#Vietnam southern accent voice

[ghostpill79]

“It was in June” - Jordan Peterson voice.

Listening Sung Tungs by animal collective. Earlier tonight I thought about how so much of it comprised of stems. TIGERS TIGERS TIGERS

Writing that made me think about someone reading and not getting the reference. This has happened to me many times through out my life.

One example that came to mind was in 8th grade my friend Gavin said he had seen Inglorious Basterds and I (overly excited) quoted “ the bear jeeew” in brad Pitt southern accent. He didn’t get what I was saying I guess he didn’t remember the part in the movie when he said that. I repeated it way to many times hoping he would get it - he just kept saying “ what “ and “ I don’t know what you’re saying”.

Remembered one time where he asked me something to the effect of “ would you want to of fought in Vietnam?” I said Yeah it seemed so fun - sarcastically thinking he was doing a bit. He took what I said weirdly seriously. Was like “ you’d want to see all your friends die???!” And I just continued saying yeah. Don’t remember the ending of that interaction.

Another Gavin memory is on the last day of 8th grade after our “ graduation “ he came up and hugged me from behind and held on to me for awhile very sincerely with a very sad look on his face - very “im going to miss you” toned. I was incredibly weirded out by this.

The last night I talked to him was on instagram during 2020 quarantine time. He Dm’ed me asking how I was and other general things you say when you are talking to someone you haven’t really talked to for years. He then shifted to inviting me to come to his bible study. Not sure if this was a in person thing - was probably through zoom or something. I said “ thanks but I’m not religious so no” - a pretty polite response I thought. And then he just wouldn’t accept my saying “no”. Kept insisting that I would like it. And I insisted that i definitely would not. I got annoyed and stopped the conversation. Have the urge to go look at that conversation now.

[kingofkingdom]

1982

PART 3 TO 1979 

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit, 18+ ONLY (minors DNI or else)

Summary: Three years later, you and Din meet up with some old friends.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, semi-public sex, accidental voyeurism, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, PIV sex, mentions of alcohol/alcohol consumption, mentions of meat/meat consumption (not like that you pervert), smoking, use of firearms

Word Count: 11k

A/N: Um, hey! I’m back and here’s this. Been a long time coming, I know, but life has changed so much for me lately. So many good things. Hopefully this lil story can bring some good vibes to you too. Love y’all the most, thanks for sticking by. Enjoy!

The bar is crowded when the two of you walk in. The noise was audible from the parking lot, rollicking voices yelling and the snap of pool balls against one another echoing through the air. Springtime in Louisiana is muggy and hot, meaning you'd opted to wear your cutoffs and a crop top.

Din keeps a steady hand on your lower back as the two of you walk through the front doors, a hand that snakes around your waist once you're inside. He removes his sunglasses and hangs them on the collar of his shirt, looking around for his friends.

"Do you see them?" you ask, looking up at your boyfriend. It's been three years, but the thought of Din as solely and devotedly yours still puts butterflies in your stomach. You're partners more than anything - have been since the start, since Lubbock, really - but the term 'boyfriend' just hits you right in your sappy, teen-romance-loving heart.

He shakes his head, lips curled in a frown. The two of you aren't stuck looking for very long, because a waitress walks up to help you.

"Hey there! Welcome to Peli Motto's. Y'all want a table or a booth?"

Her southern accent is as thick as it is charming; you can't help but smile back, her positivity contagious. Din, however, seems to be unaffected. He squeezes your waist, bicep flexing against your back.

"We're here with the 'Dameron' party," he replies, voice tight and utterly professional.

The girl's smile widens. "Oh, great! They were just asking about the two ‘a you." She reaches over to a slot on the wall and grabs a couple of menus. "Follow me right this way."

You go first, following the waitress further into the building, with Din at your back. It was a strategic move on his part, walking behind you, and you realize this the moment you feel a hand grab at your ass through your shorts.

You just turn back and give him a look, one eyebrow raised. He's smirking, dark eyes playful in the low light of the bar. You roll your eyes at his antics, but if you sway your hips just a tad more as you walk, well. That's no one's business but yours - and Din's.

The table is set back in a quiet corner of the bar - quiet only compared to the rest of the establishment, because the guys seated in the large, circular booth are raucous and rowdy enough as it is. This reunion was a long time coming. Poe and Finn - who live together here in New Orleans - planned the whole thing, partly as a reunion and partly to celebrate Cassian's return home from a stint abroad. It's the first time they've all been together in one place since Vietnam.

You and Din wouldn't miss it for the world.

Of the guys, you've met Boba, Poe, and Mayfeld thus far. You're eager to meet Finn and Cassian, because you've heard so much about them from Din and the other members of the group. Din told you that apparently Cassian's also got a girl he's bringing along: Jyn. They met overseas and she's visiting the states with Cassian while he's back. Din heard all of this from Poe, so neither of you have met her. 

The waitress shows you two to the table, and as soon as you’re in sight of the guys seated there, they let out a cacophony of whoops and hollers. You can’t help but smile, familiar and new faces alike calling out a welcome. 

Poe’s voice is the loudest, and since he’s on the end, he hops up to greet you and Din. 

“Well, look who it is!” he says, reaching out to pull you into a hug. You return his friendly embrace. 

“It’s good to see you, Poe.”

He pulls away and smiles down at you. From somewhere at your back, Din clears his throat. He steps forward to swat his friend on the shoulder. 

“Watch yourself, Dameron,” he growls, simultaneously putting an arm out to hug his friend. Everyone knows Dameron’s a natural flirt, so it’s all good-natured. The two guys pound each other on the back, as men always do, and break apart. 

When you look up at Din, you see he's smiling. 

At the table, everyone takes turns greeting you and Din as you slide into the booth. Finn, you discover, has a brilliant smile, and you look forward to chatting with him more. Cassian doesn’t seem overly extroverted, but he has a friendly face and a sharp wit that makes you laugh. 

You end up sitting between Boba and Din, for which you’re grateful, because Boba’s the one you know best - after your boyfriend, of course. That first job in Idaho was… well, it was an introduction to a life you'd never expected to live. A life you now called your own.

-

You never knew Idaho had such beautiful mountains. 

After driving through Twin Falls, up the middle of the state past farm fields and prairie, the Sawtooth Range rose like sentries against the blue, cloudless sky. Their jagged peaks cut harsh lines across the horizon, threatening both danger and adventure should one venture too close. Nose nearly pressed against the glass of the window, you'd stared at them like they might fall back into the earth the moment you blinked.

"I've never seen mountains like this," you'd confessed to Din. In reality, the closest you'd ever been to such magnificent scenery was when you'd seen pictures of the Rocky Mountains in picture books as a kid.

He'd looked over at you, at how enraptured you were with the rocky peaks.

"We don't have anywhere to be after this job with Boba. Maybe he'll let us hang around a bit longer, so we can explore."

You looked over, eyes wide with childlike excitement. "Really?"

Din chuckled, reaching out to put a hand on your thigh. You turned towards him, taking his hand in yours. 

"Yes, really. We might even get lucky enough to see a moose, or some elk."

The drive continued to prove more and more impressive as the day went on. Din masterfully guided the truck around curving, winding mountain roads, hands sure and strong on the wheel. Towering Douglas fir and Ponderosa pines blocked the sun when the route dipped down into a valley.

When the road lifted up onto the backs of the smaller mountains, and a sign indicated a scenic turnout a mile ahead, you'd insisted you both stop. 

Din had acquiesced, a small smile on his face. 

You took your camera and jumped out of the vehicle as soon as Din put it in park. Even though it was summertime, the mountain air bit cool and windy against your skin. Ignoring the goosebumps now risen on your bare arms, you walked up to the log fence, bypassing the information plaque to instead take in the view.

Snow-capped peaks stood closer than ever before. Below them, the valley was spread out and glowing green in the afternoon sunlight, and the scent of pine drifted on the wind. Lifting your camera to your eye, you took a photo of the mountains, making sure to include the valley, too. So you could look back and see just how close to the clouds Din had taken you.

Looking back at your partner, you saw him leaning up against the passenger-side door, staring off to the side, himself enraptured by the beauty and tranquility of the place.

You lifted the camera again to snap a photo. You absolutely loved catching him candidly, capturing the natural poses his handsome features often found themselves in.

Din turned to you, having noticed the flash.

"Here," he said, holding a hand out for the camera. You stashed the photos you'd just taken in your pocket and handed it over. "I'll get one of you, with the mountains in back."

You hurried back to the fence and half-sat on it, hands resting on the rough wood as you smiled for the picture. You wore nothing special - only some secondhand jeans and one of Din's t-shirts, with some boots you'd found for cheap in Albuquerque - but it fit the occasion, you thought. 

Din took the photo and then pulled it from the slot as it developed. Standing there on the gravel turn-out, the two of you watched the photo come to life, color blossoming across the page. It was completely average, in your eyes, but Din slipped it in his breast pocket nonetheless.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he said, looping his arm around your waist, hand tucked in the front pocket of your jeans. "Let's get going."

Just as the two of you turned back onto the road, another vehicle pulled into the gravel lookout. It was a VW van, a few years old from the looks of it, and out hopped an elderly lady, her husband, and a little weiner dog.

It made your heart ache for what might be.

The drive to Boba's place took another hour and a half. He lived outside Stanley, in a remote pocket of the National Forest only accessible by gravel roads. 

"Never known the man to be overly sociable," Din told you with a smirk. "I'm surprised he's let even me know about this place."

Better for hunting bounties, Din had said. Apparently men fleeing from the law often sought refuge in this dangerous, rugged terrain, and Boba made a living by tracking them down and turning them in. 'Warm or cold', as Din liked to say. Whatever brought in the paycheck with no loss of life or limb. Plus, he had the added benefit of no nosy neighbors and possibly the most quiet one could achieve in the lower 48.

His driveway led to a large clearing, in which stood a modest but comfortable cabin as well as outbuildings and fenced-in pastureland. A few horses grazed, and three big dogs ran up alongside the truck as you and Din drove up. He parked the truck alongside a similarly old, beat-up pickup, and cut the engine.

Your feet hit the gravel just as you heard the cabin's front door slam shut, a cacophony of barking accompanying the sound. One of the dogs, a yellow lab with mud on its paws and legs, ran up to you and nearly bowled you over with its weight.

"Don't mind her," a low, accented voice called out, "Kamino's not used to visitors."

Doing your best to appease the excited dog while also greeting your host, you kept your hand down for Kamino to lick while looking up to give Boba a warm smile.

"It's so nice to finally meet you," you said, standing upright and properly looking at Boba Fett. Din had given you a short description - "mean-looking, like he got in a fight with a grizzly and won" - but you didn't realize how right that was until this moment. Scars criss-crossed his face, head, and shoulders, and his gaze was calculating and assertive. He smiled, though, and put a firm hand on your shoulder.

"Welcome to my home. Any friend of Din's is a friend of mine."

Footsteps came around the back of the truck and Boba turned from you to Din, your partner holding your shared duffel of clothes. 

"Good to see you again," Din said, reaching out a hand for Boba to shake. 

Boba took his hand and pulled him in for a half-hug. "It's been too long, brother."

You watched as the old friends reunited, their camaraderie still evident despite not seeing each other for a few years. Boba's tattoo, the one with a matching twin on Din's ribs, peeked out from under his shirt's sleeve, black ink barely visible on his upper arm.

They broke apart and Din's gaze found you. You stepped forward, into his embrace, and the two of you followed Boba up into the house.

For a log cabin inhabited solely by a gruff, single man, the house was surprisingly tidy. Everything was neat and clean - not in a rushed way that told you he was preparing for visitors, but in a way that belied a habit of cleanliness in Boba's everyday life. There was a fireplace against one wall and a set of windows in another, looking out over the forest and mountains beyond. Armchairs dotted the main room, with well-loved blankets thrown over the backs of them.

He showed the two of you to the guest room, sparsely decorated save for a few books on top of the dresser. Din set the duffel bag on the bed, which looked incredibly comfortable, and Boba continued showing you around the house. Through the kitchen, where the bathrooms were, the whole nine.

"You two want to take a seat?" Boba asked once the tour was through. The three of you ended up in the living room, where the fireplace was. "The drive must've been long, all the way up from Vegas. I'll get you something to drink."

"Thanks, Boba," you replied, finding a spot on the sofa, and Din followed closely behind, settling in next to you. 

Your host returned with three cold bottles of beer, the glass covered in a layer of condensation. You accepted yours gratefully and turned, noticing where Boba was taking his seat, propping your feet up on Din's lap so you could face the conversation more fully.

One of his hands, the one not currently holding his beer, dropped down to rest on the top of your socked foot, massaging gently.

"So," Boba started, settling in. Taking the two of you - an old friend and that friend's new flame - in. "How did such a pretty girl wind up with the last man I expected to settle down?"

Din took a sip of his drink, looking over at you with a sly smile, grip tightening on your foot. The orange light of the fireplace, flames warm against your back, casted flickering shadows across his face. You tilted your head, raising your brow at him, daring him to say something with that smart mouth of his.

He turned back to Boba. "You want God's honest truth?"

"You know me well enough to know the answer to that, Din," the older man quipped.

"I have no fucking idea."

That made you laugh, the ridiculousness of it. "Shut up, you big sap," you protested, sitting up to push him gently in the shoulder. It's too bashful and sweet for him - for your grumpy, tough, tattooed bounty hunter.

"It's true," he said, glancing over at you. "Every day that goes by I'm shocked you're still with me, cyar'ika."

You huffed, taking a swig of your beer, unaccustomed to such talk, especially in front of someone else. "Well, it'll be a cold day in hell before you see me leave you."

Boba laughed at that, saying something about the pair you two made, before the conversation steered in a different direction.

As the night wore on and the three of you passed the line from tipsy into drunk, you found yourself pressing your body closer and closer to Din until you were cuddling him, needy and drowsy and bubbling with giddiness for no apparent reason. Head resting on his chest, tucked under his chin, your ear felt the vibration of his words as he reminisced with Boba. Trading the war stories they shared with a heavy air of gratitude for it all being over, the conversation lasted well into the early hours of the morning.

You fell asleep like that, on Din's chest.

The next morning, you awoke in your bed in the guest room to the smell of bacon and the sight of pale sunlight streaming through the window. Birds chirped outside and something warm and large stirred next to you.

Din groaned softly, stretching his arms toward the headboard. His biceps flexed, strong and sure and glowing in the morning light. You looked up at him, at the groggy haze in his deep brown eyes, at the way his lips curled as he suppressed a yawn, and your heart swelled.

"Could get used to this," you murmured, and Din hummed in agreement, bringing an arm down to rest lazily on your shoulders.

The covers were a soft, flannel-like material that was cozy and warm to the point that you didn't want to get out of bed. You snuggled down into Din, as close as you could get.

Your partner gently rolled you over, guiding you onto your back so he could hover above you. Like this you felt caged, but in a good way - as though you could never find harm or trouble so long as Din held you like this, as though his arms protected you from everything the world outside threw at you.

Gazing up at him, you brought your hands up to his cheeks, caressing the soft, stubbled skin there with your thumbs.

Without a word, he leaned down and pressed his lips against your own. Muddled and messy in the remnants of sleep, the kiss was not one meant to lead to anything more. Your legs opened lazily, out of instinct, out of want to keep him there forever. Din closed his eyes and kissed you and tasted you in the way only he knew how.

From the kitchen, downstairs and adjacent to the living room, a record played, soft through the walls. Something old-fashioned, like Buddy Holly or Chuck Berry. The tinny sound of the singer's voice made you smile against Din's lips.

"What?" he'd questioned, pouting like a young boy at the thought of pulling away so soon.

You blinked, staring up into his deep brown eyes. You ran your thumb up across his brow, down his cheekbone, to the cleft of his chin.

"I just… I just think I love you, is all."

Your words seemed to take Din by surprise. It wasn't what you were going to say - you'd meant to comment about leaving Boba waiting, or something about not wanting to leave the bed, but instead that undeniable truth had slipped from your lips.

He looked at you softly, adoringly. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course," you replied. "Never meant anything more."

