it very much, shoving me away and moving to make a run for it.

“Sasuke,” I repeated, grabbing his arm.

He turned back to look at me.

“It’s not a big deal,” I told him.

Something broke behind his eyes.

I realized that that had been the completely wrong thing to say.

He snatched his arm out of my grip and stormed out of the room.

“Sas’, come on,” I called, chasing after him. “This is your house, where are you going anyway?”

“Away from you!” he snapped, finally speaking for the first time.

“Okay, but… this is your house?” I tried again.

“Just fuck off, Naruto,” he said, and I could hear all the cracks in his voice.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I was definitely awake and sober now. What had I done? What had I done? Oh shit.

“Go,” he said, his voice getting smaller and smaller. “Please just go.”

“Sasuke,” I tried one more time.

He was standing in front of the kitchen sink, his back to me, unmoving.

“This doesn’t change anything…” I tried, wondering if I was cutting him with every word. “You’re my best friend. I don’t care if-”

“Go,” he growled, strength returning to his voice even as his shoulders seemed to be shaking.

“I’m going,” I said, backing my way towards the door. “I’m going, okay? I just want it to be clear that I don’t actually want to go and am only doing so because you asked me to.”

He didn’t say anything else.

There was nothing for me to do but leave.

- 8 -

“Naruto, no,” Sakura said, shaking her head. “No, no, no, you did not leave him like that.”

“What else was I supposed to do?!” I cried, knocking my heels anxiously against the counter that I was sitting on.

“Anything!” she cried exasperatedly. “Just don’t leave!”

“Well I did leave, and that’s where I’m at, so can you please give me some advice?”

Sakura sighed loudly and dropped herself onto one of her kitchen chairs. “Naruto.”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you’re not gay?”

I looked at her. I hesitated.

Her expression perked up at that.

“I’m not gay,” I said quickly before she could get too excited. “I definitely like girls.”

“Okay, but you could be bi,” she pointed out.

“I don’t like guys,” I said with a shrug.

“Okay, but you like Sasuke.”

I let her words sit between us for a moment. “I can’t say clearly that I… I don’t know. As you love to point out, I talk about Sasuke all the time, I think about him all the time-”

“He’s basically your reason for existence.”

“…that’s fair.”

She smiled at that.

“Like, I get all that,” I said. “I get that our relationship isn’t normal. But there’s no… spark?”

“You two literally set each other on fire,” Sakura said, not buying it.

“It’s hard to explain,” I said, shaking my head. “But when he kissed me, it was warm and it was nice and all, but there was no spark. It wasn’t… I don’t know. If I was in love with him, wouldn’t I have felt something… more?”

“So what you’re saying, if I am getting this correctly, is that the warm, nice feelings that Sasuke gives you are nothing compared to the cheap sparks you feel with all your floozies?” Sakura asked, giving me an unfriendly look.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” I grumbled, glaring at her.

“Interesting how you started going on all these dates after Sasuke came to live with you,” she commented.

“Interesting how?”

She shrugged.

“After the trial was finally over, maybe that was the first time in my life that I had time to put myself first,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and daring her to find fault with me just living my life for once.

“I…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “We all want you to be happy, Naruto. But really? Those underclassman girls? Couldn’t you find someone… better?”

“What’s wrong with them?!” I cried.

“They don’t have any… substance,” Sakura said. “They just like you because you’re the hero of Konoha; they don’t know anything about you.”

“That’s why we go on dates to get to know each other,” I explained to her.

“There are plenty of girls our age who like you, too, you know.”

“Yeah, but…” I trailed off. I didn’t know how to explain it without Sakura hitting me.

Her look turned suspicious.

“I just… need something different,” I said with a shrug. “I need… a break? I guess? Sometimes it’s nice to be around people who didn’t go through what we went through?”

Sakura was suddenly up on her feet and moving towards me.

I flinched.

“I’m not going to hit you, jerk,” she complained, punching me in the arm anyway.

I cringed, rubbing at the spot she’d hit.

“You want to be normal,” she said, her voice gentler now. “I get that. I do. Everything that’s happened the last few years… And then it seemed like things were finally going to get better and all that stuff with Sasuke being arrested happened…”

We were both quiet at that. Sasuke’s arrest and confinement had been a sobering reminder that things were not right with the village. When I thought about how Sasuke had been mistreated, tortured even, and had just endured it so he could stay…

Everything always came back to Sasuke.

“You really aren’t gay?” Sakura asked, sounding almost hopeful.

“I’m not gay,” I affirmed.

“What are you going to do?”

“I came here to ask you that!” I cried.

“You’re the Sasuke-whisperer,” she said, shaking her head. “All I ever seem to do is make him annoyed.”

“The Sasuke-whisperer?” I repeated incredulously.

“He listens to you, even if he belittles you the whole while,” she said with a smile. Then her face went serious. “He loves you.”

That was a heavy word to throw into the conversation.

I dropped my head in my hands and yelled my frustration, kicking my feet anxiously against the cabinets.

Sakura rested her hand on my head, calming and soothing.

“His face…” I mumbled.

“What are you going on about?” Sakura asked.

I finally sat up properly and looked at her. “His face when I rejected him… I hurt him. I really, really hurt him, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“He does have his pride.”

“Ughhh don’t remind me.”

“Just be your usual jackass self, and I’m sure things will go back to normal eventually,” she said, patting me on the head.

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” she said, climbing onto the counter and sitting next to me.

I leaned my head against hers, kicking my feet absently.

“It really doesn’t bother you, though?” she asked quietly.

“What?”

“That he likes you.”

“…no…?”

“It can be stressful on a friendship,” she said carefully.

“Are you trying to say something about my childish crush on you?”

“More about my childish crush on Sasuke, but that, too,” she agreed. “You could be so annoying, and it was uncomfortable.”

“Sorry,” I said, tapping her knee lightly. “I know. But it’s not like Sasuke’s anything like me, yeah? I mean, I act more like I have a crush on him than he acts like he has a crush on me.”

“That’s for sure,” Sakura snorted. “You really do. But I see it in him, you know? He’s just different with you. I think you don’t always notice, because how he acts when you’re around and how he acts when you’re not are completely different.”

“What, does he suddenly become a nice and charming guy?” I asked with my own snort.

She shook her head. “He’s… softer when he’s with you. He smiles more. His shoulders relax. When you two fight, he gets this wrinkle between his brows, and he finally looks young, he finally looks like the teenager he’s supposed to be. But when you’re not around, he’s just dark and… hard to approach. He has this impenetrable armor up that only comes down around you.”

I squinted at her. “And you don’t still have a crush on him, right?”

“What do you care?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Well you just seem to have put a lot of time and effort into your observations…”

“Don’t you keep like a diary about your Sasuke observations…?”

“That was for the trial!” I cried.

Sakura laughed.

I tried to laugh, but I felt tired and defeated. “Did I lead him on?”

“Yes,” she said flatly.

“Crap.”

“It’ll work out,” she assured me.

It didn’t work out.

- 7 -

It felt like we were twelve again.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Sasuke scoffed at me as he easily dodged my attack.

“It’s not even half of what I’ve got!” I roared as I chased after him.

He stopped mid-step, spinning around effortlessly and putting his sword to my neck.

I jerked myself back, leaning away from the glittering steel.

“Pathetic.”

“Is it?” I asked, my clone suddenly attacking from above.

“Absolutely,” he affirmed, taking his sword from my neck to slice through my clone.

It gave me the time to dive-bomb his legs.

Sasuke let out a grunt as we hit the ground, then took advantage of our momentum to flip me onto my back.

I got a foot free and kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying backwards.

