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marjansmarwani · 4 years ago

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would’ve loved you for a lifetime

Tarlos || 7.6k || ao3

Prompt: Characters are secretly married and one of them is hurt at work

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The story of how TK and Carlos came together, and how they almost missed out on their future before it even got a chance to start.

For the wonderful @acejuddryder on her birthday! I hope you enjoy this AC and that you have a day as good as you deserve 💕

I came across this prompt a while ago and @bellakitse encouraged me to write it and I am so glad she did! I have been wanting to do a non-linear narrative for a while, and this worked perfectly for that. Shoutouts to both @officereyes and @firefighterstrand for helping me with bits and editing for me, you’re champs 🥰

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Judd watched as TK went about repacking the first aid kit with a smile on his face, humming to himself. This had been going on for the majority of their 24-hour shift now and in hour 23, Judd’s patience was finally up.

“Okay kid, what gives? You’ve been grinning like the butcher’s dog all shift.”

TK glanced up from his work, startled, “I have not.”

“Yeah, you have dude,” Marjan informed him as she tossed him more supplies, “want to fill us in?”

“It’s not just today either,” Paul noted, coming around from the other side of the engine, “you’ve been suspiciously chipper for a few days now.”

“Can’t a guy just be happy without getting the third degree? Jeez.”

“There’s happy, and then there’s this.”

“You too Mateo, really? I thought you had my back, man.”

“Don’t guilt-trip the probie,” Paul admonished, throwing his polishing rag at TK for emphasis, “just tell us what’s up.”

TK was saved the trouble of dodging the question by the sound of his phone ringing in his pocket.

“Saved by the bell,” he declared as he fished it out of his pocket and stepped to the back of the rig for some semblance of privacy.

“Don’t count on it lasting,” Judd called after him, “we’re getting right back into this as soon as you are done.”

The others returned to their tasks, eager to finish with the end of their shift in sight. Their focus was soon broken by the sound of a gasp and a clattering sound from where TK stood. They all looked over to see TK, standing on the other side of the engine bay, expression stricken and body trembling.

“TK?” Paul asked hesitantly but got no response. Not even an indication that their teammate had heard him. They crossed over as a group but Judd got there first and reached down to grab the abandoned phone. The call was still going. He watched as Marjan approached TK, comforting hands reaching for his and Paul reminded him to breathe in his even, calming voice as he lifted the abandoned phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Strand?”

“No, this is his friend. He seems to be...a little out of sorts right now.”

The voice on the other end sighed, “that’s understandable. Would you please just inform him that his husband should be heading into surgery shortly and that he should check in upon his arrival so that the doctor can give him an update?”

Husband? Judd was so stuck on that word he almost missed the rest of the sentence. He managed to unfreeze his brain long enough to answer, “Of course, I’ll make sure he gets there. What hospital?”

“St. David’s.”

“Thank you.”

Judd hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. He felt the eyes of the team on him but he took a steadying breath before he looked up. When he did he ignored the curious gazes of the others and looked directly at TK, “they said I should tell you that your husband should be heading into surgery shortly, and that you should check-in when you get there so a doctor can update you.”

TK nodded, but said nothing else. No explanation, no objection that they were wrong; that he didn’t have a husband.

Because as far as Judd had known as of a few minutes ago, he didn’t.

“I need to go,” TK finally said and his voice was so pained it almost hurt to hear, “I need to get there.”

“I hate to break it to you man,” Paul said gently, “but you are in no shape to drive right now.”

“I’ll take him.”

The words were out of his mouth before he had even fully processed them. But when the eyes of the team fell to him, he repeated them: “I’ll take him. Clear it with Cap?”

The others nodded and he hoped they had picked up on what was left unsaid: tell Owen that he apparently has a son-in-law he doesn’t know about; tell the Captain that TK is a wreck but that Judd had him.

“There’s only a bit of shift left, we should be able to hold down the fort. Go, and keep us updated.”

Judd nodded at Paul and the others before reaching out a hand to put on TK’s shoulder, “C’mon kid, let’s go.”

His voice and guiding hand were gentle, and TK barely nodded before allowing himself to be led out of the station and to Judd’s truck. He climbed into the passenger seat silently and didn’t utter a word for the whole drive. All Judd could do was shoot him concerned glances and try to push back all the unanswered questions in his mind. Now was not the time for answers —his one and only concern was making sure TK was okay. The rest could come later.

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They started on a Tuesday.

As things went it wasn’t a particularly notable day for a beginning, but there wasn’t much notable about their start.

They were two people colliding; contrasting desires meeting in the in between, in the common ground. They wanted different ends but the means suited them both just fine. It was hot and heavy; it was rough and quick. It was needy and physical and everything they wanted (if only for a moment).

Then eventually, it was more.

Not at first —it wasn’t more for a long time. For months it was just blowing off steam, just mind blowing sex. There were a few dates of varying success, but they continued their dance around each other and the feelings they both had. Then TK got shot and they both watched their potential future teetering on the edge, ready to topple over with the weight of uncertainty. Eventually TK woke up to the chaos of adjusting to life again and a solar storm, and in the quiet that followed the chaos they found themselves in each other.