-

Breakfast, once you and Din managed to get up and eat it, consisted of bacon and eggs made masterfully on a cast iron skillet. Boba sat back in his chair as he and Din discussed the upcoming job, one that needed to see its completion within the next couple of days.

You listened to their planning and deliberation with a quiet, observant ear, quite intrigued by this side of Din you'd never seen before.

He spoke without room for debate, always sure of his own opinion before voicing it to Boba. It was clear he had great respect for the older man, through both shared trauma and what seemed to be a sort of teacher-student dynamic. When Boba presented something in a different way, Din listened attentively, taking in his friend's words and taking them to heart. However, he also knew his own strength as a hunter - that much was clear. 

They pulled out maps and black-and-white mugshots and police reports, piecing together the puzzle that made up this target. You could do little more than watch and sip your coffee.

After they settled on a plan, the two men took you out for some target practice before noon.

"If you're serious about this life," Boba had said, not unkindly, "then you'd better know how to handle a firearm."

Din nodded his agreement, so you went, walking with the two of them out back behind the barn. On a log, Boba set up some of your empty beer bottles from last night. Against the wooden slats of the barn rested three rifles - one of which you assumed was Din's - and each man carried a pistol or two on his person.

"Here." Din handed you a small revolver, keeping his hands close as you felt the weight of it. "Keep your finger off the trigger unless you mean to shoot at what you're pointing at. So long as these -" he ran his finger over the cylinder, pointing at the chambers and the bullets within them "- are loaded, you have the potential to fire."

Careful not to curl your index finger over the trigger, you took the gun from him, resting it in both hands.

"Now, I want you to aim it at that bottle," he said, pointing down the way at a glittering glass bottle. "Don't shoot, just aim. Use the sight at the end of the barrel."

You did as you were told, one hand around the grip and the other on the bottom, like you'd seen in movies and shows. Your index finger remained straight along the barrel. Down the sight, you saw the bottle, and you tried to keep your grip as steady as you could.

"Good. Next, use your thumb to cock the hammer. That little lever, there - yep, just like that."

Din put his large, warm hands on your shoulder blades. "You've aimed and now you've primed it to shoot. We didn't give you hearing protection, because we don't get that luxury when we're on the job. Fire when you're ready, but be prepared for the noise and the recoil."

You nodded, taking a deep breath. Inhale, exhale.

Your finger found the trigger and pulled before your nerves could warn you against it.

Din was right; the sound did make you jump a bit, just as the gun itself jumped in your hand from the force of the recoil. The loud 'POP' masked the shattering of glass several yards ahead of you, so you didn’t realize you'd hit your target until you looked up and saw Din and Boba both smiling at you.

"Good job, kid," Boba grunted, clearly at least somewhat impressed. "Not bad for your first go."

You tested out each of the guns - for the rifles, Din gave you a set of earmuffs, the kind he'd wear on a stakeout if he were perched somewhere watching for a target. In the end, you liked the revolver the best, its handle fitting snugly into your palm and the bite of its recoil the least jarring of all of them. 

In your heart of hearts, you hoped you'd never have to use any of them. But it was good to know, regardless, in case Din ever needed help. That's a thought that made you grin - some beastly brute getting the better of your partner, only to be defeated by an unassuming girl with a gun.

After lunch, Din and Boba left to do some recon on the target, having asked whether you wanted to join them and acquiescing when you'd declined. Instead, you chose to indulge in some alone time in the cabin, taking up residence on the balcony that overlooked the mountains. With a blanket over your legs and your coffee mug refilled, you'd put on one of Boba's old-timey records and sat down with a book to read.

The tranquility of it all drew a few visitors. 

First, it was a few deer, a mother doe and her two fawns. You watched with bated breath as they wandered through the meadow, nibbling at grasses and wildflowers, before trotting along and disappearing through the treeline.

Then, a lone elk made his way through. This visitor made you sit up in your chair and peer over the railing, watching as the proud male strutted through the open grass and into the trees, just as the deer had done. Once he was gone, your heart still racing, you ran to grab your camera. Just in case.

No one else visited you until Boba and Din got back.

They returned with good news: they had located and apprehended the target, with more ease than they'd expected. This made you relieved, all at once glad neither of them was in danger and thankful you didn't have to get involved in the fray. Someday you'd have to, you knew, but not so soon.

That evening, after Din came back inside from his last smoke before bed, you caught him in the entryway. His jacket was still on, Marlboros tucked in the pocket.

"We should ask," you urged, wrapping your hands around his waist, drawing him closer. He put his hands on your hips and hummed. "Ask Boba about staying. Even a few days would be so nice."

Din nodded. "In the morning, cyar'ika. It would be a shame to let those warm sheets go to waste."

You wrinkled your nose at his comment, drawing a chuckle from his chest. He placed a kiss on your forehead, then walked with you further into the house. You were dressed in one of his t-shirts and little else, teeth brushed and hair up, ready for bed. Din discarded his jacket on one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

He looked back at you, an up-and-down once-over, the glimmer in his eyes a telltale sign of his wicked intent. Your heart raced, cheeks warming. He took a step towards you.

Hand back on your hip, he turned swiftly and pressed you against the counter, white tile digging into your back. His fingers trailed up your sides and found the peaks of your nipples through the shirt you wore, braless in preparation for sleep.

The yellowish light from the fixture overhead doused both of you in a soft, intimate glow. Beside you, the dishwasher ran, water rushing and gurgling quietly in an imitation of the words Din muttered in your ear.

"Can't believe how fuckin' lucky I am. You're perfect, you know that?"

It made you giggle, stretching your arms up to rest on his shoulders. You raised a brow, but you couldn't hide your smile. His hair, perpetually messy and disheveled, shone almost auburn in the light, a halo around his head that cast his handsome features in shadow.

"You really are a sap, huh?"

Din chuckled, but his hand continued to gently feel at your breast through your - his - shirt. His other palm rested on the counter behind you.

He pressed his lips to your ear, then to your jaw, then to your cheek. "Maybe I am. All your fault, though."

His free hand dipped down to grasp at your upper thigh, his crouched stance indicating he wanted you to hop up on the counter. You did so, with his help - you always forgot how strong he was until a moment like that, when he'd lift you without a second thought.

You settled your ass on the cool counter, legs spread to allow Din enough room to press even closer to you. Your heels found the backs of his legs, wrapped around and pressed to faded jeans to secure his place at your front.

From somewhere overhead, footsteps creaked, the sound muffled through the ceiling. Then the faint click of a lamp turning off.

Din began rucking your shirt up, enough so he could slip his hands underneath and feel at your bare skin. You turned your head and caught his lips with your own, a quiet whine escaping your throat when he kneaded both of your breasts. You concentrated on the taste of him, the fresh tobacco on his breath mixing with the mint-baking soda of your toothpaste, even though the way his fingers caressed your chest made it hard not to squirm where you sat.

Desperate to feel more of his skin against your own, you brought your hands down to the hem of his shirt and started tugging, insistent. 

Din stepped back to pull his shirt off by the back of the collar, all in one fell swoop, and there was a moment of stillness that followed. You, taking in the broad expanse of his chest and abdomen, and him, watching your face as you observed him. 

Reaching your hands out, you looked up and caught his gaze again. He stepped forward so you could put your hands on his bare skin.

"I think I'm the lucky one," you murmured, curling your fingertips into the smooth skin over his ribs, short fingernails leaving barely-there crescents in their wake. "Getting to have all of this."

Your partner chuckled, ghosting his nose across the apple of your cheek. His hands found the tops of your thighs, skating up and beneath the hem of your modest, plain panties. The navy blue ones, today. Soft and reliable and nothing too special.

"All of what, sweetheart?" His words were whispered into the skin of your neck as he kissed the salty remnants of your sweat away. Tongue darting out swiftly, he tasted you in that small kitchen that smelled of woodsmoke and pine.

He was a furnace with the way his bare skin warmed you. For ages you've been cold, naturally so, frigid fingertips and toes in even the summer months, but Din has enough heat to share between the both of you. This was the same that night; you pressed the backs of your fingers into the skin of his chest, shivering with how quickly this seemed to bring life to your bones.

"You, Din," you whispered, eyes fluttering closed as his teeth nipped at your neck. "All of you, all of your… your -"

He cut you off with the press of his lips to your own. You moaned, caught off guard by the interruption, distracted immediately and thoughts floating away on the still, silent air. 

Your hands flew up to cup his face, just as you had done that morning. His grip tightened on your hips, kneading and groping at your skin there. Wanting to be closer, to feel more of him, you kissed him deeper, pressing your clothed front against his bare chest. Nipples grazing his skin through the thin fabric of the shirt. 

For several long minutes, you kissed him like that. Hot and heavy and perfect. Your combined breaths sang the song of your desire, and when you bit at his plush bottom lip, Din groaned.

"You'll be the death of me, cyar'ika," he muttered, fingers playing with your panties like he meant to slide them off. "Walking around in my clothes, half naked like this."

"Hey," you chuckled, "I don't see you complaining, smartass."

He smiled, a quirk of his lips up as his tongue darted out to run along his teeth. "I'm not. Just… making an observation."

From their place at your hips, wound up in your panties, his hands began moving ever so slowly down your legs. You put your hands down on the counter to push yourself up and help him along. Din dragged the process out; he trailed your underwear down your legs painstakingly slowly, taking his time, massaging the spaces behind your knees and then your calves and then your ankles, until he finally slid the garment all the way off.

Coy smile still on his face, he tucked your panties into the back pocket of his jeans.

God, those jeans. Slung low on his hips, obscene in the way they provided you a view of his hipbones and the trail of hair that led much lower, you cursed yourself for not having your camera at the ready. What a picture he'd make like this.

The tile counter was cold against your bare bottom, but you soon forgot your discomfort when Din curled his fingers under the hem of your shirt and lifted, just enough to see what lay at the apex of your thighs.

"Not complaining," he muttered again, staring down at the way you glistened for him. "You just have to know what you do to me, sweet thing."

"Tell me, then," you replied. 

He looked up to your face and then back down again, and you watched the gears turn in his brain as he decided upon his course of action. Carefully, quietly, he lowered himself to his knees and he brought your legs up onto his shoulders. Catching on, you scooted forward as much as you could in eager preparation.

Din pressed a kiss into the inside of your thigh, his hands tight and unyielding where they gripped the skin of your legs. 

His breath warmed your chilled flesh as he whispered into it, and you felt the words more than heard them. "Makes me so goddamned hard, seeing you in my shirts. Every time you step foot outside in one of 'em."

Bringing a hand up to curl in his dark locks, you hummed. "Yeah? Y'know why I do it?"

He responded with a questioning grunt. His teeth then made another appearance, biting a mark into the thickest, widest portion of your upper thigh. He loved your thighs - loved watching them as you rode him into oblivion, loved holding onto them when you sat on his lap, and he especially loved them in times like this, when his mouth descended upon the nectar dripping from your center and they wrapped around his head, quivering from your pleasure.

In all honesty, if Din was asked which part of your body he loved the most, he'd have a hard time answering. He'd always had a tough time choosing favorites.

"Why's that, baby girl?"

He glanced up at you from his spot between your legs, brown eyes shimmering with something akin to delight. Maybe humor. It reminded you of a painting you'd once seen in a library book, something filled with shadow save for a single beam of light not unlike the bulb overhead.

That was the thing about your feelings for Din; they could seem all at once brighter than the sun and darker than a winter's night. You knew the violence he was capable of - had witnessed a portion of it firsthand - and saw how jealousy flashed dangerous in his gaze. Yet you also knew how good he was with children, and at making sandcastles, and at singing along to songs even though he didn't know the words to them.

Din pressed a kiss to the seam of your thigh, breath floating over your weeping sex. You scratched a gentle pattern against his warm scalp.

"'Cause I like it when other people can tell. When they know I'm yours just by looking at me."

In the moment after you spoke, he licked into you, deep and insistent, and the suddenness of it made you yelp. A high-pitched noise accompanied by pinched brows and clenched muscles, you slapped your free hand over your mouth to prevent any more incriminating noises from slipping out.

Something about what you said must have spurred him on, because Din set to eating you out like a man starved. 

Nose nudging the sensitive bundle of nerves at the peak of your pussy, Din's mouth worked magic against your soft, glistening folds. His grip tightened on your hips, bruising, as he pressed his mouth to your cunt. It was divine, like everything is with him, and your legs trembled with the feeling of it where his tongue caressed you.

Your hand, the one not covering your mouth, threaded through Din's thick hair and held on like a rider on her bronco. You tried not to let your hips thrash too wildly against him, but the building desire in your skin made that a near herculean task. 

"Din…" you uttered through your fingers, whispering, "Din, you gotta… oh my god -"

He hummed into you, dragging his sinful tongue up until he could catch your clit, pressing a rhythm into it and making you whine. Your orgasm built, hot and insistent in your core, and you knew he could feel you clench with it.

"Din," you repeat, "I need… need you to…"

Pulling away ever so slightly, he looked up at you with a devious glint in his eyes. The lower half of his face shone in the low light with traces of your wetness. 

 "What, baby? What do you need?"

Your mouth dropped open, breath escaping your lungs in bursts.

"I need… need'ya to - to -"

Din stood, silent and almost menacing in front of you. Even though you were nearly at eye level with one another like this, his dark gaze told you exactly what you needed to know. His hands remained on your hips, slotting his own in between your thighs.

God, what a vision. You looked up at him and your heart melted, needing him to fuck you like you need air to breathe.

Leaning back, you spread yourself out for him, hand trailing up your stomach to pull the hem of your shirt over your breasts. You watched his brows fall, eyes dark and intent in the way they gazed upon your figure.

"Please, Din."

"Please what? C'mon, sweet thing, you gotta be more specific. Tell me what you want - let me hear you say it," he muttered, though his hand was already reaching for the waistband of his boxers, visible through his open fly.

You tried to wiggle closer, but his hand on your hip stopped you. "Please, I need - need you to fuck me. Need your - need you in - inside me."

Din smiled, jaw working as his hands pulled his hard, aching member from the confines of his pants. Your eyes widened as you watched him stroke himself once, then twice, before tightening his grip around the base. The heavy girth that'll split you open and have you begging, whimpering, crying for more.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to seeing his cock, much less feeling it split you open. 

"I got you, cyar’ika.”

It only took a certain sway of his hips for him to press himself against you, using his fingers and his pelvis to notch his cock at the exact place you needed it most. Watching the way he moved toward you, mimicking the way he would soon move inside you, made your pussy clench against him. 

“Look at me,” he murmured, squeezing your hip. 

You did as he said, focusing your attention on dark brown eyes, and it wasn’t a moment later that you felt him thrust his hips forward. Into you. Through you. 

A moan slipped out of your throat as you watched his eyebrows furrow in time with the feeling of him stretching you open. It was loud, much too loud for the quiet that blanketed the cabin, but Din covered your mouth with his hand anyway. 

Urging you back, he leaned forward as he seated himself fully inside of you. 

"Gotta be quiet, pretty girl," he muttered, though you could hear the strain in his voice, words uttered through clenched teeth and restraint. "Don't wanna wake Boba up, do we?"

You shook your head, eyes wide as you continued to stare up at Din. Above you, your hands skated up his back, restlessly grasping at him to urge him along. He pushed ever so slightly forward, adjusting the both of you, and you felt him brush against that spot within you only he'd ever been able to reach.

Pleasure-pain shot through your body. You arched up against him, against his hand on your mouth, eyes fluttering closed.

"Fuck. Can - can I --"

You nodded before he could finish the thought, knowing what he planned to ask and agreeing to it, like, five minutes ago.

Din pulled his hips back and snapped forward, jarring and sudden like the recoil of his gun. Your eyes rolled back in your head and an inelegant whimper escaped your lips, only to be muffled by the palm of his hand. 

Then he decided he'd rather shut you up with something else, something better, and he leaned down to kiss you.

He built up a rhythm as your tongues met, licking and biting and tasting. At one point it became little more than breathing each other's air, mouths hung open against one another as Din worked himself inside of you. His hip bones, ever his most seductive attribute (aside from, of course, everything else about him), bruised your own with the way he fucked you. Little noises escaped his throat and you nearly pointed it out - you would have if it weren't for the delicious crest you could feel rapidly approaching within.