Unfortunately, he had a grip on my leg, and I went flying with him.

We were a mess of fists and kicks and pain and blood, and I wasn’t quite sure when this training session had turned into a street brawl.

“What is wrong with you two?!” Sakura asked exasperatedly as she patched us up at the clinic.

“We were training,” Sasuke said, a sullen look on his face as he held a cold compress to his black eye.

“Is that what you call it?” she muttered, slathering the antibacterial ointment on my gaping sword wound with a little more roughness than seemed necessary.

“Owwww…” I whined.

She smacked me upside the head.

“You’re the worst doctor ever!” I cried.

“And you two are the worst patients!” she snapped back. “Why are you wasting my time with this juvenile nonsense?”

“We were training!” I protested.

“This is not normal training!” she yelled, smacking me again.

I stuck out my lower lip at her, rubbing my head.

“And don’t think I only blame this on the dumb blond!” Sakura said, turning her fury on Sasuke. “What were you thinking, using your sword on his prosthetic?! There could be permanent damage!”

Sasuke glared at her but didn’t speak.

“You’re being a child,” Sakura said, eyes locking with his.

Sasuke’s expression immediately transformed into rage, and I took a step back.

Sakura just raised an eyebrow. She had really grown in the last year and a half, and I was very impressed by it, which was the reason I was letting her stand between Sasuke and I now.

It wasn’t because I was hiding.

“Naruto, just go,” Sakura said irritably, gesturing me towards the door.

I glanced at Sasuke, but his gaze was still fixed on Sakura. “Are you-?” I started to ask.

“Go!” they both snapped at me.

So I left.

Things between Sasuke and I hadn’t been right since the night he moved out. Since he… you know. And now he was saying that as soon as his probation was over, he was going to leave the village.

It was all so stupid. I didn’t understand why things couldn’t go back to how they were before. Well, I mean like how they were after the war, not to how things were when we couldn’t be honest with each other and just fought all the time instead, which was basically the same as things were now.

“What happened to you?!”

I slid into the booth across from my girlfriend Moe, grinning sheepishly. “Training.”

“I’ve never had a training session like that,” she said with a laugh. She laughed a lot, smiled easily, and was in general a pleasant, happy person to be around.

‘Easy to be happy when there’s nothing between the ears,’ Sakura had been known to say.

I mostly ignored her snide little comments.

“Oh, the stupidest thing happened on our mission today,” she said, still smiling.

I felt myself smiling for some reason. All the heaviness I’d been feeling all day suddenly seemed to drop away. I leaned in closer, and listened intently to her story.

- 6 -

“I don’t agree to this,” I grumbled, slumping into Sasuke’s couch.

“Good thing it has nothing to do with you, then,” he replied, putting down a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.

I reached for it, stuffing the popcorn into my face as angrily as I could. “It has everything to do with me!” I yelled with a full mouth.

“You are disgusting,” he informed me, giving me a light shove. “Move over.”

“There’s plenty of room,” I complained, gesturing to the open space next to me.

“Why do you always have to sit in the middle?” he asked irritably. He gave me another shove. “Sit next to the armrest like a normal person.”

“Oh, I’m a normal person now?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Because you keep telling me how weird and crazy I am for not wanting you to leave.”

“Because you are weird and crazy,” he said, sitting as close to the armrest as he could, which subsequently meant he was sitting as far away from me as possible.

“In what way am I either of those things?!” I demanded.

“You know what the village did to me,” he said, his voice low and dark.

I stopped at that. We were being serious now, no more play-fighting. “I know.” “Nothing has changed, Naruto.”

“No,” I agreed quietly. “But I’m trying.”

“You’re one man.”

“Sometimes I’m a hundred men.”

He gave me a withering look.

I reached for him then, my hand resting on his shoulder as I sought out a physical connection. “Everything that’s happened… it’s never going to happen to anyone ever again.”

“Oh, really?” he asked, looking unimpressed.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice cracking.

Sasuke softened. “Don’t be like that.”

“Be like what?”

“You’re blaming yourself for something you fought tooth and nail against.”

“I couldn’t stop them.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” I asked, starting to feel blubbery. I always felt so frustrated and helpless thinking about what had happened to Sasuke and how I hadn’t been able to stop it.

“If you couldn’t stop them, then no one can,” he said. “Konoha won’t change, so give up and move on. Now can we watch this damn movie already?”

If I wanted to continue the tentative peace that we’d developed over the last couple of months, then I would back off and watch the movie.

“We have to be the ones who start the change,” I said, still holding onto his shoulder and staring him down. “I need you here with me, fighting the Council, fighting all the backwards-thinking clan leaders, fighting-”

“-the hokage?” Sasuke suggested, raising an eyebrow.

I took in a breath and let it out slowly. “Baa-chan is doing what she can-”

“She approved the terms of my surrender.”

“You approved the terms of your surrender.”

“Pretty sure I didn’t agree to abuse and torture.”

“She didn’t… know…”

“The beatings, sure, even you didn’t know, and you were there to see me every day,” he said, meeting my gaze calmly. “But the constant blindfolding and the binding… you fought about it with Kakashi. He had to be reporting to her.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, feeling my heart break all over again.

“All of that doesn’t matter,” he said, pushing me back into my seat. He stood up and pressed the tape into the VCR. “Ninety-eight more days and I get what I wanted.”

“…I wish you’d told me.”

“Because you were making so much headway on the blindfolding issue.”

“Yeah, but that guard…”

“And what did you do when I told you?”

I flushed. Maybe I had rushed off to the prison in a blind rage and had only come back to my senses when the guard was lying bleeding on the floor while a hysterical Sakura held me back.

“You can’t be so emotional, Naruto,” he chided me, adjusting the volume of the TV as the coming attractions played. “I was never in any danger-”

“He beat you for no reason-”

“He was scared of me,” Sasuke said with an easy shrug. “And for good reason. He could cover my eyes as much as he wanted; I could have broken out and broken him any time I wanted.”

“You didn’t have to endure all that.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did it for you, you dumbass,” he said, staring very pointedly at the TV.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, feeling weirdly happy while also simultaneously pissed off.

“You’re so ignorant,” he muttered.

“Use your words,” I complained, giving him a shove.

“Use your brain,” he shot back, giving me a return shove.

This was about to dissolve into more schoolyard brawling, which I thought we had moved past, but clearly we had not. “Just explain it to me,” I said, the grip I hadn’t even realized I had on his collar loosening. “Since I’m so dumb and all.”

“You are dumb,” he agreed, his own grip relaxing.

The movie started playing, but it was just background noise now.

“You can’t be associated with a missing nin,” he finally said.

“Why not?” I asked, leaning back against the couch.

He clearly wanted to say something cutting but swallowed it back down. “I’m not going to take your future away from you,” he said, the words straining to come out.

“How-?” I started to ask.

Sasuke made a very frustrated-sounding noise. “Stop asking questions. What are you not getting? You following a missing nin around like a lost fucking puppy does not exactly instill the Council with trust in your ability to lead. So I did my fucking best to be reinstated to this bullshit village that murdered my family just so you could stop fucking up your future, and then you fucking go and still fuck it up anyway by losing your shit on that guard. You’re right, me enduring all of that really was pointless and I should have just…” he trailed off, running out of steam.

“Wait, wait, you did all this just so I could be hokage?” I asked, scratching the back of my neck.

“Go die,” he muttered.

“You are the most awful human being I have ever met,” I informed him. “Sas’, I… I mean, I don’t get it. You have so much pride, and I can’t imagine you… He hit you! He left marks on you, and you’re saying that you just put up with it so I could hypothetically be the leader of the village you hate one day?”