He could sense it too. Din reached down and pressed a finger to that not-so-secret little spot and began to tease it, using the rhythm of his hips to draw seismic shockwaves out of your cunt.

Your lover kissed you again, hard, his hand in your hair, and then you both heard the sound of footsteps on groaning hardwood stairs.

Din froze. Your eyes snapped open and you saw him clench his jaw. Felt his hand slide up and around to your thigh.

"Don't stop on my account," Boba drawled, sounding much too amused for your liking. 

Sighing, Din dropped his head to rest on the tile next to your face. He looked back up and tugged your shirt down as much as he could, trying his best to protect your modesty.

"You did this on fuckin' purpose, Fett."

The older man chuckled. You heard a cabinet slam shut, then running water. "It's not like I didn't give you two rabbits a bed for a reason."

The embarrassment that coursed through your veins in that moment was so visceral it was hot to the touch. This was the first time you'd met any of Din's friends or family, and here you and he have gone and fucked it up. Taken advantage of Boba's hospitality and acted like horny, ungrateful teenagers.

"Listen, you can give me shit for this all you want tomorrow. There's only one other person in this room who's seen my dick and I'd like to keep it that way."

Boba laughed, hearty and deep. "Alright, alright. I'll get out of your hair. But it is good to know you treat your girl right, Djarin."

"Boba!" you and Din exclaimed simultaneously, and he left in a whirl of guffaws and snickering.

Suffice it to say, that night ended a bit differently than you'd anticipated. When the dust settled in the morning and Din wasn't quite so ruffled by the interruption, you mustered up the courage to ask your question, despite it all.

Boba, of course, agreed wholeheartedly.

-

You can't help the flush that warms your cheeks when you greet Boba. He gives you a sly smile but otherwise no indication of that… memorable encounter. It was three years ago, but it's still seared into your memory like it happened yesterday.

Jyn is seated across the table from you and you aren’t able to properly introduce yourself to her beyond a wave ‘hello’. You make it your mission, internally, to get to know her more before the end of the night. She's beautiful, dressed very well, with a pair of earrings that you'll be sure to ask her about later, if only to make her effort of wearing them noticed.

After the waitress takes your drink orders, the conversation flows easily, with you and Din the center of attention, having just arrived. The round table is perfect for this sort of gathering, as you're afforded an equal view of everyone.

Finn begins, leaning forward with his arms crossed on the table. His tattoo peeks out from under the loose collar of his shirt. “Poe relayed the story of how you and Din met to me, but I think you two should tell it the way it really went.”

You glance up at Din, who looks down at you and shifts to wrap his arm around your shoulders. You lean into him and then look back to Finn as you answer. 

“I was hitchhiking. Somehow I got lucky and he picked me up. Turns out, we enjoy each other's company quite a lot."

Mayfeld, who until this point has been uncharacteristically quiet, immediately groans. “C’mon, give us the details. When did y’all get down and dirty, huh?”

You laugh, but the words are barely out of his mouth before Din’s balling up a napkin in his free hand and flinging it at him. The paper hits Mayfeld squarely in the forehead and he reacts with an affronted “Hey!”

Din points at him, brow raised in a glare. “You’re on thin ice, you bastard. You and Dameron both.”

This causes the table to erupt into laughter. You can see the beginnings of a smile forming on Din’s lips, despite his thinly veiled threats. He’s enjoying his time back with his friends, you can tell. 

From across the table, you hear Jyn speak up, her British accent a welcome respite from all the testosterone the two of you are currently surrounded by. 

“What’s been your favorite memory travelling with Din so far?” she asks with a smile. You appreciate her genuine interest, apparent in her expression as she listens to you. 

Immediately, your mind goes to the obvious: Grogu. You and Din talk about him all the time, but have never been back to Lubbock, or even really that area of Texas at all. It still hurts to think of him, of how good those days were, but the two of you have also had so many wonderful days since. 

The kid was the reason the two of you stuck together in the beginning. He was the glue, at first -  the catalyst that made you realize your feelings for one another. Without that fateful night in the motel, when his mother took a chance on two strangers, you'd be god-knows-where doing god-knows-what. 

When you look up to Din, you can tell he’s thinking the same. His eyes have that look in them that they always do whenever the kid comes up. 

He’d be four years old by now.

The only problem is, no one knows about Grogu but the two of you. Not Boba, not Poe, no one.

You turn your attention back to Jyn. “We went to Glacier about a year ago,” you tell her, because that trip was memorable for many reasons. “We did the whole nine yards - camped out, hiked, you name it. My favorite part was the Going-To-The-Sun road, which is this road that’s on the side of a mountain with a crazy steep drop at the side. I thought Din’s hands were going to bond to the steering wheel from how tight he was holding onto it.”

“Six-thousand feet,” Din interjects, “with just a tiny stone wall between us and certain death.”

Finn shudders violently. "That's awful!" he exclaims, lips curled in disgust. "I'll stay on solid ground, thank you very much."

You can't help but laugh at your friends' antics, their reactions to your story and Din's recollection of that drive.

Of course, you don't tell them that Din made you come four times that night, tucked away in a little tent with nothing around but nighttime air and the sounds of your pleasure. 

Before anyone can say anything more, the waitress comes back with your drinks and takes your orders. Poe gets a plate of wings for the table as an appetizer and Din orders a burger with an extra helping of fries to share with you. Everything on the menu sounds so delicious that you have a tough time choosing, but ultimately you go for the house-made barbecue sandwich. If there's one thing you know about the south and places like this, it's to always go for their house specialty if you want the best their cuisine has to offer.

From somewhere towards the front of the bar, someone has put a quarter in the C-D jukebox to change the song, cutting out a Journey hit from a few years ago to be replaced by one of Stevie Nicks' solo songs. You're not sure of the title, but the iconic singer's voice is unmistakable as it flows through the speakers.

The beat makes you tap your fingers rhythmically against the tabletop. It's edgier than Fleetwood Mac's earlier records, but easily danced to, a common thread throughout most of the artist's discography. You've always loved Stevie Nicks. Din had been undecided on her until you insisted on playing Rumors for him in its entirety, which ended up winning him over.

-

"So both Mick and Lindsey were into Stevie? What about Christine?"

You laughed. The California sun was just as hot as you remembered, even in winter. Christmas in San Diego was beginning to look like a tradition, your handsome traveling partner and yourself finding your feet in the sand at La Jolla just as you had last year.

"Christine was married to John, who plays bass. They got divorced during the recording of the album too.”

Din nodded, mouth opening in a silent 'ah'. He was so attentive, listening carefully as you spun the story as you'd heard it from girlfriends and magazine pages. 

The large towel you two laid on still had the tag from the store. Your cooler, full of half-melted ice and cans of soda and beer, helped to pin the fluttering end down at your feet.

You wore your yellow bikini - thank god it still fit. You'd helped Din pick out new swim trunks this year, forest green and simple but they fit him like a glove. He wore his shades, too, and smoked his usual cigarette.

All in all, it made the Christmas of 1980 just perfect. A little chilly, sure, but picturesque and relaxing as hell.

From somewhere behind you, voices drew close, moving in from the parking area.

"See, Han? We're not the only ones out here. Come on, let's find a good spot."

"A good spot? There's one other couple on the beach, Leia."

"Exactly!"

You turned as best you could in your position on your stomach and caught sight of a young couple making their way down the beach. The woman, short and brunette, led the way, while her tall, harried-looking partner followed along, a beach chair under each arm.

The woman, who you presumed to be Leia, looked up and spotted the two of you. She stopped short, waving, and so you waved back.

Din, sitting up on your opposite side, put a hand on your hip. "You know these two?"

You shook your head, propping yourself up on your elbows. "Nah. They seem nice, though."

Leia picked her way across driftwood and empty beer bottles, clearly making an effort to say hello. Her hair was done up in intricate, beautiful braids, and she smiled brightly as she approached.

"Merry Christmas!" she greeted. "And Happy Hanukkah, and all the rest. You both have the right idea, I say. Han wasn't so convinced."

You sat up fully, brushing sand from your front, and stood to meet these newcomers. Din followed suit.

"Same to you - Leia, did I hear right?"

Your new friend nodded. "Yes, that's me. And that's Han, the scruffy-looking chump with the chairs back there."

Han frowned, shouting back in protest. "Hey! Who's scruffy-looking?"

You couldn't help but chuckle, their friendly banter a welcome intrusion on what might otherwise have been a calm, uninteresting morning. You crossed your arms and turned to Din, introducing yourself and then him.

"Nice to meet you," Din said, mouth curled in a frown. You rolled your eyes, turning back to Leia, leaning in conspiratorially with a grin.

"Looks like we have the same taste in men, huh?"

That made her laugh, a rowdy noise that you knew would be the life of the party if you were in a crowd. This stranger was beginning to grow on you, her smile infectious, and it made you realize how much you missed having a good old-fashioned friend. Sure, you had Din, and no one could replace him, but having another woman to talk to might be… nice, actually!

You felt a hand come to rest on your shoulder and you turned to look at Din, finding him staring at you with his brow raised. You knew that expression - one that said 'Really? You're sure about this?' - and you shrugged a yes.

It was just then that Han caught up to the group, slightly out of breath. 

"Leia, did we forget to pick up drinks?"

The woman's face fell, getting serious for a moment. "Oh, shoot and molasses, we did. I'd hate to have to r-"

Din stepped forward, taking his cigarette out of his mouth to speak. He squeezed your shoulder gently and then gestured over to the cooler. "We've got plenty extra, if you care to join."

-

The barbecue sandwich is heavenly and it's only made better by the conversation that's been happening around your table. Drinks have been flowing steadily, outmatched only by the stories your newfound friends tell. Some of them make you laugh until you're nearly in stitches, while others have you captivated and on the edge of your seat. Poe's a pilot, was in the war and has now made a career of it, and he loves to regale everyone with his tales of misadventure and the cast of characters he's met.

Your meal is nearly finished when you hear Jyn excuse herself to use the restroom. You follow suit, taking the chance to accompany her - as girls tend to do - and to have a one-on-one conversation with her.

She turns to you as you make your way to the bathrooms, tucked away in a far corner of the bar. You have to cross through the crowded floor to get there, so Jyn puts a hand on your elbow to keep from losing you in the fray.

"So, where are you from?" she asks, voice just audible in your ear. "Originally, I mean. When you were younger."

Turning back with a humored look on your face, you reply. "Nowhere interesting. Just a town along a highway with a Wal-Mart and a couple bars."

Your new friend laughs, like she doesn't quite believe you. "Surely there must have been something exciting about the place where you grew up!"

"I promise, nothing to write home about. What about you? Where in the UK are you from?"

"Oh, I'm from Birmingham," she tells you. The two of you turn the corner where the sign for the restrooms points and make your way to the swinging wooden door labelled 'Ladies'.

Jyn heads to a stall while you stand at a sink and touch up what little makeup you have on. Your mascara has run ever so slightly from tears of laughter, so you take a paper towel, wet it, and wipe the dark marks away. There are a few other women around you chatting and putting themselves together - overall the stereotypical scene in a bar's women's restroom.

When Jyn emerges, you scoot over so she can take her spot at the sink and wash her hands. You look at her in the mirror, arms crossed over your chest, hip resting against the bathroom counter. Her earrings glint in the fluorescent light.

"Those are cute," you tell her with a smile, causing her to glance up. "Your earrings. Where'd you get them?"

"Oh! Thank you. Cassian bought them for me for our one-year anniversary. They've got my birthstone in them - topaz for November."

You nod, smiling. About to continue the conversation, you open your mouth to speak, but you're interrupted by someone noisy and excited entering the small restroom.

"God, Soka, you should have seen the look on his face when I told him! I'll never forget it --"

The familiar voice cuts off right as you turn and make eye contact with, of all people in the world, Leia Organa.

"Oh my god --"

"Leia, what --"

You and she exclaim to one another at precisely the same moment, cutting one another off with broad smiles on your faces. She's dressed in baggy jeans and a tight tank top, with her hair up in her signature braids. Her friend, the woman she walked in with, has a dark complexion and braids across the crown of her head and over her shoulders, inlaid with gold rings. 

Together they make quite the fashionable pair, though you wouldn't expect much else from Leia.

"Am I dreaming?" she trills as her friend makes a dash for one of the open stalls. Beside you, Jyn gives you a pat on the arm and you wave goodbye, seeing that she wants to get back to the table.

You laugh. "Hardly! It's so good to see you, Leia. What brings you into the area?"

She smiles warmly, clasping her hands in front of her stomach. "Soka and Han and my brother and I are all in town for a wedding! My parents are renewing their vows, isn't that great? My gosh, it's great to see you too! How long has it been now?"

"Well, last Christmas, so…" you do the math in your head, counting backwards, "about five months?"

Your friend nods. "That sounds right. Oh, Han and I were telling Luke - my brother, that is - all about our Christmas brunch on the beach this past year. One of the best Christmases I've ever had and I stand by that."

The restroom has grown a bit crowded, so you and Leia make your way out and into the hallway where there's a bit more breathing room. She leans up against the wall, short stature putting her just above eye level with the light switches next to her.

"It was a great one," you agree, remembering the meal you and Din shared with Leia and Han on that same beach where you met two years prior. You'd met up a few times outside the holidays when your schedules and locations lined up, but Christmas was always special.

Leia looks at you with a toothy smile. She's got this energetic, outgoing energy about her that you can't help but connect with. She's told you she wants to be a senator someday - though with Han's line of work, that may be difficult. You'd learned soon after meeting them that he's a smuggler, though of what you're not sure, and Leia's a trust fund baby with cash out her eyeballs. They make quite an interesting pair, but somehow they work out perfectly. Their banter is playful and you've seen Han kiss her almost as much as she's seen Din kiss you.

"How's Din doing?" she asks, black-lined eyelids fluttering with interest. "Is he here?"

You nod, smiling at the mention of your partner. "He is. We're here for a reunion of sorts for him. Friends from 'Nam, actually."

Leia gives you a knowing look. "I should have known, you two hardly spend a moment apart. I'd say I don't know how you do it, but Han and I aren't much better."

Giggling, you turn in towards her to let someone past, the hallway small and dark and filled with framed photos and newspaper articles. There's one of Arnold Schwarzenegger sitting at the bar; it surprises you, because you could've sworn you saw him on a movie poster just last week.

Just as you're about to turn back to Leia, someone steps up behind her, a hand on her shoulder. 

She looks over to him and says something you can't quite catch through the way your ears rush with an unknown, unusual emotion.

In front of you is a man with a priest's collar. A blond man with a priest's collar that looks all too familiar, even though the last time you saw him it was only for a second and it was three years ago.

"This is my brother Luke," Leia says to you. "Still can't believe my twin's a priest, for chrissake --"

"Leia," the man scolds, though his lips curl up in the beginnings of a grin.

You think you're going to be sick.

"Excuse me," you grit out, rudely pushing past and making a beeline for Din.

You find him standing next to Boba, having left the table in favor of finding a few more drinks at the bar. They stand with their heads tilted towards one another, talking in low voices, but when Din sees your face he turns towards you, concerned.

"Is everything oka--"

Taking him by the bicep, you tug him towards a dark, empty corner of the bar where you can talk in relative privacy. Your heart is racing, mind swirling with all the unlikely reactions Leia's brother is surely going to have at recognizing the two of you.

"It's the… it's him. The priest from the school."

Din furrows his brow, confused. He puts a soothing hand on your shoulder but it does little to calm your nerves.

"What are you talking about?"

You give him a look, eyes wide. "The school in Lubbock, Din. That priest."

Your partner blanches, face falling. "What?"

"Yeah. And not only that, he’s fucking Leia’s brother.”

Din’s expression morphs into one of shock, his mouth open, nose scrunched. “Huh?”

His face makes you laugh, realizing how your words sounded. “No, I mean he is her brother. Sorry, that came out wrong.”

"Oh," he replies, eyebrows bouncing up. His hand comes up to cover his mouth as he looks off into the distance, then he glances back down at you. "You're sure it's him?"

You give him a look. "Din, I'd know that guy anywhere."

Nodding, he lets out a breath. "Well, what should we do? It's not like he's gonna call the cops on us, sweetheart."

"But could he? Surely there's a law against leaving children on ch--"

Din's face shifts to something carefully neutral, a silent warning for you to stop talking, like, right now. His eyes go a bit wide and it’s not a second later that you hear someone’s voice behind you. 

“Leia told me all about you two,” Luke says, voice kind, not a hint of accusation in his tone. 

Putting your friendliest smile on, you turn to face him, heart beating wildly in your chest. “Father! I apologize for my rude exit back there.”

He laughs, waving a hand. “Please, call me Luke. And no need to worry, I'm glad everything is alright."

You nod along, trying to discern whether or not he recognizes the two of you. It seems like he's not put off at all by the sight of you, so you're hoping he doesn't.

Din puts a hand on your shoulder before speaking up. "Yeah, everything's good. I'm Din, by the way, and this is my girlfriend. We're friends of Leia and Han's."

Luke smiles."Yes, what a coincidence that you met up again here, of all places."

The irony of it strikes you - from the way Din squeezes your shoulder, he gets the same feeling. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, and you think you feel a bead of sweat run down your back.

Leia's brother looks from you to Din and then back again. His smile shifts slightly, to something softer, as he clasps his hands in front of his stomach, fingers interlaced.

"I must admit," he says, taking a pause like he's thinking over the words he wants to say, "I wanted to talk to you both for another, purely selfish reason."

You feel your heart drop into your stomach.

Luke continues, fiddling with his hands. "I'm sure you don't know this, but it's too big of a coincidence to go unmentioned. I've been taking care of Grogu at my school for the past three years. I recognized you from the photos left with him."

Both you and Din are utterly silent. Risking a glance up at your boyfriend, you see that his eyes are wide and his mouth is pressed into a thin, tense line.

"I don't mean to accuse you of anything. In fact, I wanted to thank you."

You blink, at first certain you didn't hear him right. "Pardon?"

Luke nods, laughing softly. "Yes. It was clear from the photos that you took wonderful care of him. I hold no judgement against you for anything you did. In fact, I'd argue you did the right thing, giving him some love and happiness while you could. I want you both to know that, and to know that he's doing great."

Your eyes are welling up with tears and your lower lip has curled downwards and before you can stop yourself, you're reaching out with both hands to envelop Luke in a hug. Din chuckles, but you can hear the emotion filling his voice even as he tries to keep it in.

"Thank you, Father," he says. "That means more to the both of us than you know."

Letting go of the young priest, you use the back of your hand to wipe away your tears.

Luke smiles, putting a hand on your arm. "I'm glad it does. As I said, it was clear from the photos how much you cared for him, and I can see that's still the case."

It's just then that you hear the telltale sound of Leia's voice growing closer.

"Oh, Luke, what have you done? Already making my friends cry? I swear, one minute you're taking dad's pickup to go down to Tosche, the next you're some kind of spiritual guru hellbent on bringing people to tears."

You laugh lightly at her teasing tone, waving off her concerns with newfound ease, thanks to what Luke has just told you.

"Happy tears," you tell her. "The happiest tears, in fact."

-

The year is 1996.

The week after he receives his college acceptance letter in the mail, Grogu finds an envelope on his pillow with his name on the front. Father Luke's characteristic blocky, uppercase writing in black ink tells the young man that this is something important.

He opens the envelope, using his index finger to tear along the seam, and an assortment of items falls out. 

Firstly, he picks up the letter and unfolds it, thin and delicate in the way that aging things are.

The words are like a revelation to him. He re-reads the note about five times before turning his attention to the other contents of the envelope, tears prickling behind his eyes. As an 18-year-old young man, he is not one to cry very often, but this is as close as he's ever come to knowing his past.

He picks up the small collection of photographs and flips through them with trembling hands.

There is a Post-It note on the very last one. He removes it without giving it much mind, eager to see the image beneath. It's of a man, the man seen in the rest of the photos, holding a child that Grogu recognizes to be himself. They're standing knee-deep in a small lake, wide smiles on both of their faces.

Grogu never knew his mother or father. These two strangers didn't either, it seems, but they carried him in these photos as if he was their own. 

The note stuck to his thumb catches his attention then. Two names and a phone number.

Grogu sets the pictures down and makes his way to Father Luke's office, where he knows there's a telephone he can use.

[gohyuck]

concept: vietnam veteran!jeno lee x bartender!reader

warning: if i ever write this you can bet it will be pretty critical of the war, and will likely include mentions of ptsd, alcoholism, maybe smut? but maybe not, etc.

note: jeno being korean is definitely capitalized upon here for story-related reasons, but this does not mean anything about the reader’s race or ethnicity or anything. if i end up writing this fic it’ll take a ton of research, too (source: i read like 5 articles alone for this short blurb, from korean immigration to the u.s. to popular vodka in the 70s)

the year is 1973. it is january 27th, 1973, and you’re in southern texas bartending when president nixon announces that he has signed the paris peace accords. the u.s. is pretty much officially out of the war. you throw a washcloth over your shoulder and put away newly scrubbed out shot-glasses as the elated disk jockey stumbles over his words while speaking. he’s old. there are few young men on the radio. there are few young men anywhere. the boys are coming home, the aged voice crackles over the radio.

the shot glass in your hand slips, centimeters away from the shelf. it shatters. you’ll have to get the dustpan. there’s a new gash across your big toe, bleeding bright red. you need to start wearing tennis shoes on the job. you reach over and turn off the radio. the boys never should have had to leave. 

that night, you serve more cheering, excited, hopeful people than you have served in a long, long time. shouts of ‘more’, cries of ‘he’s coming back, he’s coming home!’ permeate the air around you. it’s nauseating. it’s so nauseating. you spend the next morning mopping up other people’s puke from the establishment corners. you spend the next night bent over the toilet in your cramped apartment yourself. 

the year is 1975. it is april 23rd, 1975, and you’re still in southern texas bartending, mostly because you have no way to leave the state. if you have to be in texas, it’ll always be austin. besides, you’ve gotten used to the steady stream of regulars that pass through, with the occasional new face that never returns. tourists. you love and hate them. some have stories to tell, and those are the good ones. some expect stories from you, and you can’t stand people like that. it’s no matter, though, not on april 23rd, 1975. you don’t meet any tourists then.

you meet him. and he’s peculiar, right off the bat. 

you know he isn’t new in town - that much is obvious - but he isn’t quite used to what austin is becoming, either. a vet. has to be. you’ve served vets before, of course you have, but something about this one... 

he’s so damn young. can’t be over a few years older than you are, if that. you shouldn’t be surprised, of course you shouldn’t: you’d done your fair share of protesting back in ‘68, tagging alongside your older cousins as they’d marched, screaming at the top of their lungs about being old enough to die but not old enough to vote. you must have been in middle school, then. they sent the boys off to die anyways.

he comes in midday, right after the lunch break locals have left. the place is almost empty, and your feet are absolutely aching from the recent rush, but he looks just a little lost (and you’d be one hell of a liar if you don’t admit that you quite like the way he looks) and, before you know it, you’re calling him over from the front door.

“sit up here at the bar, sir,” you give him the best customer service smile you can muster. “it’s the best way to experience good old southern hospitality.”

he says nothing, only lets his eyes bore into yours. after a moment too long, he nods slowly, shucking his light jacket off and leaving it on the coat rack at the entrance. his black hair is getting just a little long, covering his eyes almost entirely, and you realize that he probably hasn’t had a haircut in a while. his steps to the bar are slow, deliberate, but you don’t mind waiting for him.

“just vodka,” he says, voice soft and lilting and very, very slightly accented. it’s low, deep and likely once full of life, but he’s reserved now. subdued. it might be because of the fact that, by now, it’s only the two of you left in the joint. “two shots.”

“a name? for the tab or for payment.” you ask, though you really don’t need to. not now, anyways. he’s just gotten here. still, you don’t know how drunk he’s going to get, so maybe it’s best that you ask now, and not later. you ignore the fact that you’re only asking simply because you want to know. 

“jeno lee.” his response is curt, emotionless. his dark eyes meet yours again. he’s korean, and you have to admit that you don’t meet very many korean people in your part of the world. the immigration act had only been enacted back in ‘65, and, even then, most people traveling in ended up in california or new york. not texas. never texas. explains the accent, too. not a hint of texan in it.

you grab two shot glasses from behind you with one hand, procuring a bottle of wolfschmidt in the other. mr. jeno lee offers you the tiniest hint of a smile once you’re done pouring, and that’s that. before you can ask him anything else - though you don’t know if he even wants you to do so - a regular walks in through the door, and you busy yourself with finding the whiskey she likes. 

once you’ve served her, you turn around to ask your intriguing new customer if he’d like anything else, water perhaps, only to find two empty glasses and a few crumpled up dollar bills on the counter. there’s a nickel in the otherwise empty tip jar. there are no other traces of the quiet, handsome stranger, and you can’t help but feel as if you’ll never see him again. you aren’t quite sure why the thought fills you with an unexplainable sadness.

it’s no matter. you push it aside. you don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you. hell, he doesn’t even know your name. by the time the after dinner rush hits and all the men come in from the nearby strip clubs, you’re already over jeno lee and the great big nothing you know of him. you wipe down the counters, mop and dust the floors as needed, clean the glasses, greet the bartender who has the shift after yours, and finally get off your goddamn feet once you get home. you don’t think of him once.  out of sight, out of mind.

that’s why it’s so much more shocking when he comes in at the exact same time on april 24th, 1975, and orders the exact same thing. 

explaining the concepts tag: these are ideas i’ve had that i’m considering turning into fics! i post them under concepts to get y’alls opinions. let me know if you want to see this as a fic someday!

[kingofthewilderwest]

for the ask meme.... Earl Scruggs. ;)

Send me a Fictional Character and I’ll rate from a scale of 1-10 if I would date them and why!

[slams hand on desk] OH. OH YOU WENT THERE. YOU WENT THERE, DID YOU?!?!?!

Fine. If you shamelessly send me this question, I’m going to answer AS SHAMELESSLY AS POSSIBLE.

So. To bring everyone on tumblr up to speed. Because I’m sure this name means nothing to most of you. I have a massive celebrity crush on a man who was born in 1924 (died 2012) and is famous for playing banjo on the Beverly Hillbillies theme song.

This guy <333

(yes, shut up, I made a corny collage JUST FOR YOU)

What is it, Haddock? What is it about a man BORN IN MOTHERFUCKING 1924 WHO IS OLD ENOUGH TO HAVE BEEN YOUR GREAT-GRANDFATHER that you see? When you’re so fucking aroace and not the least bit crushy and especially not that interested in cismen BUT APPARENTLY WE MAKE EXCEPTIONS FOR MEN IN STRING TIES AND HATS BORN IN 1924. I am not salty about the year, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Okay. So. First of all. Appearance. Slightly cute-awkward. Dark brown eyes, which I’m a huge sucker for. Dark hair, which I’m also a big sucker for. HE WAS GRAYING EARLY BUT I AM PRETTY DAMN SURE SOMEONEeeeeEE SPENT MONEY ON HAIR DYE UNTIL HE TURNED 81, WHAT A SHAME, I COULD HAVE SEEN SALT AND PEPPER< BUT NOoooooooooo [coug] anyway. He also has the *most* endearing tooth gap straight in the middle of his mouth and thick as caterpillar eyebrows, both of which are so prominent you can see them from venus. (and I realize basically none of my photos feature The Tooth Gap, but believe me, it’s adorkable as FUCK. like holy shit. I didn’t know how adorable tooth gaps were and then he came into existence and I was like FUUUUUUUUC--)

But then there’s personality. And yeahyeahyeahyeahyeahyeah I never met the guy. I b ought his signature for $100 off eBay and that’s the closest I got but we’re not salty about the fact that if I had gtten into his music 10 years ago I could’ve seen him in concert ANWAY.

This man here??? HE WAS A GEM. Earl Scruggs is someone repeatedly described as “nice,” “humble,” “shy,” and a “gentleman.” Ohboyohboy do I like my sweet puppy-eyed boys with the gentelmanly kindness and so shy you gotta laugh like. aoegijae;roiagje;roijage;roigj. Like WOW. Sweetheart. He was very shy, so much to the point there are endearing videos of a 50-some-year-old man squirming like he’s a teen onstage trying to talk into a microphone, and I fucking laugh because it’s like HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN A PROFESSIONAL PERFORMER, DUDE, HOW CAN YOU NOT TALK ONSTAGE YET?? he had a bit of a stutter sometimes, and spoke extremely slow in a baritone voice with such a thick North Carolinian accent that it doesn’t even fade when he starts singing, like, wow, the Southern is thiccckkkk in that singing too. I love it. Despite being world-famous and renowned he preferred to do backup to people and emphasize their music and there was SO much humility and respect people juice going on here and it’s just???? really beautiful to see. And pure gentleman. Even with the shoulder-length pot smoking rock hippie phase he went through in the 70s (actually that just makes me respect him all the more like, in the middle of the Vietnam War when every other country/western musician was being pro-military he was like “nope this war’s wrong” and went to a major protest and shit) Anyway Earl Scruggs was a GENTLEMAN and he was SO NICE to everyoen like you do noooot hear bad stories about him virtually never and everything about him is just SO nice of a human it’s like damn, it came naturally to him

I would be scared of meeting most celebrities, but with him, I feel like I would actually be able to have a conversation, because I know this was a human being who treated every single human being like a soul to be cherished.

but then like!!! same sense of devious humor. you hear stories of the pranks he did, and then you watch old tv show episodes of him, and you just see someone who liked to troll his friends. and like, 90% of it is all stuff I would want to do to my friends so like YES. you gotta fuck with your friends you just got to

Earl Scruggs is probably the first, or one of the first, “heroes” I’ve had. I got into his music because he was a fantastic, revolutionary, talented, appealing banjo picker. There were certainly other people who played in a three fingered style before him, but when Earl Scruggs performed on major radio for the first time in 1945, he blew people out of the water with his fast-paced finger work. He literally revolutionized banjo technique around the world because his musicality caught so many people’s attention. I’ve heard it said by some he is the most widely imitated musician on their respective instrument of anyone we know in history, and frankly, after me entering the world of banjo and bluegrass, I would believe it. What banjo was like before/after Scruggs is fucktastically different, and that impacted not only all banjo pickers around the world, but other instrumentalists adapted his technique to their instruments as well (see: Jesse McReynolds on mandolin, Josh Graves on dobro, etc.), which then shot off and became well-known technique for those instruments in the genre, too. Earl Scruggs was one half of Flatt & Scruggs, one of the most revered and successful bluegrass bands to come into existence. And without Scruggs, frankly, there would have been no bluegrass genre at all.

You are most likely to have heard Earl Scruggs in the Beverly Hillbillies Theme Song (mentioned above) or from the theme music of the 1967 movie Bonnie and Clyde (Foggy Mountain Breakdown). It was Foggy Mountain Breakdown, when I heard it the first time, that smashed me in the chest like a sack of bricks and made me immediately realize, “I NEED TO BUY A BANJO.” And so I did. And then researched this guy in like. Every biography. Out there. I KNOW DATES. I KNOW LIKE. MAJOR DATES OF HIS LIFE. IT’S BAD. IT’S SO BAD DUDES>

SO DID YOU EXPECT TO GET SOMEONE SCREAMING REALLY STUPIDLY OVER SOME DUDE THAT y”ALL DON’T LISTEN TO BECAUSE YOU”RE LIKE I DUNNO MORE MODERN THAN ME AND LISTEN TO MUSIC THAT DIDN’T COME OUT IN THE EARLY 50S?/??// bu hghghghghg if other people can still cry about Elvis I can cry about Earl and yes I will name a child after him if I raise kids no one can stop me 

anyway hi to answer your question, 11. On a scale of 1-10 I would 11 date him. I will shove his wife aside with a jump kick I will date him, would 200% drench a pillow in tears if he hugged me

[sweetp0tat0thighs]

The Black Voice: How cadence/ codeswitching has changed in Black communities over the years: 1970s edition

American English is a dialect of British English. Dialects are created for two reasons: isolation from the mother language and/or contact with other languages. The first settlers of the United States possessed United Kingdom/European accents. It is said that southern accents are the closest to the original American accents aka British accents. The colonizers mixing with enslaved Africans and indigenous Americans have created a general American accent.