“I need you to be the hokage,” he said, his voice so soft it was hard to hear.

“Why?” I asked, inching closer and trying to get him to meet my eyes.

“Can you just drop it?” he asked, skillfully avoiding my gaze.

“No.”

He took in a breath and let it out loudly,

I put my hand on his knee, fingers curling into the loose fabric of his pants. “Why do you need me to be the hokage, Sas’?” I pleaded.

His eyes slid shut, a worry line forming between them. “Why can’t you just let things go?”

“Because when you keep secrets from me, our relationship gets all messed up,” I said.

“It’s not a damn secret, you’re just incapable of connecting the dots.”

“Well if it’s something I’m apparently too dumb to understand without further explanation, then you are keeping it from me by not explaining.”

Air escaped from his nose in what was either a smothered laugh or an exasperated sigh.

“Naruto…”

My breath caught a little. Sasuke just had a way of saying my name.

“You’re the only one I trust, okay?” he said, eyes flicking to mine and then flicking away again. “You’re the only one who can fix everything.”

“…but you’re always telling me I can’t change anything…”

“You are very, very incompetent,” he agreed, that sideways half-smile making a reappearance on his lips. “But I… I told you. At the Valley of the End. It was my loss. I’ve thrown away my revenge to follow you.”

“You don’t… follow me in anything…” I said, not sure why my face was suddenly heating up.

“I’m not going to be one of your mindless sycophants and just agree with whatever you say and do,” he said. “And I don’t think you want me to. You know you only reach your highest potential when I’m challenging you on everything.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly, squeezing his knee. “So why are you leaving then?”

“It’s what’s best.”

“Well I don’t think it’s what’s best, so…”

“Naruto,” he said, eyes finally meeting mine without running away. “If you…” he paused, licking his lips like he was nervous. “If you really… if you ask me not to leave, then I won’t leave. I’ll listen to you and I’ll follow you, but… if you keep me here, I don’t think I can… I feel trapped, Naruto. It’s painful to be here.”

I could see the pain in his eyes, and it made my stomach knot up.

“I didn’t want to tell you all this because now you know how much power you have over me,” he said, his hand pushing against mine like he wanted me to move it, but then his fingers laced into mine. “I don’t show my weaknesses to anyone, and I feel… exposed. But I trust you with that. Do you understand me? I’m trusting you not to exploit this. I’m trusting you to do the right thing. Because if you don’t, then you’re just showing me that I was wrong and that you’re just like everyone else.”

Vulnerable Sasuke was the most cutting Sasuke. “Sneaky bastard,” I muttered, because how could I ever ask him to stay after he said all that.

“Do you understand everything now?” he asked, taking his hand back and looking away.

“No, not at all,” I said. “But I guess I get the important stuff.”

“Good. So what the hell has been happening in this movie?”

I laughed. “Rewind it.”

He got up and hit the rewind button.

“Sas’?”

“Yeah?” he asked, his back still to me as he crouched in front of the VCR.

“What if I don’t want to be hokage?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“What if I don’t want to be, and I want to go with you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he repeated.

I sighed loudly. “Fine.”

The tape finished rewinding and Sasuke hit play, coming back to sit next to me. He rested his head against the back of the couch, then turned to look at me.

I turned to look at him, too.

He smiled at me, soft and sweet and a little sad.

My lips parted.

He sat back up straight, attention focusing on the TV.

We watched the movie.

- 5 -

Sasuke was annoyed.

Of course, he was always annoyed when he was in Konoha, and he had to check in every six months, which meant that twice a year, Sasuke was very annoyed.

He was annoyed a lot of other times throughout the year, too, but he was particularly annoyed now.

“If you want to go and breed with your female, then just go,” he grumbled at me.

“Did you really just say ‘breed’?” Ino repeated, cracking up.

“Don’t forget ‘your female’,” Sakura chimed in, and the two of them started laughing harder.

“Hey, nothing is more important than spending time with you,” I slurred, significantly inebriated.

Rino waved at us from across the bar where she was getting more alcohol to inebriate us farther. Her boobs jiggled in her low-cut top as she did so.

I smiled dreamily.

“At least she’s a chuunin this time,” Sakura muttered, losing her amusement at the sight of a young, attractive female.

I suddenly found myself being punched in the arm. “What the hell!”

Sakura glared at me.

“You said that out loud,” Sasuke whispered to me.

“Oh…” I said. “Oops.”

Sasuke smiled at that, making me feel warm and happy.

All I had to do was act like an idiot to make him smile that amazing smile.

He looked away, flushing.

“You said that out loud, too,” Ino said, laughing.

“Umm, maybe I’m too drunk for this bar…” I trailed off as Rino reappeared with our drinks. “Thanks, babe,” I said, taking a beer from her.

She grinned at me as she passed out the rest of the drinks.

“Maybe it’s time to head home,” Sakura suggested, having finished her entire drink in one go.

“Aw, what, no way…” I complained.

“Sasuke seems tired,” Ino said.

If I wasn’t mistaken, Sasuke was shooting her a grateful look. But that was ridiculous, because Sasuke only liked me.

“People are allowed to like more than one person,” Ino informed me. “And I am very likeable.”

“Not that much,” Sasuke said, taking a casual sip of his drink.

Ino’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “To think I was going to save you from-” she started to say, but stopped.

Sasuke and Ino seemed to be having a conversation with eyes and head tilts that was completely unreadable to me.

“What’s going on?” Rino whispered to me.

“I have no idea,” I whispered back, sliding an arm around her waist.

She smiled at that, pressing closer to me even though our chairs were already plenty close together.

All of the sudden the other three were standing up.

“Okay, we’ll see you later,” Sakura said, patting me on the arm.

“Bye, ‘kura,” I said. “Bye, Ino.”

Sasuke moved to walk past me.

I caught his arm.

He looked startled, which couldn’t possibly be, because Uchiha Sasuke was never startled.

“We’re training tomorrow, yeah?”

“If you can find your way to the training field,” he said with a shrug.

“Your ass is mine, Uchiha,” I said cheerfully.

Sasuke just frowned at that, shaking me off. “Tomorrow then.”

“Bye, Sasuke,” Rino said, waving to him with a friendly smile.

He inclined his head towards her and made his exit.

Rino giggled. “He lives up to all the rumors.”

“What kinda rumors?” I asked, trying to narrow my eyes but it felt more like I was going cross-eyed.

“That he’s mysterious and hot,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, relaxing. “Yeah, he is definitely those rumors.”

Rino laughed.

“Let’s get out of here,” I suggested, and she nodded happily, linking arms with me.

We stumbled along to my house, and I somehow managed to get the door open and get us inside.

“You’re drunk,” Rino teased.

“Drunk on you,” I said, leading her to my room.

It felt different than usual.

I couldn’t stop myself, pushing her onto her stomach and staring at the white skin of her back.

“Naruto!”

I was lost, moving like an animal.

“Naruto!”

“Sasuke!”

- 4 -

“So you’re definitely not gay?” Sakura asked.

“I’m not,” I confirmed, pacing around my kitchen.

“Okay, but you called out your male best friend’s name during sex, so…”

“I don’t know why that happened.”

“Well, I mean, you were having sex, and you were thinking about Sasuke while you were having sex, so…”

“I’m not gay,” I said flatly.

“How are you so sure?”

“Because I don’t like dicks,” I explained. “And I feel like liking dicks is a very important part of being gay.”

“I mean, it could be important, but I don’t think it’s the defining factor of whether or not a person is gay,” Sakura offered. “Do those cookies have peanut butter in them?”

“They do,” I confirmed, picking up the package from the shelf and handing it to her.