African Americans have been thought to be a part of America’s sub culture. Because we exist in a sub culture, in order to assimilate into the over arching culture, code switching is necessary. This paper attempts to explain the cadence/ rhythm of codeswitiching in the 1970s and why it has changed.

Code switching not only includes using more appropriate formal vocabulary and phrases but also changing the inflection/ cadence of your voice to match and appease the dominant culture. Southern accents have long been thought to be considered “uneducated, ignorant.” I can only imagine that southern accents with African American vernacular faced much more scrutiny. It is my belief that general code switching in African American communities would’ve had to start in the south. Codeswitching was the key to safety as any form of aggression could be seen as violence and be met with violence.

My guess with the young man in the video is that he has a southern accent but it has been inflected with a Northern influence. I think that he purposefully enunciates his words because he is cognizant of how his accent is viewed. I would say he was either raised in the south, had southern parents and then migrated North in which the accent (cadence, inflection) from the parents would mix with the accent he picks up in his new environment. He drops the ‘r’ sound when he says “right hea” which is a distinct feature in older southern accents but more recently a feature found in New York accents. But his pronunciation of “theatre”: THEE ATE ER solidifies the southern accent. However the upward inflection when he says “This not my CULTCHA” is a sign that maybe he had some origins or spent a significant time up north but the cadence on it is the southern drawl. It is said that upward inflection when used by men is to show politeness, judging on the information in the video and the timing (1970s, black power movement, black images in TV, Jefferson’s moving on up, respectability politics) this doesn’t seem far off

We see that he talks very smoothly and almost in a melodic tone which is a distinct feature of a southern accent. Southern drawls (accents) are often noted for how slow and melodic they are. It’s because the vowels glide into one another and the speech is slowed down.

With the presence of social media and in an increasingly globalized world, regional accents are changing rapidly. Where in the 20th century, people weren’t as exposed to technology and there were patterns of movement between the south and the north, accent changes were steady and predictable. There are talks amongst linguists that regional accents are slowly becoming lost.

In conclusion the cadence/rhythm has changed because we are in a more globalized setting. We are constantly being exposed to other accents. We are experiencing a reverse Great Migration where many northerners are returning back to the south. In fact, studying the trends, I see that there is a pattern. Louisianians have historically migrated to California, while Mississippians, Georgians, people from Alabama have historically migrated to the Midwest and people from the Carolinas, Virginias have migrated to the tristate area.

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/nbcblk/old-footage-vietnam-vet-surprises-his-family-when-it-goes-n1236846

Regional accents slowly disappearing- CBS

https://www.google.com/amp/s/amp.theatlantic.com/amp/article/567416/

https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/the-messy-politics-of-black-voices-and-black-voice-in-american-animation/amp

https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.nytimes.com/2018/07/10/movies/when-black-performers-use-their-white-voice.amp.html

[dichtiengtrung-blog]

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Chúng tôi cung cấp dịch vụ thu âm giọng đọc voice cho video clip quảng cáo, đọc lời thoại cho phim giới thiệu doanh nghiệp với giọng đọc miền nam và miền bắc phát âm chuẩn, truyền cảm, chuyên nghiệp.

Các voice talent lồng tiếng quảng cáo của chúng tôi đều là các MC, show host và phát thanh viên chuyên nghiệp, phát âm theo chuẩn giọng Sài Gòn hoặc giọng Hà Nội. Xin giới thiệu các mẫu giọng đọc…

[doanhnghiepnho-blog]

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Các gi���ng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Chúng tôi cung cấp dịch vụ thu âm giọng đọc voice cho video clip quảng cáo, đọc lời thoại cho phim giới thiệu doanh nghiệp với giọng đọc miền nam và miền bắc phát âm chuẩn, truyền cảm, chuyên nghiệp.

Các voice talent lồng tiếng quảng cáo của chúng tôi đều là các MC, show host và phát thanh viên chuyên nghiệp, phát âm theo chuẩn giọng Sài Gòn hoặc giọng Hà Nội. Xin giới thiệu các mẫu giọng đọc…

[dichthuatchuyennganh-blog]

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Chúng tôi cung cấp dịch vụ thu âm giọng đọc voice cho video clip quảng cáo, đọc lời thoại cho phim giới thiệu doanh nghiệp với giọng đọc miền nam và miền bắc phát âm chuẩn, truyền cảm, chuyên nghiệp.

Các voice talent lồng tiếng quảng cáo của chúng tôi đều là các MC, show host và phát thanh viên chuyên nghiệp, phát âm theo chuẩn giọng Sài Gòn hoặc giọng Hà Nội. Xin giới thiệu các mẫu giọng đọc…

[dichtiengthonhiky]

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Chúng tôi cung cấp dịch vụ thu âm giọng đọc voice cho video clip quảng cáo, đọc lời thoại cho phim giới thiệu doanh nghiệp với giọng đọc miền nam và miền bắc phát âm chuẩn, truyền cảm, chuyên nghiệp.

Các voice talent lồng tiếng quảng cáo của chúng tôi đều là các MC, show host và phát thanh viên chuyên nghiệp, phát âm theo chuẩn giọng Sài Gòn hoặc giọng Hà Nội. Xin giới thiệu các mẫu giọng đọc…

[dichhoso]

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Chúng tôi cung cấp dịch vụ thu âm giọng đọc voice cho video clip quảng cáo, đọc lời thoại cho phim giới thiệu doanh nghiệp với giọng đọc miền nam và miền bắc phát âm chuẩn, truyền cảm, chuyên nghiệp.

Các voice talent lồng tiếng quảng cáo của chúng tôi đều là các MC, show host và phát thanh viên chuyên nghiệp, phát âm theo chuẩn giọng Sài Gòn hoặc giọng Hà Nội. Xin giới thiệu các mẫu giọng đọc…

[dichthuatsms]

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Các giọng đọc voice quảng cáo, thu âm lời thoại, lời bình hay nhất

Chúng tôi cung cấp dịch vụ thu âm giọng đọc voice cho video clip quảng cáo, đọc lời thoại cho phim giới thiệu doanh nghiệp với giọng đọc miền nam và miền bắc phát âm chuẩn, truyền cảm, chuyên nghiệp.

Các voice talent lồng tiếng quảng cáo của chúng tôi đều là các MC, show host và phát thanh viên chuyên nghiệp, phát âm theo chuẩn giọng Sài Gòn hoặc giọng Hà Nội. Xin giới thiệu các mẫu giọng đọc…

[kingofkingdom]

1979 - part 3 (PREVIEW)

A/N: The long-awaited part 3 is here, and earlier than expected! This is just a sneak peek of what’s to come - short and sweet but hopefully you love it. As most of you know, I switched blogs, so if you could reblog this it would be so greatly appreciated. And let me know what you think! What’s going to go down? I want your predictions!! 

The full version of part three will be up soon!

(Part 1) (Part 2)

The bar is crowded when the two of you walk in. The noise was audible from the parking lot, rollicking voices yelling and the snap of pool balls against one another echoing through the air. Springtime in Louisiana is muggy and hot, meaning you'd opted to wear your cutoffs and a crop top.

Din keeps a steady hand on your lower back as the two of you walk through the front doors, a hand that snakes around your waist once you're inside. He removes his sunglasses and hangs them on the collar of his shirt, looking around for his friends.

"Do you see them?" you ask, looking up at your boyfriend. It's been three years, but the thought of Din as solely and devotedly yours still puts butterflies in your stomach. You're partners more than anything - have been since the start, since Lubbock, really - but the term 'boyfriend' just hits you right in your sappy, teen-romance-loving heart.

He shakes his head, lips curled in a frown. The two of you aren't stuck looking for very long, because a waitress walks up to help you.

"Hey there! Welcome to Peli Motto's. Y'all need a table?"

Her southern accent is as thick as it is charming; you can't help but smile back, her positivity contagious. Din, however, seems to be unaffected. He squeezes your waist, bicep flexing against your back.

"We're here with the 'Dameron' party," he replies, voice tight and utterly professional.

The girl's smile widens. "Oh, great! They were just asking about the two ‘a you." She reaches over to a slot on the wall and grabs a couple of menus. "Follow me right this way."

You go first, following the waitress further into the building, with Din at your back. It was a strategic move on his part - walking behind you - and you realize this the moment you feel a hand grab at your ass through your shorts.

You just turn back and give him a look, one eyebrow raised. He's smirking, dark eyes playful in the low light of the bar. You roll your eyes at his antics, but if you sway your hips just a tad more as you walk, well. That's no one's business but yours - and Din's.

The table is set back in a quiet corner of the bar - quiet only compared to the rest of the establishment, because the guys seated in the large, circular booth are raucous and rowdy enough as it is. This reunion was a long time coming. Poe and Finn - who live together here in New Orleans - planned the whole thing, partly as a reunion and partly to celebrate Cassian's return home from a stint abroad. It's the first time they've all been together in one place since Vietnam.

You and Din wouldn't miss it for the world.

Of the guys, you've met Boba, Poe, and Mayfeld thus far. You're eager to meet Finn and Cassian, because you've heard so much about them from Din and the other members of the group. Din told you that apparently Cassian's also got a girl he's bringing along: Jyn. They met overseas and she's visiting the states with Cassian while he's back. Din heard all of this from Poe, so neither of you have met her. 

The waitress shows you two to the table, and as soon as you’re in sight of the guys seated there, they let out a cacophony of whoops and hollers. You can’t help but smile, familiar and new faces alike calling out a welcome. 

Poe’s voice is the loudest, and since he’s on the end, he hops up to greet you and Din. 

“Well, look who it is!” he says, reaching out to pull you into a hug. You return his friendly embrace. 

“It’s good to see you, Poe.”

He pulls away and smiles down at you. From somewhere at your back, Din clears his throat. He steps forward to swat his friend on the shoulder. 

“Watch yourself, Dameron,” he growls, simultaneously putting an arm out to hug his friend. Everyone knows Dameron’s a natural flirt, so it’s all good-natured. The two guys pound each other on the back, as men always do, and break apart. 

When you look up at Din, you see he’s smiling.

1979 Taglist: @dincrypt @captain-jebi @obsessivelysearching @pedros-mustache @lorosette

Permanent taglist: @fan-of-encouragement

If you want to be added to either taglist, send me a message/ask! <3

[thelanguagecommunity]

this post is meant to be a directory of every resource I come across for Vietnamese. it will be a continuous work in progress so thank you for your patience! if you have any issues or things to add, please reply to this post!

info

9 reasons vietnamese is easier to learn

about world languages

encyclopaedia britannica

glottolog

“in vietnamese, we don’t say...”

omniglot

playlist of samples

the origin of the peculiarities of the vietnamese alphabet [pdf]

wikipedia

world atlas of language structures

academic papers

french loanwords in vietnamese: the role of input language phonotactics and contrast in loan word adaptation [pdf]

lacquered words: the evolution of vietnamese under sinitic influences - john phan [pdf]

northern and southern vietnamese tone coarticulation: a comparative case study [pdf]

alphabet

alphabet guide

automatic accent mark tool

history of writing in vietnam

keyboard - branah

keyboard - typeit

keyboard - unikey

overview of chữ nôm

overview of the vietnamese alphabet

the vietnamese writing system

tone marks

unicode faqs

apps

drops

readlang

courses

bliubliu

book2

duolingo

i kinda like languages - introduction to vietnamese

mangolanguages

memrise

mondly

seasite

vietnamesepod101

cultural & historical info

@acultura ‘s vietnamese tag

Đọc kinh: a vietnamese sonic landscape [pdf]

overview of Đọc kinh

overview of vietnamese calligraphy

overview of vietnamese names

/r/vietnam

dictionaries

sealang

the free vietnamese dictionary project

từ điển tiếng việt

vdict

wiktionary

forums

quora

/r/learnvietnamese

/r/vietnamese

grammar points

classifiers

particles

personal pronouns / overview of vietnamese pronouns

literature

Bible [scans]

episcopal eucharistic prayer [pdf]

poetry international web [poetry library with translations]

Quran [scans]

movie recommendations

letterboxd

music recommendations

/r/vpop

song recommendations by @language-obsession

spotify playlist by @polyglotinthemaking-blog

vpop recommendations by @wanderingravenclaw

news

bbc / bbc [youtube]

người việt [youtube]

radio free asia / rfa [youtube]

voice of america / voa [tv broadcast] / voa [youtube]

phrasebooks & travel guides

common phrases - wikibooks

loecsen [audio phrasebook]

useful phrases - linguanaut

useful phrases - omniglot

vietnamtravel

wikivoyage

pronunciation

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[kingofthewilderwest]

"#just because you have a bias about certain socioeconomic groups which tend to listen to country doesn't mean" // Yup. I tend to side-eye folks who are like "I like all kinds of music except country and [Insert a genre of music usually associated with Black creators like rap and hip hop]" You're not slick, ppl. I know what you're saying.

^^^^^^^^^ You hit the nail on the head.

It’s racial bias. It’s socioeconomic bias. It’s bias against people groups who have less respect and say in society.

From my tags on this post:

#don’t get me started on a long rant of the progressive side of country music and what’s been progressive FOR DECADES#from times near its BEGINNInGS#through the modern age#just because you have a bias about certain socioeconomic groups which tend to listen to country doesn’t mean#that that’s actually what the genre is or who the artists are#I could go for a LONNNNG time about this#a LONG time#some of the best protest songs I know of today’s current political situation#are country#or have like ya’ll forgotten about the folk revival#of the 1960s#or…#gahghfnfddhgnghfngh#I AM GAY AND I LISTEN TO COUNTRY#NYEH!!!!

Now. I understand disinterest in a genre because it’s not your aesthetic, but when people express their feelings for country, R&B, hip-hop, etc. …the dialogue isn’t casual “It’s not my thing.” The dialogue is a hateful, passionate retaliation.

Other genres aren’t treated like this. It’s normalized and encouraged to hate on country and rap. These genres are systematically treated with less respect and that disrespect culturally arose because these genres are associated with less-respected demographics. 

(Country music is associated with people of low socioeconomic status, for people who aren’t explicitly aware.)

Anecdotally: I’ve caught something interesting about anti-country music sentiment. Many people tell me they can’t stand the “twang.” Half the time, I’ve noticed that their internalized definition of “twang” isn’t the vocal technique; it’s that they can’t stand the presence of a Southern accent. And hooboy does that have TONS of sociocultural bias issues. As a linguist, I’ve read endless sociolinguistic studies about how Southern dialects are treated as “lesser,” and how speakers of the dialect are automatically judged to be less intelligent, etc. It’s not good, folks.

Sometimes, to help friends get out of their anti-country mindset, I’ve “tricked” them into liking country. See, genres like bluegrass grew closely out of Scots-Irish folk music. Often, we’re playing the same tunes on both sides of the Atlantic. So I play a few instrumentals, my friend goes, “Oh! I love Celtic music

The biases against those demographics color how people view the music. There’s endless things that can be said about hip-hop bias, holy shit. I won’t focus on that today because I don’t believe I am qualified to be a spokesman. Someone who understands that genre better, and other genres associated with the African-American community, and is African-American, would be a better human to listen to than me. I defer to their knowledge and experience. It’s hella important to understand what bias has been reflected against those genres.

But there’s just as much bias against country music, against another demographic. And I’ve found it wild how it gets treated on places like tumblr, which wants to stand up for underprivileged groups, but somewhat inaccurately associates country music as “anti-gay conservative evil white person music” rather than music of people historically of lower socioeconomic status.

Yes, some of the demographic that listens to country music or plays country music are bad apples. But like… thinking the music is JUST THAT is a huge disservice to what country actually is and who the music artists actually are.

The history of country music is one giant collaborative melting pot of people from many different cultural backgrounds. Broad West African influence. Mexican influence. Italian influence. German influence. Scots-Irish influence. Cherokee influence. More. Early record labels like OKEH foolishly separated “hillbilly music” (presumably white folk music) from “rhythm and blues” (presumably Black folk music) without understanding the constant racial, demographic, regional, and cultural cross-pollination that occurred between the musicians from country music’s origins. And while there ARE certain issues in country music’s past and present, and we can’t let those issues go forgotten, that’s far from the whole story. We shouldn’t romanticize issues, but we should acknowledge that this music genre has given us major strides too.