“How do you even know that you don’t like dicks?” Sakura continued. “Have you ever tried touching one that wasn’t your own?”

I wrinkled my nose at her. “No, thank you.”

“How do you know you don’t like it if you don’t try it?”

“Have you touched a dick that isn’t your own?” I shot back.

Sakura gave me a withering look.

“Well?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

“A lady doesn’t stroke and tell,” she said with an enigmatic shrug.

“Sakuraaaaaa,” I groaned. “This isn’t helping.”

“There’s no help for you if you insist on staying so deeply closeted,” she replied.

“How do you just decide a person’s sexuality for them when they’re clearly telling you that you’re wrong about it?” I asked irritably.

“You’re in love with a man,” she ground out, just as irritably. “That, by definition, makes you gay.”

“I love him,” I said, waving her off. “That’s not the same as being in love.”

“Okay, then stop calling his name out during sex and everything will be fine.”

“…I was thinking about him…” I whispered.

She looked at me, waiting.

“…I was imagining it was him in front of me, and it just…” I trailed off. “I was drunk, it didn’t mean anything!”

“We are venturing into TMI territory here, but Naruto, you need to explain this to me,” she said, nibbling on a cookie. “Why were you thinking about Sasuke and not about your girlfriend?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I really don’t. I mean, I really like Rino. She’s so nice and friendly, and she always smiles, and she’s really pretty…”

“Sounds like you’re describing me, but okay…”

“You in an alternative universe, maybe…”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“You’re very nice and friendly and pretty.”

“Thank you,” Sakura said, finishing off her cookie and pulling out another one. “I know you don’t want to hear this again-”

I groaned.

“-but you tend to date girls who don’t have a lot of substance,” she forged ahead. “And at first, it made sense because you were young and unattached…”

“I’m still both of those things…”

“Funny that you think so.”

“I am in the prime of my youth!”

“Uzumaki, you are twenty-five years old,” Sakura said, shaking her head. “Your dad was already the hokage and married with a baby on the way younger than that.”

“Like you’re dating anyone!” I cried. “I mean, who from our generation is even remotely on track to get married?!”

“And why is that?” Sakura asked, tilting her head to the side.

I looked at her.

She looked back at me.

Since the war, Sakura had been my best friend, despite me always giving the title to Sasuke. We told each other everything, whether it was easy to hear or not, and she had certainly dropped a lot of hard-to-hear truths on me over the years.

“Because we’re all traumatized from being child soldiers?” I asked.

She nodded at me.

“So I choose to date girls who I can’t form meaningful relationships with because I’m not ready to confront… something something,” I concluded.

“Close enough,” she said with a rueful smile. “I want you to be happy, you know.”

“I know,” I said, knowing better than to protest that I was happy. “I want you to be happy, too.”

“Maybe Sasuke isn’t so crazy…” she said quietly.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Maybe leaving the village…” she trailed off.

It wasn’t the first time we’d broached the topic, but we never saw it through.

“Baa-chan said the Council is thinking about making me hokage soon,” I said.

“She’s been saying that since the war ended,” Sakura said with a frown. She would always love Tsunade as much as I did, but we both knew that things weren’t right in the village. Kakashi tried to act as a go-between, but the more he asked us to compromise while literally nothing changed, the less we were inclined to.

We were both quiet.

“So your thing about dicks, is that because of the Kiba Incident?” Sakura finally asked.

“DON’T BRING THAT UP!” I shrieked.

“But I was thinking…”

“About Kiba’s dick?!”

“God, no,” Sakura said, making a face. “I was thinking about the time we were on a mission, and you were on watch while we were sleeping-”

“Sakura-chan, you stop right there.”

“-and you went to get Kiba for his watch, and he was in flagrante-”

“I told you to stop- wait, what is ‘foie gras day’?” I paused, scratching my head.

“Caught in the act, dick in hand-”

“OH MY GOD, SAKURA, STOP!” I cried, covering my eyes with my hands even though the vision was burned into my memory for the rest of time. “It was so red and angry…” I whispered.

Sakura made a face but laughed. “See, but what if it was Sasuke?”

“IT’S NO DIFFERENT!” I yelled.

“Really? ‘Cause I definitely don’t want to picture Kiba in your story, but if it were Sasuke-”

“Sakura-chan!” I cried, incensed. “Don’t sully our Sasuke like that.”

“He’s an emotionally stunted asshole, but he’s still eye candy,” Sakura said with a shrug.

“Okay, but you clearly like dicks,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

“‘Like’ is a strong word,” she said, shaking her head. “I tolerate them.”

“Gross,” I muttered, and then unbidden the image of Kiba in the tent reappeared in my mind, only with Sasuke’s face floating over Kiba’s. I gagged. “Nope, nope, nope.”

“I don’t understand you,” Sakura said, shaking her head. “So if Sasuke was like in between your legs right now going down on you, you’d be absolutely disgusted just because he’s a guy?”

Sakura certainly painted a picture, because now there Sasuke was between my legs, mouth full, eyes creased in concentration before suddenly darting up to meet my gaze. He smirked, and I felt my entire body shudder.

“You got turned on!” Sakura accused me, pointing her finger.

“I… did…” I trailed off, thoroughly confused.

Her expression softened. “I’m not trying to push you into something,” she said, patting my head. “I just... I look at you two, and I wish that someone would love me the way you two love each other.”

“Sakura,” I complained, shaking my head. “You know I love you.”

“You wanna marry me?”

“Definitely not.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to marry Sasuke either,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but you want him to blow you.”

“Oh my god, Sakura, never say that out loud again!”

She shrugged.

“Sakura-chaaaaaaan,” I whined.

“I won’t,” she said, serious again. She hopped onto the counter and put her arm around me. “I won’t bring any of this up again, okay? I promise. We’ll only talk about it if you bring it up.”

“Which I won’t,” I said, but I could feel her side-eyeing me. “Unless I picture him in fois gras day again.”

Sakura cracked up.

- 3 -

I woke up on Sasuke’s floor, a blanket tossed over me. I groaned, sitting up and stretching my aching back. “Sas’?” I called.

He didn’t answer me because he was an asshole, but I could hear water running in the kitchen.

I stumbled to my feet and took a quick stop at the restroom before stumbling the rest of the way to the kitchen. “Saaaasukeeeeee,” I whined, dropping onto one of his kitchen chairs. “What did you make me drink last night?”

“Don’t blame me for your bad decisions,” he said with a shrug.

I squinted at his shirtless back, watching as he moved around preparing breakfast. “Hey, you,” I said.

“Hey what?” he asked, cracking an egg over the frying pan with one hand.

“When’d you get all… manly?” I complained.

“This might surprise you, but I’ve always been a man.”

“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head. “You were a boy before. You had some muscles and all, but not all this finely-chiseled definition. You look like a freaking statue that some old statue guy would make.”

“‘Old statue guy?’” he muttered incredulously, flipping the eggs.

“You know what I mean!” I said, flailing my arms around.

“No, not really.”

I sighed loudly. “I wish I looked like you.”

“Why?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Your body is amazing.”

“Are you fishing for compliments or something?” he mumbled.

“Huh?”

He stayed silent, his back rigid.

I had as usual stumbled into the ‘danger zone’.

I found myself stumbling into it more and more since the whole Wrong Name Incident. It wasn’t like I was trying to flirt with Sasuke all the time. It happened by accident. I was really just trying to give the guy a compliment and express my jealousy over the fact that his body was a work of art.

...was that gay…?

I stared at those rippling back muscles, mesmerized.

Then I was having eggs slammed down in front of me.

Sasuke sat across from me, stabbing his food with what seemed to be much more force than necessary for something that was already dead. “You’ve grown up, too, you know,” he finally mumbled.