Country music is the banjo, brought from Africa, combined with the mandolin, brought from Italy, combined with the fiddle, brought from Ireland, combined with the guitar and the dobro and the accordion and the upright bass and the electric guitar and the electric bass and whatever instruments you want to put in there.

Country music is African-American musicians like DeFord Bailey, the first radio star ever introduced on the Grand Ole Opry (THE most revered country music hub out there), blues harmonica performer, playing to crowds decades before segregation was de-legalized. He toured with white Opry musicians who treated him as one of their own. It’s soul music genre pioneer Ray Charles producing a studio album entirely dedicated to country music hits like “Hey Good Lookin’” from Hank Williams. It’s country star Charley Pride, who despite the racism against him in the 1960s rose to fame and made audiences fall in love with his beautiful voice. It’s the African-American musicians who inspired many commercial country stars, like Arnold Shultz influencing Bill Monroe and the railroad workers inspiring Jimmie Rodgers.

Country music is stars like Johnny Rodriguez and Rick Trevi��o, singing country music in Spanish, and using obvious Latin flavors in the genre.

Country music is filled with badass women like the ladies who STARTED THE GENRE ROLLING IN THE FIRST PLACE, Sara Carter and Mother Maybelle Carter (whose guitar style is hugely influential to this day) and Maybelle’s daughters Helen, June, and Anita; the first female music manager in the music industry, Louise Scruggs; songwriters like Felice Bryant and Loretta Lynn; the most awarded female artist in Grammy history Alison Krauss; and powerhouses like Dolly Parton who stepped out of an over-controlling entertainer’s shadow to become a badass in all things like supporting the LGBTQ community, contributing to pro-transgender films ahead of their time, and starring in sex worker positive productions like “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.”

Country music is filled with activism. Johnny Cash showed a heart for those forgotten by society. He toured many times in prisons. Cash especially was an activist for Native American rights. He toured with Native American songwriters so audiences could hear their own words (I’ve been trying to find names but I’m having difficulties re-finding that information, so my apologies for not giving names of those who deserve to be mentioned). Cash released albums dedicated to exposing past and present injustices against the Native American people. He went on tours specifically to Native American reservations. 

And it’s not just Johnny Cash!

Country music is many stars from the Grand Ole Opry banding together to release AIDS benefit albums - big names like Alison Krauss, Willie Nelson, Marty Stuart, aurgh I’m too lazy to write them all, PEOPLE.

Country music is Earl Scruggs and his sons playing at the Vietnam War Protests.

Country music is tied in with the fucking folk revival of the 1960s, which was deep in left-wing activism and the Civil Rights Movement. Folk singers sang traditional Appalachian and English ballads alongside their own compositions, topical pieces protesting the current political situation. You can call one artist “folk” or “Americana” and another one “country,” but the influences were intermingling, and it’s why we have Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie and Joan Baez and John Denver and Pete Seeger owning a banjo that says, “This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender.”

Dammit, I have a full BOOK that discusses country music and political ties. 

There’s another book out there, which I haven’t read, that discusses the relationship between country music and the queer community, and how bias against country music is NOT as reflective of the listening demographic as we stereotype. I’ll take the word of one reviewer who said:

[Nadine Hubbs] explores country music lyrics, presenting a great deal of evidence suggesting that working class America is not inherently homophobic, but that as middle class cultural taste has changed to include formal acceptance of homosexuality, this process has included pinning homophobic ideas on the working class.

Country music is lyrics like this 1975 controversial song “The Pill”:

You wined me and dined meWhen I was your girlPromised if I’d be your wifeYou’d show me the worldBut all I’ve seen of this old worldIs a bed and a doctor billI’m tearing down your brooder house‘Cause now I’ve got the pillAll these years I’ve stayed at homeWhile you had all your funAnd every year that’s gone byAnother baby’s comeThere’s a-gonna be some changes madeRight here on nursery hillYou’ve set this chicken your last time‘Cause now I’ve got the pill

Country music is lyrics like this 2013 song that feels as relevant than ever:

If crooks are in charge, should we let them pick our pockets?If we don’t want trouble, should we not try to stop it?We could just sink into the quicksand slavery we’re born inBut fighting endless wars for greedy liars is getting pretty boringThey think they got us trained, so we’ll think we’re living freeIf we got time and money for junk food and TVBut it’s plain honest people never stand a chance of winning electionsThey just let us pick which liars take our rights away for our own protectionThe corporate propaganda paralyzes us with fearDestroying our ability to trustFear keeps us fighting with each other over scrapsStarving to death in the dustOrganized religion really helps you submitBut the meek are inheriting the short end of the stickFear surrounds compassion like a layer of moldAnd weakens our defenses so we’re too weak to be boldLife could be heaven, but this corrupted systemTakes away our rights, expects us not to miss themThe middle class is shrinking while the lower class growsIf we don’t wake up soon, we’ll have no class left to lose

Country music is Christians themselves criticizing the hypocritical Evangelical culture in the USA for the bullshit hatefulness stewing inside it:

Every house has got a Bible and a loaded gunWe got preachers and politicians‘Round here it’s kinda hard to tell which oneIs gonna do more talkin’ with a crooked tongue

And as that one post I just reblogged shows, there’s MANY queer country musicians out there producing explicitly pro-LGBTQ+ music.

I’m brushing over so much. I’m sorry for the simplification that goes with me doing such a pass-by overview. I’m sorry I’m focusing more on history than the present (I know more about the 1920s-1960s eras, so I’m talking from my strong suit). I hope the information is at least strong enough to get my point across.

There are definitely listeners and artists in country music who are uber-conservative white hateful Christians. Yes. I know why country music gets associated with that. But.

Country music is not ABOUT this uber-conservative white hateful Christian side. The genre is not “polluted”. It is a thousand voices from a thousand perspectives of people from many backgrounds and beliefs. And many of those thousand voices are old traditional songs that came from Black communities, or were composed by Mexican-Americans, or were performed by folk artists as part of a protest for equal rights. 

(Note: I’m *NOT* saying all Christians are bad or that different political angles don’t have merits. I’m Christian myself! And you don’t know my political party. I’m just trying to get the point across that country music isn’t ENTRENCHED in one questionable demographic.)

You don’t have to like country music. It doesn’t have to be your aesthetic. But if you find it fun to get in on society’s popular country hate roasting… please rethink this. The reason country music has been hated from its roots is because it’s associated with the socioeconomically disadvantaged.

I’m with you 100%, Ashley. When someone says they like all genres “except country music and rap,” I get a little leery. I used to be one of those people when I was younger. I had to learn to grow past those biases. But once I did, I realized there was so much I was hating on that I didn’t understand. Now, I hope I can help people overcome their own biases, such as ones they don’t realize they’ve had - for things like music.

Hi ya’lls. I’m queer and I love country.

P.S. If anyone has anything to add or correct, please feel free to add on! I’m doing my best but I do not know everything and would be happy to learn more, too!

[blusollyjd]

Somewhere in the Mojave...

(The following is a collabo between me and CuddlyMedics! Enjoy Jane being the world’s best, stupidest husband. And getting some unexpected help. :D) ----------

Something that Jane Doe had forgotten about his beloved America was how big its western desert was. It certainly hadn’t looked this big on his map (the one that’d conveniently enough been sitting right on his tray at the Speedee Burger). Not that he was complaining- he knew it would be a long trek to Coldfront. He just hadn’t considered it would be this long.  He was certain that he should’ve been halfway there by now, and that he’d have Abel in his arms in no time. But the Mojave was wide, barren and hot. His canteens had run dry long ago, his only respite from his thirst the occasional dust-ridden little town he’d come across that had a little water to spare. He’d remembered some trick about cactuses, but the spines stuck his fingers something awful before he managed to hack deep enough into one to get any decent amount of bitter juice. What the desert lacked in moisture it made up for in snakes, scorpions, red ants and the occasional coyote- all of which seemed to be doing their best to make sure that the Soldier didn’t get that great of a night’s sleep. The night was cool at least, but so many bugs seemed to be interested in his sleeping bag at night that Jane was starting to forgo it. Unless he could find a fairly flat elevated rock to keep him off the ground.

It was hard going. Something in him was wondering if this was a stupid, suicidal course of action. But then he thought of Abel. Abel, who may be dead or sick or hurt, whose letters never reached him, if they were sent at all. Jane had to get to him, and the thought of the Medic filled the Midwesterner with renewed resolve to go another day. But alas, even the most resolute, loyal and stupidly brave Soldiers are bound by the limits of human physiology. And so, it was around the peak of the midday heat that Jane finally collapsed to the dry, cracked ground, mouth parched, vision blurry, and brain baking in the metal confines of his helmet. His fingers dug into the dirt, pulling himself along a few more feet. He thought he saw something in the wavery distance. He was even less sure, but he thought he saw something moving toward him. All he was really sure of was that he was likely never going to reach Abel now. Stupid, he thought as the hot, bright world went dark on him. You’re so goddamn stupid.

But even as the bright world went dark on the Soldier, and all consciousness slipped away from him in a shimmery, hazy cloud of heat, indeed, something was making his way towards him. He wasn’t imagining things. It hadn’t been one of those ‘oasis hallucinations’ he had heard spoken about in the past. After all, the last thing he viewed before the darkness took over wasn’t of a cool, shimmering pond, where the inviting fronds of a palm tree swayed high above the giggling heads of half-naked desert maidens. Wasn’t that what hallucinations were? Cool ponds surrounded by sensual and sexy half-naked women? No. Well, yes, but no. This wasn’t that. This wasn’t anything of the sort.

“Now… what do we have here?”

It was silly to have ever considered such a thing. After all, cool, shimmering ponds and inviting palm trees didn’t talk.

“Is that--”

And, boy, it was a fact that hallucinated giggling, half-naked maidens typically didn’t have that kind of masculine voice.

“Naw. That couldn’t be. ...Could it?”

That was such a nice voice, though.

“It… it is! By the stars n’ stripes! Mr. Doe?”

That kind of masculine voice that rung out with a clear, crisp, southern lilt to it. No, no. That couldn’t be right.

But before the Soldier with heat stroke could even begin to recognize the voice, let alone the world around him, his body gave out on him. With his brain fried from the heat and his thoughts riddled with what remained of his cooked mind, he never truly understood the concept of being picked up and slung over someone’s shoulder, carried a-la-fireman-style, over to a place that had shelter, shade, food, water… and supplies. A place that, in all honesty, had he been aware of his surroundings… Jane Doe would have recognized in a heartbeat. “Hey! Woody!”, the masculine voice with a clear, crisp, southern lilt to it broke the darkness, piercing the quiet of that nothingness. “Woody! We got a live one from the desert!”

The sound of gravel and pebbles crunching underfoot. The smell of old, rotting wood in the air. Of dust and heat, and that particular scent. Like hay and sunbaked peaches. Like sunlight and arid soil. And of course… beer. There was spilled beer nearby, soaking into the clay-baked earth.

The barely audible whisper of the wind through creaking, groaning structures. The lazy humdrum steady thrum of heat exposed bees, whirling and spiraling away from a shriveled up flower, following its own crooked path back to the hive. The smell of home. The sounds of home. The feeling… of a lot of mercenaries calling this base their first ‘home’.

Of Teufort.

Jane was in and out of consciousness for a few days. He’d mutter something unintelligible in his sleep, wake up screaming only to fall asleep again. He’d ask where he was, drink water like some wild man dying of thirst, succumb to exhaustion, only to wake up disoriented again. It was only on the fourth day that he seemed to rest and hydrate enough to finally get his bearings. “...Will…?” He hadn’t seen the younger Soldier in a dog’s age, and in spite of himself, Jane cracked a wide smile. “Will, that’s you…? Jesus, I made it all the way to Teufort….”

“Aww, good. Yer awake.”

The bright eyed and bushy tailed man, by the name of ‘Will’, let out a huge sigh of relief. He had a friendly face and a truly affable smile. He oozed a sort of a saccharine honesty that one simply couldn’t help but warm up to him.

He hadn’t changed at all from the time Jane last saw him. He still had those baby blue eyes. He still had that dirty blond hair, a bit more carefree and loose in style compared to his old military-issued haircut. He still had his trademark helmet-- hung on the wall, at that very moment-- with the painted on peace symbol. And, of course, he still had those adorable dimples whenever he smiled that carefree, almost childlike smile of his. So full of innocence, so jolly and jovial in tone.

William Reed was a rather young soldier. At least, he was younger than Jane. He was also a bit taller than Jane, but not as built. Jane had known him for quite a long time, and though there were obvious similarities between the two, the biggest difference between them was the fact William had officially, and legally, been in the army.

William had served a few years in the wet, steamy jungles of Vietnam, the military issued victim of the dreaded draft. He had endured a good portion of it with nary a cut or bruise until one day his luck ran out. He lost control of his life during a particularly chaotic ambush where a mine exploded, and scalding, twisted shrapnel shredded his leg. He had lost a lot of blood before his allies and fellow soldiers could drag him off to safety.

His term spent over in ‘nam was done for, and the young, now disabled man had returned home.

Still desperate to make money for his family, he allowed himself to fall under the guile of MannCo’s job offering. Even with a damaged leg, they told him he could make himself... useful.

And so he had. The rest… was history. A history, thankfully, that Jane was privy enough to know of.

“Was jus’ beginning to worry, sir,” William honestly admitted to him. His voice rang soft and true, the thick Southern lilt of his accent almost comforting in its vernacular. It was like sweet southern honey, drizzled over everything he said. “You had us both worried. Up and began thinkin’ the desert heat done cooked yer brains half to mush. Like grits too long on the stovetop.”

The soldier pulled up a chair beside Jane and settled down into it. There it was: that same limp of his. His leg hadn’t gotten any better. If Jane had known any better, the limb might have seemed a bit stiffer, the leg a bit more favored.

“Now, now. Jus’ you relax. Don’t need you actually keelin’ over the moment you come ‘round.” Taking a bowl of room temperature water and a rag off of the bedside table, he dampened the cloth before he reached over and, with the gentlest of motions, wiped away any sweat from Jane’s forehead. “Got so many questions for ya, sir. So many. But I’m not sure where to even begin, if I may say so myself.”

Jane couldn’t help but smile, his own blue eyes crinkling at the corners. One hand reached to his side, looking for his helmet out of habit. “Mmm, go ahead and ask away, son. But don’t worry, I won’t be in your hair very long. I need to get moving soon as I can. Got a long way to go yet.” Wherever he’d been going, wherever he’d come from in such terrible condition, it seems that he was planning on pressing onward.

“Need to get movin’ again?” William murmured that under his breath to himself, his brow furrowed in concern. “Jesus, though,” Jane continued, not hearing William mumble. “It’s so good to see you. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Will. How have you been? The leg looks a little stiff, there. Been bothering you much?”

There was no denying it. He was absolutely confused as to what was going on. “Er-- ah, well.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he glanced down at his leg. He looked as if he were pondering its existence, or perhaps the limb’s use. Or maybe he was considering the fact that he did, in fact, have a leg. At least, that’s what his expression looked to portray. It was a bit vague for Jane. “My leg’s been iffy. Been doin’ a lot of jumpin’, sir. Lots of jumpin’. And it’s just been botherin’ me a bit. Especially with that surprise rainstorm we got a few nights back. Desert rain always lingers in my bones.”

William got up, and Jane could see the man move across the room to a chest of drawers. The piece of furniture looked beat up and worn. Maybe even nibbled on by mice. Yup. Those were teeth marks down at the very corner of the left leg.

Was this the soldier’s room? Sure seemed that way. It had a table and chair, and a dresser for clothes. It had a few hooks on the wall where a spare uniform jacket and a helmet hung, along with other such personal items. And there was a shelf there with a few books ranging from military tactics, to accounts of the war in vietnam to one that was, curiously enough, an intro into technology.