“I have?” I asked with a mouth full of food.

“Swallow.”

I swallowed.

“I take it back,” he said, not looking at me.

“No takesy-backsies.”

“This is how you convince me that you’ve grown up?”

“…yes…?”

There was that half-smile.

I grinned, shoveling my food in my mouth and feeling content.

- 2 -

Sakura came into the restaurant, looking around furtively before her eyes locked on mine. She made a beeline in our direction.

“Hey-” I tried to greet her.

“Sasuke is here.”

I blinked slowly, then broke out into a grin. “Really? He’s early!”

“He’s pissed,” she said, trying to drag down my good mood.

“About Tsunade trying to give him that mission?”

“He told her he doesn’t take orders from Konoha,” Sakura rushed on. “So she said, ‘then maybe you don’t need the immunity that your Konoha headband gives you,’ and then he did his sneer face, you know the one, and he said, ‘make Naruto hokage or I walk.’”

“Whaaaaat?” I cried.

“And Tsunade was playing it cool, like, ‘well, walk then,’ and Sasuke said, ‘I walk, he walks.’”

I stared at her. “…and then?”

“He stormed out of there without waiting for a reply in typical over-dramatic Sasuke fashion,” she concluded.

I groaned.

“Who’s Sasuke?” my girlfriend Naomi asked cheerfully.

We both looked at her.

“What do you mean, ‘who is Sasuke’?” Sakura finally asked incredulously.

“He’s my best friend…” I tried.

“Oh, the weird guy who’s never around?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sakura said, nodding her head and tugging on my arm.

“He’s not weird!” I cried, feeling offended.

“We need to mediate this before it turns into something bigger,” Sakura urged me.

“But I was-” I started to say, glancing over at Naomi. Then I realized that we were talking about Sasuke and felt myself rising out of the booth, date long forgotten.

Naomi looked at me, confused. “Naruto?”

“Rain check!” I called, already moving after Sakura.

She turned back after we got onto the street. “Where do you think he went?”

“Training grounds,” I said, nodding my head in their direction.

“Okay,” she said, taking to the rooftops.

Sasuke was there as expected, angrily setting things on fire with his katon.

“Are we talking him down or beating sense into him?” Sakura asked, cracking her knuckles.

“Oi, Sasuke!” I yelled.

Sasuke stopped setting things on fire.

Sakura shook her head.

He sat down on the grass, and we came over to sit on either side of him.

“I didn’t know you were here,” I said, nudging his side with my elbow.

“I had business with the hokage,” he replied with a shrug.

“Business,” Sakura grumbled.

“You know I’m right,” he grumbled right back at her.

“Of course I know!” she snapped. “But if what you’re saying to Tsunade-sama gets back to to the wrong person, you’re going straight back into the Bingo Book! And then what?!”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You know if you leave the village again that we’re going to follow you,” Sakura muttered.

Sasuke raised an eyebrow at that. “Do I know that?”

“You know that Naruto will,” she said dismissively.

“I didn’t know that you would.”

Sakura shook her head. “Underestimating me like usual.”

“Underestimating that you wouldn’t be as dumb as Naruto?” Sasuke asked. “Yes.”

There was a pause, and then Sasuke grunted and I knew that Sakura had inflicted some kind of hurt on him.

“Sas’, it’s just reconnaissance,” I said, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.

The glare I received did not ease my mind.

“And what is the illustrious Council going to use that reconnaissance for?” he ground out. “Because you know they’re stirring up shit with Lightning again.”

“Sas’…”

“The whole point is that you become the hokage and stop all this nonsense,” Sasuke said. “It’s the whole point, and the Council knows, and they know that as long as they keep dangling the carrot and saying that they’ll make you hokage one day that I have to do whatever they tell me. They fucking own me, and I can’t… I can’t breathe, I can’t…”

I was at a loss.

Sakura put her arm around Sasuke, and he leaned into her, away from me.

This was all my fault. I had let this drag on, I had accepted all the soon’s and the be patient’s. I looked at my two best friends, both hurting, and I knew that I couldn’t keep on just going with the flow.

“I’ve got you,” I said, standing up.

“What does that mean…?” Sakura trailed off as I walked away.

“Naruto.”

I stopped and turned back to look at them.

“Don’t do something stupid,” Sasuke said, already on his feet.

“Just trust me,” I said. I grinned at him. “I’ve got this.”

- 1 -

Sasuke unzipped the flap of the tent, his toiletries tucked in a bag under his arm as he entered. “You’re not asleep?” he asked.

“You’d think I would be, with how friggin’ long you take to get ready for bed,” I complained.

“I was checking the perimeter, dumbass,” he replied, putting his things away in his pack.

“He’s over here calling me ‘dumbass’,” I muttered.

“He’s over there talking to himself,” came his easy reply.

“Okay, but would it kill you to show me like a modicum of respect?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“It would not!” I cried.

“Oh, but it would,” he said, getting into his sleeping bag. “Good night, Junior Hokage.”

“Okay, see, you’re still alive.”

Sasuke didn’t answer.

“Very alive and not dead.”

He still didn’t answer.

“Jackass,” I complained, throwing my pillow at him.

He caught it and threw it back at me, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

I melted a little.

“What’s that stupid look for?” Sasuke scoffed at me.

“What look? There’s no stupid look!” I protested

He rolled his eyes at me. “You have clearly never seen your own face.”

I gave him the most shocked and offended look I could muster up.

His haughtiness softened around the edges, the left corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Sorry, sir.”

I bit my lip a little too hard.

Sasuke looked pleased with himself as he settled more comfortably into his sleeping bag.

I tried to pull myself together, but being on a mission in close proximity to him was starting to become a mission in its own right. The Council had agreed to my three-year transition plan, and had begrudgingly accepted Sasuke as my ‘chief adviser’ or whatever they were calling his job to make an Uchiha in power sound more palatable.

What they didn’t get and never would get was that Sasuke was my partner.

“You lead and I’ll follow,” he’d told me the night it was decided that I was the hokage-elect.

“Like you’ve ever followed anyone a day in your life,” I’d scoffed.

Four months into the transition, and Sasuke had yet to just do something because I told him to. That wasn’t what he meant by following me. What he meant was that I could tell him to do something, and then he would give me ten reasons why he wasn’t going to do it.

And it was exactly what I needed. I felt re-energized. I felt hopeful. I felt like I was making a difference.

And I felt like I was probably most definitely in love with Sasuke.

“Are you going to sleep?” he asked.

My eyes flicked over to him nervously.

He gave me a strange look. “I’m sleeping,” he said, rolling so his back was to me.

“Don’t be boring,” I complained.

“You’re the one who dragged us out to this god-forsaken place to do charity work,” he grumbled at me.

We’d had this conversation a hundred times already, but with us, what was a hundred more? “You said that I need to change what it means to be the hokage,” I said.

“Okay, but you could change what it means to be hokage somewhere… better.”

“Somewhere better?” I asked with a snort. “Are the accommodations not to your liking?”

“I’m just saying that helping some podunk little village rebuild from flooding isn’t going to do anything for you politically,” he said, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.”

“Uh, duh,” I said.

He looked at me.

“That’s exactly the kind of hokage I want to be,” I said, smiling happily. “Someone who helps people for no reason or personal gain.”

“Stellar strategy, I’m sure the Council won’t find a way to back out of your agreement and make someone else hokage.”

“You know you support me one hundred percent,” I said with an easy shrug.

“Maybe one percent.”

“Ninety-nine percent.”

“Zero percent?”

“One hundred and fifty percent!”

Sasuke was shaking his head, but I could see his smile.

I lived for that smile. “Hey, Sas’?”

“What?”

I looked at him. I really looked at him. I wanted to tell him.

“Did your brain break?” he asked. He stifled a yawn.

“Probably,” I said.

That got a little laugh. “Go to bed, Naruto.”

“Yeah,” I said, settling into my sleeping bag. “Good night.”

Sasuke snapped off the light we had hanging in the tent.

I lay there, staring into the dark, and it was driving me crazy.

“Stop,” Sasuke finally grumbled.

“Stop what?” I whispered.

“Whatever you’re doing.”

“Breathing?”

“Yes, stop doing that.”

“Do you want me to die?!” I snipped.

“Why are you so damn loud in the middle of the night?” Sasuke sighed.

“You’re the one wishing death on me!”

“Just get it out, already,” Sasuke said irritably. “Obviously something is on your mind.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I protested.

“Then why are you all… frenetic?” he asked.

“Who’s frenetic, I’m not frenetic.”

“I can hear your leg bouncing,” he muttered.

I hadn’t realized I’d been doing that, and I quickly stilled my leg. Then I found that my fingers were tapping against the ground.

“It’s not like you,” Sasuke said quietly.

“Huh?”

“You don’t usually…” he trailed off, thinking over his words carefully. “You don’t usually keep things from me.”

Why did this man know me better than I knew myself? “Sorry,” I mumbled.

“I really don’t care. Just say it or go to sleep,” he said, but I had the feeling that he did actually care.

I opened my mouth and nothing came out.

“I’m going to sleep outside,” Sasuke growled.

“No, you’re not,” I said with a sigh. “I just… I’m not ready to say it.”

“Well get ready or figure out how to stop crawling out of your skin.”

I’d planned this. Not consciously, but now I could see how my sneaky subconscious had brought us to this point, alone on a mission just the two of us, sleeping in the same tent like we used to when we were twelve, with no one to interrupt us until the construction started in the morning. I wanted to tell him. I needed to tell him.

But should I tell him?

I thought back to the night that Sasuke moved into his own apartment, both of us a little drunk, the gentle touch of his lips to mine. Then the betrayal in his eyes when I told him that I wasn’t gay.

I wasn’t, but apparently it didn’t matter. I’d been too young and dumb at the time to realize it.

Sasuke was special.

Maybe I could just tell him that without getting into the whole calling his name while I was with women, and having almost daily sex dreams about him part.

I mean, he probably wouldn’t care, anyway. That kiss had been like ten years ago, and surely he had moved on since then. It wasn’t like he… stayed connected with a village he hated just because of me…

It wasn’t like he only smiled for me. I saw him almost smile at Sakura once. It was the smallest uptick. Nothing compared to the crooked smiles he showered me with, but…

“I’m going to slowly choke the life out of you,” Sasuke informed me, suddenly sitting on my chest with a hand wrapped around my throat.

“Uhhh…?” I said.

“You are so fucking annoying,” he ground out, applying light pressure. “What? What is it? Just say it.”

“Well, you’re kinda making it more awkward,” I squeaked out.

“Good,” he growled. “What did you do? What stupid thing did you do? Did you forget to do some important paperwork? Did you tell Sakura that her hospital clothes make her look like an middle-aged woman after I specifically told you not to? Did you piss off the Council and they decided to just cancel your whole hokage probation? Just tell me already.”

“Um, it wasn’t any of that,” I gasped.

Sasuke rolled his eyes, letting up on my throat and sitting back a little. “You’re still going to be the hokage in three years?”

“Duh.”

His expression relaxed and he gave me one of those smiles that, okay, were only for me.

I felt myself smiling back.

He pinched my cheek, then moved to go back to his sleeping bag.

I caught his hips, pulling him back.

Sasuke raised an eyebrow at me. “You into being sat on?”

“Yes,” I replied without thinking.

“That’s an odd fetish,” he said, his eyes searching mine.

I should just say it. What could be a more perfect moment than this? I should definitely just say it.

“Naruto.”

I swallowed. “I’m.”

He waited.

I nodded my head.

His brow lifted.

“So,” I said.

He tilted his head to the side.

“Good,” I said.

“Did your brain break?” he finally asked.

“Yeah…” I said quietly. “Can you… come down here?”

Both of Sasuke’s eyebrows shot up. “Down where…?”

“Next to me,” I said, letting go of his hips.

He looked at me for a moment, then slid down beside me, propping his chin up on his hand as he lay on his side facing me.

I just had to get it out. I opened my mouth, and then remembered that I needed to get it out, but in a way that wasn’t going to piss Sasuke off. That’s what kept on silencing me. “I’ve been confused lately,” I said, deciding to be as honest as possible.

“How is that different from usual?” he asked.

“Are all the little zings really necessary?” I grumbled.

“The way you’ve been dragging this out, yes.”

“Okay, fine,” I said.

“Better be worth it,” he muttered.

“I love you!” I blurted out.

“Okay,” Sasuke said. “That’s not getting you out of telling me whatever horrible secret you’re hiding.”

“No, that’s the horrible secret,” I explained.

Sasuke let out a sudden bark of laughter. “What kind of secret is that?”

His sheer good-naturedness told me that he didn’t get what I was saying. “Sasuke, I’m in love with you,” I tried saying.

A little of the humor left his eyes. “What’s this about?”

“It’s about me being in love with you,” I said, feeling stupid and small.

“You’re not gay, Naruto,” he said flatly.

“No, I’m not,” I agreed.

Sasuke’s frown deepened. “I’m a man, Naruto.”

“I’m aware,” I said, trying to exude sincerity.

“Then do you see why what you’re saying is ridiculous?” he asked, sitting up. His arms crossed over his chest, a physical sign that he was starting to close himself off.

I sat up, too. “I know it doesn’t make sense, okay? I’m not gay, and you’re a man, but I love you so much it’s crazy.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Yeah, it is, because I don’t get it, okay?” I said. “I don’t know why I feel this way about you, but I do. And I’ve asked you to do this huge thing and be my partner when I become hokage, but I can’t start off the new Konoha lying to you, yeah? I have to be honest or this is never going to work, and honestly I’m in love with you. So. Yeah.”

Sasuke was staring at me, and definitely not in a good way.

“Sas’…” I tried.

“I fucking hate you,” he whispered.

Oh, fuck.

“You piece of shit,” he said, his voice getting louder. “You fucking piece of shit. Don’t you ever fucking say another word about this to me ever again.”

I knew all along that he was going to react badly, but I didn’t really know why he would. If I asked him why, he was going to react even more badly, so I was kind of stuck just staring at him pathetically.

“Do you hear me?” he growled, grabbing me by my shirt and staring me down. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” “…no?” I said quietly.

He shook me, then dropped my shirt in disgust, standing up in a crouch in the low tent. “I need to go.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to get him to stay.

“Fuck your sorry!” Sasuke snapped at me. “And fuck you,” he added for good measure.

“Do you think I’m joking with you or something?” I asked, not used to being the target of Sasuke’s venom after so many years. “Do you think I’m not being sincere?”

“Of course you’re not being sincere!” he yelled. “What kind of straight man tells another man that he loves him?”

“What, just because I’m not gay, I can’t have feelings for you?!” I cried, standing up and crouching in front of him. A tent was a terrible place to have an argument.

“Yes, Naruto!” he said. “That’s exactly what it fucking means! Not being gay means that you are not attracted to men, you dumb shit!”

“Okay, but maybe consider that I’m Sasuke-sexual!” I snapped.

Sasuke opened his mouth but then immediately closed it. He sat down on his sleeping bag and stared up at me. “Sasuke… sexual…” he repeated, shaking his head.