“Yeah, sir,” William continued. “I mean... if’fin ya don’t mind, sir, got a whole lotta questions to ask.” He slid a drawer open and rifled through it. He pulled out a shirt and examined it but, based upon his expression alone, after a thorough scrutinizing it must have been unfit for what he had in mind. He simply folded it back up and put it back where it came from. “I mean, like, what in the blue blazes were you doin’ out there all by yer lonesome? I mean, it’s not every day I get to talk again with my idol. Uh-- wait, I-- ”

William stuttered for a moment, clutching another shirt he had just pulled out so tightly he ended up wadding it in his grasp. He turned towards Jane, his cheeks obviously a bit tinted with the signs of a reddening blush.

“I--- I mean,” William began, tone a bit more rushed in his embarrassment, “here I thought ya went to another base, and you, uh… uh…” Unceremoniously stuffing the shirt back into the drawer, the soldier limped over to the open door and called out, “‘Ey! ‘Ey, Woody! Woody! He’s up! Up an’ awake! You wanna meet him?” “Will. At ease. You’re wound up tighter than a goddamn Medic. Just… take a few breaths son. Now. You’re right. I was somewhere else. I’m at Coldfront, usually, but they put me up to fill in at Ravine. But the stint kept dragging on, and I didn’t get no letters back from Abel no matter how many I wrote. Something’s wrong, Will. I know something’s wrong. So I’m going back.” One could only draw one conclusion. Jane Doe seemed hell bent on getting back to Coldfront. And if he’d walked all the way here from Ravine on foot… it seemed to be how he’d planned on making the entire journey. “I didn’t mean to commandeer your quarters this long, son,” Jane added. “Just another night’s rest and I need to keep going.” He didn’t comment on the ‘idol’ remark. It seemed to embarrass the younger Soldier that he’d let it slip out, and besides… at the end of the day, Jane knew he probably wasn’t the best role model.

Jane’s logic was never a sound, sane sort of thing. Everyone knew it. This particular soldier was loonier than a crate full of wildly excitable squirrels. It was a well known fact that his personal dossier (nestled within the confines of MannCo’s records) had each and every strange event, scenario, and situation that the man had ever been involved with painstakingly accounted for. And each account only got weirder and weirder with passing time. Weirder… and, of course, more and more unbelievable.

The bedridden soldier could see William pace back and forth a few steps. Four one way, turn. Four another way, turn. Repeat. A small pacing routine that involved slow, careful steps and an intense session of processing the information he was just given.

“Coldfront. Right. I know that base. Not the best thin’. Been there only once ‘fore. For a short, short stint. Like… a few weeks. Couldn’t handle it. The cold and, er…” Trailing off, he patted his bad leg, once. “Cold made my bones hurt too much. So they sent me back. Ended up here. Went from Sawmill, to Coldfront, to Teufort. Came here right when you were goin’ there, sir. Had to have.”

Footfalls creaked along the wooden floor as William made his way across the room to his table. Equally worn as the dresser, he leaned against it for support. Crossing his arms over his chest, Jane could see a frown beginning to etch on his face.

“And it’s no problem, sir. Really isn’t. Not usin’ my room much these days.” A smile formed at that, but, quickly, he mentally shook himself and got back on topic. “Brought you here. I was jus’ lucky I found ya. Was out doin’ practice jumps when I saw ya collapse. Would’a brought ya to the medbay, but I’m pret’y sure our docs wouldn’t want to treat a non-base worker. If ya know what I mean.” Shrugging, William looked over at his superior, confusion etched on his face. “But, uh… sir. Coldfront? That’s… hundreds a’ thousands a’... well, a lotta miles away. So far away that I’m fairly certain you would’a--”

“Yea, sugarloaf? He’s awake?”

Jane could see William’s eyes brighten as the younger soldier looked towards the door. There, standing in the welcoming entrance, was a rather plump looking man of short stature. Garbed in the uniform of an Engineer, he had the familiar, thick electrical gloves on his hands and the old fashioned coveralls associated with most of his kind. His goggles were pushed all the way up to his forehead, partially covering the bandana wrapped around his forehead in an attempt to keep the sweat out of his eyes. And his eyes? They were a soft brown. The color of milk chocolate. His black hair was short and styled, but just a little bit messy. ‘Hard hat’ messy.

“Oh, Woody!” Excitement coursing through him, William all but forgot, at least for the moment, the sheer absurdity of Mr. Doe’s hellbent, but incredibly foolish, escapade. “Honeybee, this is the soldier I was talkin’ about.” Gesturing towards the bedridden man, he added, “Jane, this is Elwood. Elwood, Jane.” Jane sat up, making himself as presentable as possible. A proper Soldier must have some sense of decorum, after all. “Nice to meet you. Wish the circumstances were better.”

“Likewise, pardner,” the engineer replied. Quite the suave charmer, he hooked his thumbs in his belt and flashed Jane an unforgettable smile. Jane grinned in spite of himself, sky-blue eyes glancing between the two of them. So, this must be love. They made a very handsome couple. If Jane had to say so objectively, the Engineer was a good looking man, in a different but very complimentary way to Will’s boyish good looks. “I was just telling Will that I won’t be a bother much longer. Gotta make my way back to Coldfront soon as possible.”

The engineer had just run a hand through his hair to fix it, to appear more presentable himself, when Jane uttered that little statement of his. The engineer, Elwood, slowly looked towards William who, upon catching sight of the techie’s stare, sheepishly gave that nervous, boyish grin of his, all the while holding his hands up in the visual defense of not knowing anything.

“...Coldfront.” Elwood blinked a few times in bemusement as he tried to get his brain to process what the man had just told him. “But we found ya here, sonny.”

“Technically, I did.”

“Yea, that’s true, sugarloaf. You found ‘em.” Elwood nodded at William, giving a warm chuckle at how the man simply beamed at doing a job well done. “But... you found him out there in the desert. All walkin’ about all stumblin’ and bumblin’ from the heat, half outta his mind. Looney off his rocker, remember? Ya carried him all the way over to me and you were sayin’ how he was sayin’ the strangest stuff. Stuff that didn’t make a darn lick’a sense.”

William opened his mouth as if to say something, but he caught that familiar look in Elwood’s eyes. He knew that the man had already figured it out.

“You were walkin’,” Elwood continued, turning his attention back to Jane. “You were… so, wait, let me get this straight.” Pushing the bandana up a little bit, he scratched his forehead. “Uh, Jane, was it? Jane, pardner, tell me somethin’. And tell me the honest to God truth. Don’t you go lyin’ on me.” He quizzically quirked an eyebrow, his face clouded by befuddlement. “Were you… don’t tell me you were walkin’ to Coldfront? All the way? Walkin’, on foot?”

“...yes?” Jane shifted a bit, brows knit. He wasn’t sure how old Elwood was, but that no-nonsense look made him feel like a kid who’d come to class without his homework. “It’s all I can do. My Medic needs me, I can feel it in my bones. I can’t take the train and I can’t teleport. But I can’t let that stop me. Abel’s in trouble, I know he is, and I have to get back to him. I’ve waited too long already, and I don’t know if I am even too late. I just know I have not heard from him in weeks and weeks and that is not like him.” Jane squared his shoulders stubbornly. Nothing was going to budge him. One way or another, if he had to hike an impossible path, Jane Doe was making it back to Coldfront, no ifs ands or buts.

Again, Elwood rapidly blinked, but this time the visual display of his facial cues were not out of bemusement but we're, instead, out of the inability to process that bit of information. He was absolutely flabbergasted over what he had just heard, and he was reeling from it all.

“You…”

“I know that Medic,” William quickly interjected, as if hoping his currently malfunctioning beau would up and decide not to speak what was on his mind. “I remember Abel. Swell guy. Real nice. He was always nice to me, I mean. Made me tea a few times. Baked me cookies. Made sure I was bandaged up after a training session. I knew you two were a thing, but, you haven’t been able to reach out to him? And he hasn’t replied to you? At all?”

“...You…”

“I’m sure he’s alright, sir,” William said, in a slightly more rushed tone of voice. “Ain’t that righ’, Woody? Yeah. I’m sure it’s not too late for him or anythin’. He’s prob’ly just busy or, uh, well...” William left the support of the table behind him as he inched closer to Jane. “Have ya tried callin’ him? No. No, wait. Coldfront. Hard to get any phone to connect with that base. Uh, let’s see…”

Elwood had stopped blinking and mentally malfunctioning and, by now, had his face screwed up into an unreadable mask that could only be vaguely described as ‘something far past the human limitation for astonishment’ and ‘beyond an appalling sense of loss for the general faith one had in humanity’.

“Oh! Oh, wait! Have you--”

From where Jane sat in the bed, he could see Elwood walk up behind William and, with a heavy sense of, perhaps, mourning, he placed his hand upon the younger man’s shoulder. Something was whispered into William’s ear, and the sweet soldier gave the engineer a rather puzzled look.

“Oh? ...Oh, uh, Mr. Doe, sir? Woody here wants to talk to me about somethin’ real fast-like. Just be a moment, sir. Just a moment. Promise.”

Elwood quickly (and with a sense of urgency) ushered the younger soldier out of the door. But Jane, from where he sat, could see just a bit of each person. An arm here, or a leg there. Someone moving about from just around the corner of the entranceway. And then the hushed whispering began. Hard to make out, hard to understand. It was a lowered decibel that made deciphering what was being said hard. Jane, in the meantime, glanced out the window. Down at his hands, which were fidgeting with themselves. Abel. He had to get better so he could get home to him.

~

“Yer prankin’ me, sugarloaf.”

“I’m not, Woody.”

“You promise me?”

“I promise, I do.”

“Willy--”

“This is just Jane,” William confessed, lowering his voice even further in hopes Jane wouldn’t hear this. “I’ve known him for years. He’s always been a bit… well, a bit…”

“A few shy of a box of screws?”

“I mean--”

“A few colors short of a crayon box?”

“I jus’--”

“Denser than a sack of wet rocks? Thicker than batter--”

“It's just Jane,” William replied with a sigh. He held up his hands, once more, in the defense of not knowing. And it was true. He didn’t know what to say or do. It was not a typical sort of situation.

Elwood jabbed his thumb in the direction of the doorway and hissed, under his breath, “this poor sonuva thinks he can walk all the way to that alpine mountain range by walkin’ through the Mojave desert.”

“Well--”

“Does he realize those mountains are on a separate continent? That base is halfway across the world! It’s on a continent that is separated by a body of water, and that particular body of water jus’ happens to be an ocean! What’s he gonna do? Swim that, too?”

“I know, I know. I think he jus’ thinks he can get to Coldfront if he keeps walkin’ while findin’ alternate methods of travel along the way.”

“Didn’t sound like it. He’s fully intendin’ on walking there.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Elwood breathed deep, calming himself. “Listen, darl, I get it. You look up to this guy an’ all. But he’s as oblivious as a herd of cows on steak day. He’s gonna get himself killed by pullin’ off this stunt. I’m awf’ly sorry to tell ya this, but either the sun done baked his brains for good, or he’s an absolute buffoon.”

“...He’s loyal.” William let out his breath. He hadn’t realized that he was holding it in. “That’s... what he is. Loyal.” He wrung his hands together, finding himself fidgeting just a bit by shifting weight from one foot to the other. “An’, I mean… he’s one of the most loyal soldiers I ever met. It’s why I look up to him, Woody. He’s everythin’ a soldier should be. Honest, loyal an’ true. He believes in himself an’ doesn’t believe in failure. He’s ready for the cause, ready to do the impossible, even if it’s to trek halfway across the world jus’ to be with someone again. Even with my bad leg,” he flashed the engineer a boyishly sweet smile, “I’d do the same for you.”

Elwood’s features softened, creases forming at the corner of his eyes as he smiled. Reaching up, he lightly gripped his soldier’s coat collar before tugging him down, just enough, to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I know ya would,” he replied, patting his beloved’s cheek. “An’ I love that about’cha. Real loyal. Real protective. And a damn fine looker.”

“Woody…”

“Righ’. Time for flirtin’ later. Got it, stud.” Grinning at the blush that was coloring the soldier’s cheeks, he gestured towards the door. “We let yer friend wait long ‘nough. Pret’y sure he’s one of them soldier types that gets real antsy when ya leave them alone for too long. Like an overgrown puppy, all antsy and nervous an’ ready to piss on the carpet.”

“That’s… actually accurate, Woody. Save for the peein’ part.”

“Come, now. Let’s see if we can get him to Coldfront without lettin’ him go out there and take the distance on foot.”

Elwood gently coaxed William forward, letting him back into the room first. However, he had the last say in everything. He had his last say without words, but with his actions instead.

With a quick, sly slap to his soldier’s rear.

~

“Uh-- Jane? Sir?”

William slid back into the room first, his cheeks a little red from what must have been blushing. He cleared his throat, moving aside so Elwood could enter next. The engineer had a wily smile on his face; the look of a pleased and sated cheshire cat, happy with whatever spoils it had accrued.

Jane, for his part, didn't seem to notice them at first. He was looking at something he’d apparently plucked out of his helmet: a photograph of someone Will might know, but Elwood probably wouldn’t. It was of a man in a Medic’s uniform. He had gentle grey-blue eyes, salt and pepper hair, and a warm, kind smile. The Soldier’s thumb slid tenderly over the image of the Medic’s cheek as he mumbled to himself. “I’m coming, Abel,” Jane was heard muttering under his breath. “I’ll be there soon as I can…”

William tentatively took a step towards him. “Sir?” Realizing he wasn’t alone anymore, Jane quickly cleared his throat, stuffed the picture back into his helmet, and tugged it over his eyes, blushing a bit. “Y-yes?”

William and Elwood shared a quick glance, each one silently asking who would go first. With a small hand gesture, and nod of his head, it was the younger soldier who took the reigns.

“You’re awfully worried, aren’tcha, sir?” Giving a small smile to the helmet (where Jane’s eyes would be) and to the photo tucked within it, he added in a kind and gentle tone, “I would be, too. I’d do anythin’ for Woody, like you would for Abel. You’re rather sweet on him, and so is he. He loves ya, sir. So much.” Moving over to the edge of the bed, he sat down, politely folding his hands in his lap. He sat straight and true-- an attentive little soldier in the presence of superiors. “Woody and I…  we got to talkin’, and we wanted to help you.”

“Y’see,” Elwood began pointedly, as he began pulling up a chair to sit in it, backwards, so his arms were folded atop the chair’s short back, “Coldfront’s a bit of a loner base, way out there halfway ‘cross the world. And where you are now… well, y’see, you’re too far away to walk to it. It’s imposs--”

William cleared his throat and gave the engineer a tentative, but worried, look.

“--I, I mean… it’d be hard. Sure. Way harder than it should be. So we were thinkin’ about it… and we want to help.” “You can help me?” Jane’s mouth cracked into the big, craggy smile he was known for, the one he wore best when flying through the sky or in Abel’s presence. “I would appreciate that, I would. Anything that can get me home faster than walking. Which I would absolutely do if I had to. But...heh. I may be in a little trouble when I get back. I went AWOL from Ravine because they would not let me leave.” Jane fidgeted a little. He hadn’t thought that through when he left- he had the singular goal of getting back to Abel.

Elwood couldn’t help but give a small smile himself. For being denser than a sack of wet rocks, the soldier… had a pretty nice smile. No wonder some bloke fell in love with this guy. Maybe he wasn’t the smartest person alive but, confound it, when he smiled, he was absolutely charming.

But the engineer’s smile quickly went away once it sunk into his brain what he had just said.

“--wait, you what?”

William, too, looked to be surprised. A soldier going AWOL was a terrible thing. Especially so since many did just that during his own personal stint in jungles of ‘nam, and he remembered what happened to them, what punishment befell them. A soldier going AWOL was one of the worst things a soldier could commit. Or... at least that’s what the army’s superiors drilled into their brains.

“S--Sir, they-- they don’t know where you are? What if they’re lookin’ for ya? What if--”

“Lad’s got some balls on him!” Elwood laughed heartily, a good sounding laugh that was true and honest and came from the depths of one’s belly. “Look at him! Snuck under the gaze of those stiff suits and members a’ management over there at Ravine, and they’re none the wiser! Bunch of dogs runnin’ around in circles, sniffin’ their asses instead of sniffin’ for clues. I gotta admit, Jane, I had my doubts. But I’m damn impressed.”