“I am…” I tried to assert.

“There’s no such thing as Sasuke-sexual!” he yelled, but he wasn’t as mad anymore, and I felt some of the tension release from my shoulders.

I sat down across from him. “Well, that’s what Sakura said…”

“Sakura knows about this?”

“Well, I told her about all the sex stuff, so…”

“What. Sex. Stuff.”

I could feel my face burning. “Just sex stuff. About you. Um. Sexy dreams and uh… other stuff.”

“I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like it,” he repeated. “Naruto, don’t do this to me. Please.”

“I’m not doing anything to you,” I protested, feeling a little annoyed now. “I’m telling you how I feel. That’s more than you’ve ever done.”

He looked like I’d slapped him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, Sasuke, I’m not fucking kidding you,” I said irritably. “You kissed me, and then you ran away. You acted like it never happened. And maybe if you had used your goddamn words instead, we could have figured some of this shit out.”

“You told me you weren’t gay!” he yelled, getting mad again.

“Yeah, and it’s pretty fucking weird that a non-gay guy was so cool with his gay best friend kissing him, wasn’t it?!” I snapped.

“You told me you weren’t gay,” he repeated, his voice getting softer. “You humiliated me.”

I was gobsmacked. “I humiliated you?”

“I was so sure you felt the same way about me,” he said. “I was so sure, and then you pushed me away and said you weren’t gay, and I felt so… beneath you. Like you were looking down on the poor little queer, telling me that it didn’t matter and you would forgive me-”

“I never said that-”

“Oh, okay, then how am I supposed to interpret all your little good-guy speeches about how it wouldn’t affect our friendship, how you still looked at me the same, whatever bullshit you came out with that clearly said that I’d done something wrong, but you were such a great guy that you would just overlook it?”

“That’s not what I meant…” I mumbled feebly. “You just gave me this look like… I betrayed you, and I kept rambling, trying to make sure you wouldn’t just throw me away…”

“You threw me away,” he muttered.

“Sasuke…”

“So you suddenly want to fuck me now?”

“I…” I trailed off, feeling strange.

“No, really, tell me all about these sex dreams you’ve been having about me after telling me you weren’t gay.”

I was red again.

“Do you picture me with a pussy so you can stomach it?” he growled.

“No...” I said, cringing. “Sas’, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

“Is that the most important thing to fixate on when I’m telling you that I love you?” I asked. This conversation was getting way off course.

“I just want to understand what a straight man sees in me,” he replied, eyes meeting mine in an unwavering stare.

“Oh, that’s easy,” I said, relaxing. “You’re strong, you’re smart, you’re nice when you want to be, you’re good at making ramen, you fight for the people you love, you always stand up for what’s right even if it’s hard…”

“…none of those sound like romantic attraction,” Sasuke muttered.

“What, do you want me to tell you how attractive I find you?”

“Honestly, I think you just want to be me and are confusing that with physical attraction,” Sasuke said with a shrug.

I gaped at him. “Jerk, who would want to be you?!” I snapped.

He smiled at that. “You.”

“Ohmigod, you are the most narcissistic asshole on the face of this earth!”

He shrugged again.

“Please explain to me how it makes more sense that I want to be you than I want to be in you,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

Sasuke startled at that.

I thought back over what I’d just said carefully. “Uhhh, I mean… be with you…?”

“Do you even know how gay sex works?” he asked, eyes very carefully not meeting mine.

“I researched it,” I said confidently.

“And you’re just fine with it?” he asked.

I swallowed. “I… don’t know if I’m ready for everything, but… I’m very interested in some of it.”

“You’re very interested in some of it?” Sasuke scoffed. “Which parts? Please do elaborate.”

I was red again. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“Most definitely.”

“I mean, how much detail…?”

“All the details.”

“All the details?”

“All the details.”

“I mean, do I start with you, um…”

“With me what?” Sasuke asked, clearly starting to feel back in control as he looked me in the eyes.

“Well I guess um… you know… with your mouth…”

“So you’d like to get blown,” Sasuke said, nodding his head.

“I mean… yes…?”

“Interesting, and were you planning on returning the favor?”

I looked at the ground. “If you wanted me to, I could… try.”

“So really you just want me to suck you off and then you give me a pat on the head for a job well done?”

“You asked me what I was interested in and I told you,” I growled, crossing my arms over my chest. “This is all new to me, I’m not a professional gay like you.”

Sasuke very slowly raised an eyebrow.

This was already a disaster, and I seemed to be adding more flames to the fire. “Forget it. Forget everything I said.”

“Oh, are we just going to pretend that this didn’t happen?” Sasuke asked in that jackass tone of voice of his.

“Yes,” I said. “We’re going to go to sleep and wake up tomorrow in a world where I never said anything, and then I’m going to tell you in a non-offensive way that I love you, and you will graciously listen to me and shake my hand at the end and agree that you don’t mind me having feelings for you and that you still want to work with me to build the new Konoha.”

He didn’t say anything at first, and I held my breath waiting.

Then I needed air and pulled it in with a loud gasp.

“Idiot,” he grumbled.

I gave him my biggest, roundest puppy dog eyes.

“You’re serious?” he asked, his voice taking on a vulnerable quality.

I nodded my head enthusiastically.

“Okay,” he said, getting back into his sleeping bag. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” I agreed, clamoring back into my own sleeping bag. “So…”

“So?”

“We’re… okay?”

“Well, we’re pretending nothing happened, so we can also pretend that we’re okay,” Sasuke reasoned.

“Saaaaasukeeeeeee,” I complained. “I’m sorry,” I added.

“Sorry for what?”

“For my behavior for the last… fifteen-ish years.”

“You’re going to need a lot more sorries than that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, as sincerely as I could.

“Weirdo.”

“I know.”

Sasuke sighed. Or maybe he was taking a breath. “Naruto?”

“Yeah?”

“Tomorrow…”

“Mm?”

“When you tell me whatever it has that you have to tell me…”

“Uh-huh?”

“What if I…” he trailed off and was silent.

“Tell me tomorrow,” I said.

“Okay.”

I slept fitfully, constantly waking up to every little noise. The ground was more uncomfortable than usual, and I found myself constantly shifting and readjusting.

It was barely what could be called morning when I opened my eyes and found Sasuke right in front of me.

“Tell me the thing,” he said quietly.

“I’m in love with you,” I said, still half-asleep but never surer of anything in my life.

“Not just as friends?”

“Definitely not just as friends,” I said, trying to blink my eyes awake.

“Promise?” he asked, looking into my eyes.

“Promise,” I said, looking back and smiling.

He took a breath and shifted closer, then stopped. His eyes kept staring into mine, asking a silent question.

I didn’t want to misread him, but it seemed like the longer I hesitated, the more anxious his expression got. I reached out, curling my fingers gently behind his neck and pulling him in until we were sharing air. “I promise,” I repeated.

“Okay,” he said, his voice soft.

We just breathed together, both of us about to have mutual nervous breakdowns.

“Naruto,” he said, and there were those eyes again.

All I had to do to answer the question…

It was the most tentative brush of lips in the history of brushing lips, but Sasuke endured it silently.

I looked at him.

He looked back at me.

I wanted him to talk to me. I wanted him to tell me exactly what he expected. What he wanted. But in this moment, I knew there was no way that he would expose himself like that. I had to be the one to take the risks. I had to be the one to be vulnerable. And it was scary. It was really scary, and my breathing was getting more and more erratic, but Sasuke was just looking back at me and waiting, so I knew what I had to do and I kissed him like I meant it.

It was sparks.

It was fireworks.

It was home.

- 0 -

Naruto was spread-eagled across our bed like the whole damn thing belonged to him.

I sighed, dropping my travel bag on the floor before giving him a light kick.

He grumbled and shifted over about an inch.

“Uzumaki, you need to move,” I growled, peeling my shirt over my head and tossing it into the hamper.

“But I’m comfy,” he mumbled, smacking his lips sleepily.

“Get comfy somewhere else,” I complained, adding my pants to the hamper and walking over to the dresser. The room was dark, so I felt along in the drawer with my hand until I found my nightclothes.

Naruto made some incoherent sound that probably meant he had gone back to sleep.

He worked hard every day, and I hated how tired he always was, but I had just traveled eighteen hours straight to get home, and he needed to move his ass over.

Dressed and ready for bed, I gave his bottom a much more significant kick that jarred him enough away from my side of the bed that I could squeeze in.

I don’t know why I bothered, because he immediately rolled right back over, wrapping himself around me.

“Hey,” he said, kissing my shoulder sleepily. “I missed you.”

I was ready to be annoyed, but our bed was comfortable, Naruto was warm, and it was nice to be home.

“How was your mission?” he hummed into my skin.

“The usual.”

“That’s a pretty crappy mission report.”

“Well, you’re a pretty crappy hokage.”

“What is wrong with you?” he snorted, nudging me until I turned on my side to face him. “Show your hokage-to-be some respect.”

“No,” I said, which only seemed to make him smile even wider.

Naruto didn’t mind my shit when he knew I didn’t mean it. He rested his hand against my cheek, grinning dopily.

“I missed you, too,” I finally acknowledged, giving him a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth.

His face lit up and I found myself being aggressively cuddled.

Our breathing started to even out as we both drifted towards sleep.

In moments like this, our relationship was easy, but when we woke up in the morning, the world would come crashing back in and everything would be complicated again.

“It’s in less than a week,” Naruto said, breaking up the silence.

I breathed in sharply, coming fully awake again. “Yeah, it is,” I agreed.

“Will you stay home more?”

I couldn’t answer that.

Naruto sighed, kissing the top of my head. “I need you,” he said quietly. “I’m not… I can’t do this on my own, ya know?”

“I know,” I said. I was the one who’d put the responsibility of changing the entire ninja world on his shoulders. I just found it easier to support his ideals when I was as far away from Konoha as possible. “I’m here now.”

“…for how long?”

I took a breath, weighing my answer so it didn’t turn into a fight. “Until you send me on another mission.”

“Okay,” he said, rubbing his cheek against mine. “Sorry for keepin’ you up, I just… every time I start to fall asleep, my mind starts goin’ a million miles a minute…”

I took his hand that was resting on my hip and laced our fingers together.

Naruto relaxed, some of his nervous energy dissipating.

“You’ll be a great hokage,” I said quietly.

“If I make it to my inauguration without being assassinated…”

“That’s the spirit.”

“…is that why you rushed back here so quickly?” he asked.

“I didn’t rush,” I said, despite how obvious it was that I had.

“Aw, did you wanna proteeeeect me?” Naruto cooed.

“Idiot,” I muttered. Of course I wanted to protect him. He had almost as many enemies as I did now after all his campaigns for reform. He also had just as many loyal allies willing to lay down their lives for him, but try as I might I just couldn’t trust anyone else to watch his back. I had to be here, making sure that nothing happened to stop Naruto’s becoming the sixth hokage.

He was smiling at me dopily, reading my thoughts clearly. “Tomorrow morning, I’m gonna totally rock your world, okay?”

I rolled my eyes at that. “Okay, let me get out my day planner and pencil in a world rocking from 7:00 to 7:02.”

The look on his face was priceless.

“Saaaaasukeeeee,” he whined.

“Go to sleep, Naruto,” I said, squeezing his hand. I was always being meaner to him than necessary, but he understood.

“I’ll try,” he said, snuggling into me.

Fuck, he was adorable and more than I deserved.

I tended to be insecure about our relationship, and that led to me being an unnecessary asshole. Our sex life was especially complicated, and we still had to tread lightly sometimes. If I didn’t like something that we were doing and promptly informed Naruto, he would immediately stop, give me a kiss, and do something different. If Naruto informed me that he didn’t like something, I took it as a personal insult against myself and my lineage that needed to be avenged immediately.

Naruto dealt with the fact that he was a straight man in a gay relationship better than I did. ‘Heteroflexible’ he called it.

Not that Naruto was always perfect and kind and understanding. We fought at times, mostly about the village. He sometimes forgot to take off his rose-colored glasses and remember what had been done to him by the people claiming to have his best interests at heart. No matter how many times I tried to convince him that the Third Hokage had neglected him, he refused to hear it.

I wanted Naruto to recognize the wrongs done to him, but that was a losing battle.

Much faster to just remind him that the Third Hokage covered up the slaughter of my family.

Naruto always got pissed off on my behalf.

Maybe one day we’d work out all of our psychological issues, but until then I just wanted him to understand that condemning the atrocities of one’s followers while helping them to cover it all up did not a good leader make.

I don’t know why I worried. Naruto was already the best hokage Konoha had ever seen, and he hadn’t even officially taken the title yet. Because in the end, Naruto always did the right thing.

I held him close, listening to his obnoxious snoring. It lulled me into sleep, my eyes sliding shut.

We didn’t have it all figured it out yet, but we’d figure it out together.

Starting with a world rocking promptly at 7:00, apparently.

I stayed curled up in bed as Naruto shuffled around after, getting read for work.

“You sure you don’t want breakfast or anything?” he asked softly, the mattress dipping under his weight.

I mumbled something that probably resembled “no” and buried myself deeper in the blankets. I felt the warmth of his hand as he touched my cheek, my eyes staying firmly shut.

“Okay, I’m off to save the world now.”

A little smile twitched at my lips.

“Love you,” he said, leaning in and pressing his lips to my temple. “Come in before noon with your mission report, or you’re fired!”

My smile got a little wider. Naruto’s fake power trips were cute, mostly due to how obviously fake they were. “Like you would ever fire me,” I hummed.

“Try me,” he said, his voice teasing. He pat my head, fingers running through my hair lingeringly before disappearing. “See you at eleven fifty-nine.”

I scoffed, because I certainly hadn’t been planning to arrive exactly one minute before the deadline he gave me just to be contrary. “Bye.”

“Bye!” he called, his voice drifting in from the hallway.

I listened until his steps disappeared and the front door closed.

Naruto had seemed so lost and aimless after the war, never knowing which direction to go in. Ever since that day in the training field, though, when he forced the Council’s hand to name him officially as the sixth hokage... Ever since that day, it was like Naruto had finally gotten on the path he was always meant to be on. He moved with purpose again, his inner light filling him up after being dim for so long.

That light illuminated my own path.

I was still working on myself, trying to sort out the anger and the loss and the helplessness and the longing for revenge that never quite went away, but when I watched Naruto moving forward with no trace of doubt, it was like I could see my own path forward.

Naruto’s face was priceless as Shizune let me into the hokage’s office.

“You’re… early…” he said, glancing at the clock which read, ‘9:01’.

“I like to keep you on your toes,” I said, striding across the room and dumping my mission report on Naruto’s little desk that was pulled up next to Tsunade’s. I didn’t spare her a glance, because it had long since been established that I only answered to Naruto.

“Consider me toed,” he said, raising his leg over his desk and pointing his toes.

Everyone in the room stared at him.

Naruto laughed his stupid laugh, and I felt myself almost smiling.

This idiot was going to be the hokage in five days, and I would move heaven and earth to make sure he was the greatest hokage Konoha ever saw.

#narusasu #fanfiction #isola u-turn

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