Jane scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “I was not trying to be. I just need to get home. I couldn’t go by teleporter or train because they kept catching me and telling me I could not leave. So I left on foot. They couldn’t stop me that way.” He frowned. “I probably still can’t teleport. And if they catch me on one of the trains I will be court-martialed for sure. How are you going to get me home? I mean, you are an Engineer, if anyone can figure something out you can. I have never met an Engie who wasn’t smart as a whip.”

“Well, would’ya look at that. Ol’ boy’s butterin’ me up.”

“Don’t let it get to yer head, Woody.”

Beaming, the engineer turned his attention back to the soldier in bed. “But, ya know, as crackpot as this all seems, you’ve got a point there. If ya up and went AWOL at Ravine, they’ll have put a notice out to any other bases. You won’t be able to use a lotta MannCo’s devices. Like a teleporter, and stuff like that. So I can’t possibly calibrate somethin’ for ya an’ get a ‘porter up and runnin’. ‘Sides, your records aside, your chip might’ave been temporarily turned off, so you prob’ly wouldn’t be able to use the teleporter anyway, even if you wanted to. And as far as train, that’s most definitely a no-go.”

With a fair bit of musing and thinking, the engineer lapsed into a steadfast silence. Once or twice William looked towards his way, but Elwood didn’t seem to notice. The gears in his head were turning, and he was formulating any sort of escape plan that could eventually be possible.

“...wait.” An imaginary lightbulb dinged over the engineer’s head, and he jovially rubbed his gloved hands together. “Jane, I think ya might be wrong ‘bout one thing. I think you could use one particular route. Might be the best way goin’ about things, too. It’ll take a long time, but not as long as if you were doin’ it on foot.” Leaning forward, the engineer gave a mock stage whisper, going, “so, how do ya feel ‘bout trains?” Jane shrugged. “They’re alright. I never thought about them a lot. Alright for getting one place to another. Kind of shaky after a while. But I can’t use the train, you already said so.”

“He’s got a point, Woody.” William looked towards the engineer, a frown forming. “You did say trains were outta the question…”

“Now, now, hear me out.”

Getting up from the chair, Elwood began to pace the room. Like a passionate professor conducting a lecture before his befuddled students, he took the stage and began to explain aloud the finer machinations of his grand plan.

A train, he admitted, had not been his first thought. In fact, he thought it had been one of the major options that had to be avoided. Security was tight, and surely, by now, MannCo would have passed on Jane’s picture through the cybernetic grapevine. No doubt each base had received the information and the notice of the man’s absence. Mercenaries who went missing could very well lead to legal troubles later on. With the leaking of information, of blueprints…

But maybe that was the most logical option to take. After all, sometimes there was safety in heightened security. Even if that bit of security was being primed against you.

“...but what I’m thinkin’,” Wood continued on, feeling in his element explaining his ideas, devising a course of action, “is that we wait and get’cha on one of our supply trains. MannCo likes to run trains from base to base, shipping supplies from place to place, keepin’ the wheels on the tracks. As long as a box is properly addressed, they’re a bit lax on checkin’ the contents. They just chuck the box onto the train, and they move it ‘long its merry way.” “Whoa, whoa-- wait a minute there, Woody.” William bounced his attention back and forth between Jane and the engineer. “Are you suggestin’ what I think you’re suggestin’?”

With a rather wide, jolly smile, the engineer turned towards Jane. With his hands on his hips, he winked. “Well? You followin’ me so far, Jane?” “YES. Ahem. Yes. I think I follow you clearly.” Jane was grinning. “You want to mail Abel a box that lets him know that I am on my way!” William and Elwood could be greatly forgiven for their responses in marveling at Jane’s boneheaded answer. He certainly wasn’t known for his intelligence, as Woody had astutely remarked.

The Engineer gave a patient sort of sigh, raising his hands to his face so he could cover it. His shoulders rose and fell with each exhalation of breath, of the passing of time in the most exhausting sort of way.

“I think,” William interjected, hoping to diffuse the situation and get Elwood back on his feet (metaphorically, of course), “what Woody’s tryin’ to say here is that if we find a box big enough, and label it all correctly an’ do a mock up job of having a supply crate addressed to Coldfront, yer’ll eventually get sent there, sir.”

“That,” Elwood said, almost wearily, as his hands fell away from his face. “That’s exactly what I meant.” He inhaled once more, exhaled once more, and regained the strength to continue, once more. “So... all we gotta do is make sure we find you a crate big ‘nough for you to fit in. Fill it with some stuff so it’s not too inconspicuous. Pack plenty of blankets--”

“--rations, too. Food, water, supplies--”

“--and address it all proper to the mandatory protocols, and MannCo’ll think none the wiser.” Jabbing his thumb towards the open door, Elwood indicated the whole of the base, the company, as he added, “I may work for these folks, and they’re the ones signin’ my paychecks at the end of the day, but I can tell ya straight up: bein’ in the business this long, most of ‘em don’t know a real gun from a squirt gun. A lot’a the higher ups in management only care about the money and the statistics, and the gainin’ of territory. Profits. The business of profiting. But,” he tapped the side of his engineering goggles, “they don’t pay attention to the important stuff. And I bet’cha anythin’ we can get you on your way back to yer base, and back to yer pret’y lil’ Medic.”

“You are going to mail ME to Abel?” Jane’s eyes widened under his helmet. Then he threw back his head and laughed- not in a mocking way, but in absolute elation. It was such a simple, yet brilliant idea! He couldn’t believe he didn’t think of it himself. “THAT IS ABSOLUTE GENIUS. YOU DESERVE A MEDAL.” He could just imagine it: it would be like a present. Abel would open up the box unaware, and out he’d pop like a big American jack-in-the-box. If he was able to. The delight on the Soldier’s face fell a bit, shoulders drooping. “I just hope I am not too late. If he isn’t answering my letters something must be very, very wrong. He would never ignore me.”

Elwood and William exchanged silent, worried looks. It was common knowledge that Coldfront was a base of bad luck. From its terrible blizzards to delayed supply trains, to respawn glitches and the like, a lot of bad luck could befall the ill-fated mercenaries there. Sometimes mercenaries didn’t survive. Sometimes mercenaries took a walk outside, and an unpredicted spot of bad weather would crop up, obscuring their path. They could get lost. They could lose their way. They could freeze to death, just outside the respawn boundary lines.

A lot could have happened to the Medic. But there was no use working the soldier up, upsetting him with more potential bad news.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” came the younger soldier’s chipper tone. Always the bright optimistic, he looked towards the sunrises, not the sunsets, in life. “Ya gotta remember, sir, at Coldfront postal service gets slowed down and phone lines don’t always work. I remember Abel. He was a real tough Medic. Strong, steadfast. Loyal, too. Loyal and protective of you.” Giving Jane that boyish grin, he reached over and, with a truly wholesome sense of support, laid his hand upon his shoulder. “He wouldn’t give up on you. He’s there. I’m sure everything is fine. I’m sure nothin’ bad has happened.”

Elwood couldn’t help but smile to himself and softly shake his head. “Listen, Jane. Jus’ met’cha today. And it hasn’t even been that long. But if yer doc is anythin’ like ya… he’s probably worried sick about you, and is doin’ anythin’ he can to reach out to you. So I wouldn’t worry ‘bout it. I would focus on gettin’ there and gettin’ to him. And after that, pieces will jus’ fall back into place.”

“That’s right.” Giving Jane’s shoulder a reaffirming squeeze, William nodded. “Focus on the goal, sir. Focus on that. Keep your head on your task, and complete the mission. Don’t worry ‘bout what may or may not happen.”

“You both are right.” Squaring his shoulders once more, Jane felt a renewed sense of resolve overcome him. There was hope after all. He'd get there in time. Nothing bad has happened. He'd jump out of that box and he'd see Abel’s warm smile. “Nothing bad has happened. Soon I'll be there and everything will be fine.”

It would take a day or two, Elwood informed him. They would have to locate a crate big enough and prepare it for the trip. Then he'd have to look up the exact coordinates and shipping label codes for Coldfront in order to create a mockup of a supply label. It could be done, he assured him. There was no doubt in his mind they'd get Jane on his way.

Jane tried arguing the fact, seeing as two days time was just too long to wait, but the two mercenaries from Teufort knew it was just his anxious nerves getting the best of him. With some time and luck, they managed to convince him to stay where he was and rest up.

To all of this, Jane agreed. He did so on account that he knew they wouldn't lie to him. He'd rest up and stay put... as long as he could stretch his legs and get some fresh air.

“No training in the desert,” Elwood warned him. “We don't need to go back to square one with you half-baked to death.”

“AFFIRMATIVE. I would not want that either. I couldn't return to Abel if I were dead.”

A plan was set in motion. William went about gathering up the supplies while Elwood did his magic, finding a suitable crate, looking up the proper coordinates and making shipping label templates. Jane did his part and rested in bed, occasionally taking small trips in order to stretch his legs and get his muscles moving again.

Jane wanted to get back to Abel as soon as possible, but he had to be patient. Like the Medic sometimes said, ‘patience is a virtuoso’. Or something like that. He couldn't quite remember. Remembering was hard sometimes.

He began to count the minutes until all was ready. Hold on, Abel. Just hold on.

--------

Finally, everything was ready. The crate was as big as Elwood could make without arousing too much suspicion- big enough to fit one Soldier inside with a certain amount of comfort, as well as enough rations and water to see him through the journey. Holes were subtly drilled in the crate where it would allow for the best airflow possible while not looking like airholes- after all, the manifest said the crate was full of medical equipment, and x-rays and defibrillators and other such things did not need to breathe. Clambering into the crate, Jane hunkered down, arranging his travel rations and his few possessions as comfortably as he could. It was not going to be the cushiest way to travel, but that didn’t matter. If he got back to Abel, any amount of discomfort and rationing and peeing in an empty Mann-Cola bottle would be absolutely worth it, just as much as walking halfway around the world would have been. Looking up, he tipped his helmet back, regarding the two men who had helped him. “You boys are a credit to this man’s Team, and a credit to America. If you ever need my help for anything at all, let me know and I will do my best. I give my word as a Soldier I will.”

“Aw, shucks, sir.” William couldn’t help but beam at this. He was rather proud of himself that he had made his idol proud. He knew Jane wasn’t all that smart, and he was incredibly bullheaded, but he was brave. And he was the epitome of a soldier; someone he aspired to be. “You’ll be there in no time. Don’t you worry none.”

“And… there.” Elwood stood back from the crate, admiring all the hard work that had gone into it. He had placed the final parcel of rations in there with Jane, making sure the man had quite a few flasks of water and, of course, a bucket. For what came after the eating and the drinking. “That should do it, boy. Now, Jane,” the suave, charming engineer leaned against the crate, “don’t you be a stranger. Sugarloaf here is enamored by you.”

“Woody!”

“Aw, look at him. He’s adorable when he blushes.”

William grumbled to himself, his face aflame with his shy embarrassment. He tugged his helmet down a little, covering his eyes, unknowingly mimicking his idol in many ways, from many distant situations. But a little kiss to his cheek from the engineer caused him to lighten up.

“He’s right, though, sir. Don’t be a stranger.” He took the helmet away from his face. With hopeful eyes, the younger soldier smiled at him. “Please, come back n’ visit, alright?”

“And next time, bring your darlin’ little turtledove with you.” “Jesus. You two are so goddamn cute.” Jane laughed roughly, his eyes twinkling a bit, before clearing his throat. “Yes. I will tell Abel everything that happened here. If all is well he will probably want to come and thank you himself.” Sitting up straight, Jane snapped the two a sharp, proper salute, and then slouched back down to allow his friends to put the lid on the crate.

“Good luck, sir.”

“Pleasure meetin’ ya, Jane.”

The two hefted the lid and, both smiling ear to ear, the placed it on the crate. A moment later, the whirring sound of a drill pierced the sturdy wood of the structure. Everything was being nailed into place, and the crate, with the man inside, was all ready for its voyage.

A soft thudding sound heralded William’s little good luck gesture. He was giving the lid a gentle, reassuring pat.

Soon the box was hefted (surely by the two), and Jane was jostled inside.

He wanted to play his harmonica but he had been warned that, no matter what happened, he couldn’t make a sound. Silence was anathema to any Soldier, but deep down, Jane knew Woody was right- a single out of place noise could get him caught. So he stayed quiet, even as the hours passed, a train whistle finally blew, and the engine- and its cargo- set out on its long journey to Coldfront.

[tremendousinternetyouth]

Baker’s 2018 Spotify Top 100

Three Great Alabama Icons - Drive-By Truckers

Such is the duality of the Southern Thing...

This is just a primer on Alabama history and there’s nothing I like more than Southern history being blended with Southern rock. If you want to read the full thing, of course, the lyrics are under the break.

I grew up in north Alabama back in the 1970s, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth. I'm speaking, of course, of the three great Alabama icons: George Wallace, Bear Bryant, and Ronnie Van Zant. Now, Ronnie Van Zant wasn't from Alabama, he was from Florida. He was a huge Neil Young fan but in the tradition of Merle Haggard writing "Okie From Muskogee" to tell his dad's point of view on the hippies in Vietnam, Ronnie felt that the other side of the story should be told. Neil Young always claimed that "Sweet Home Alabama" was one of his favorite songs and legend has it that he was an honorary pallbearer at Ronnie's funeral, such is the duality of the Southern Thing...

...and Bear Bryant wore a cool looking red checkered hat and won football games, and there's few things more loved in Alabama than football and the men who know how to win at it. So when the Bear would come to town, there would be a parade. Me, I was one of them "pussy boys" cause I hated football, so I got a guitar, but a guitar was a poor substitute for a football with the girls in my high school. So my band hit the road, and we didn't play no Skynyrd, neither. I came of age rebelling against the music in my high school parking lot. I t wasn't until years later, after leaving the South for a while, that I came to appreciate and understand the whole Skynyrd thing and its misunderstood glory. I left the South and learned how different people's perceptions of the Southern Thing was from what I had seen in my life. Which leads us to George Wallace...

...now Wallace was, for all practical purposes, the governor of Alabama from 1962 until 1986. Once when a law prevented him from succeeding himself, he ran his wife Lurleen in his place and she won by a landslide. He's most famous as the belligerent racist voice of the segregationist South, standing in the doorways of schools and waging a war against the federal government that he decried as hypocritical. Now, Wallace started out as a lawyer and a judge with a very progressive and humanitarian track record for a man of his time, but he lost his first bid for Governor in 1958 by hedging on the race issue against a man who spoke out against integration. Wallace ran again in '62 as a staunch segregationist and won big, and for the next decade he spoke out loudly. He accused Kennedy and King of being communist and he was constantly on national news representing "the good people" of Alabama

...and you know, race was only an issue on TV in the house that I grew up in. Wallace was viewed as a man from another time and place, but when I first ventured out of the South, I was shocked at how strongly Wallace was associated with Alabama and its people. Racism is a worldwide problem, and it's been like that since the beginning of recorded history, and it ain't just white and black, but thanks to George Wallace, it's always a little more convenient to play it with a Southern accent

Bands like Lynyrd Skynyrd attempted to show another side of the South, one that certainly exists, but few saw beyond the rebel flag. And this applies not only to their critics and detractors, but also their fans and followers. So for a while, when Neil Young would come to town, he'd get death threats down in Alabama. Ironically, in 1971, after a particularly racially charged campaign, Wallace began backpedaling, and he opened up Alabama politics to minorities at a rate faster than most northern states or the federal government. Wallace spent the rest of his life trying to explain away his racist past, and in 1982, he won his last term in office with over 90% of the black vote, such is the duality of the Southern Thing

...and George Wallace died back in '98 and he's in Hell now, not because he's a racist. His track record as a judge and his late life quest for redemption make a good argument for his being, at worst, no worse than most white men of his generation, North or South. But because of his blind ambition and his hunger for votes, he turned a blind eye to the suffering of black America and he became a pawn in the fight against the Civil Rights cause

...fortunately for him, the Devil is also a Southerner. So, this song’s going to take place in Hell, told from the Devil’s point of view, as he does what any good Southerner would do when company’s coming: He brewed up some good sweet tea, and whups up some Southern hospitality for the arrival of the new guest