From there it was simple: after the start they had it couldn’t be anything but. In all that time they had gotten to know each without really meaning to and now they found themselves fitting together like a pair of gloves; fine on their own, but infinitely better together. They slipped into rhythms like they did embraces, and they were happy.

They dedicated time to getting to know what they were without an audience and without really realizing it, they had become a secret. A badly kept one, but a secret none-the-less. They existed in the peripherals, their life together a separate entity from their lives as seen by the rest of the world.

From the outskirts they became TK and Carlos and as time went on, there was less and less space between their bodies, their names, and their hearts.

And with each passing Tuesday, they grew closer.

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Judd kept stealing glances at TK.

They were in the waiting room of the hospital, and TK had spent every moment since they sat down anxiously bouncing his leg while he fiddled with the necklace he always wore.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay.”

“You don’t know that Judd.”

His voice was strained and quiet, so unlike the TK Judd was used to. He followed his gaze to the door the nurse had informed them the doctor would be coming through to give TK an update. That was nearly 10 minutes ago and TK’s eyes hadn’t left the door once.

Judd had so many questions but wasn’t sure how to broach the topic. How do you ask your friend about a spouse you didn’t know they had when they are full of fear of losing them?

He was saved the trouble of trying when TK spoke beside him, “I know what you’re thinking, just go ahead and ask.”

His voice was resigned and Judd felt bad for even thinking about the question, but he did need to know.

“You have a husband. Is it...someone we know?”

TK pulled his glance away from the door long enough to glance at Judd. After a moment, he nodded: “Carlos.”

“How long?”

“Not long.”

“Are you…” he began, but trailed off. He wasn’t sure what to ask. He had been leaning towards “happy,” but that seemed wrong in this context. He didn’t know what the right thing to say was; he had no idea how to approach this situation. He wished Grace was here. She was so much better at this kind of stuff.

They were quiet again until TK spoke, “I love him Judd.”

The admission was made quietly, TK’s voice low and sad. Judd turned to look at him and TK met his eyes as he continued, “I need him in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I can’t lose him, Judd.”

Judd swallowed as he studied TK’s expression. It was full of a familiar fear; one that he had felt anytime he thought about the mere idea of losing Grace. He reached out a hand and gave TK’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. He knew better to promise that it would be alright — they had no way of knowing that. Instead he settled on a truth he knew.

“You’ll get through this,” he told TK firmly, “and you won’t be alone.”

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Time passed and they began to learn the mysteries of each other past the physical. Before TK knew just the spot to kiss to make Carlos moan each and every time, now he could tell you the name of his childhood dog and that when he was 5, he had wanted to be an astronaut.

Carlos still knew all the ways to make TK melt under his touch but now he also knew how TK had pushed himself in the fire academy so he could feel worthy of the legacy of being the legendary Owen Strand’s son. Their secrets emerged from the shadows into open hearts, more and more revealing themselves with each passing day.

Stolen hours became endless evenings and frantic hookups became languid movie nights. Time passed and they began to feel at home with each other. Soon it became normal for TK to show up at Carlos’s home at the end of his shift as it slowly became more of a home to him. But, then again, the person who lived there was starting to feel an awful lot like home too.

Their connection was generally known; they weren’t trying to sneak around. But while seeing them dancing at the bar or grabbing lunch at a food truck became more and more commonplace, the depth of their relationship was still a secret from most —including them, for a time. Michelle likely knew, Paul surely suspected; but the fact that they were falling more and more in love each passing day was a surprise to even them.

It was TK who said it first; in a casual moment without a second thought. Carlos nearly tripped over his own feet when he heard it, but it had been like a dam breaking and soon it became commonplace, almost like breathing for them both.

Time went on and their love grew. Time went on and they grew together —learning each other's edges and finding out where they fit. They were a puzzle, slowly coming together until the right piece was found. From there, it was a quick solve before the final picture revealed itself.

And what a picture it was, Carlos thought to himself as he lay in his bed, watching TK sleeping soundly beside him. There were times he had to stop himself from reaching out to touch him, to make sure he was real. Sleep didn’t come easily to the other man and once it was found it was easily lost, so Carlos refrained, allowing his gaze to do the work for him. After everything he could scarcely believe they were here, after everything he couldn’t believe that they had found each other.

These were his favorite nights, he decided. The ones where he got to fall asleep to the sight of TK beside him, the nights he was lulled to sleep by the sound of his breathing. He knew he wanted more nights like this — really, he wanted every night to be like this.

But it was too soon for that, so for now he would savor the nights they had.

[continue reading on ao3]

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #tarlos #tarlos fic #my writing #userkimmy #userjilly #sunshinestrand #jazzyjess #aanathema #lonestarbabe #moviegeek03 #lire-casander #do I usually tag more people?#probably but my brain is tired

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jasontoddiefor · 5 years ago

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Remember how I had Thoughts about Jedi and Clone cultures mixing post a happy ROTS ending? Yeah so I wrote fanfic for that.

Read on AO3

Privately, Rex was starting to think that life might have been easier if he had just chosen to go with Trooper or his serial number for his legal last name. Hell, Fett would have done just fine as well, many of his brothers had opted for that solution, especially the older ones, those who had actually known Jango. A couple of them had even set out to actually track Boba down, much to the youngster’s frustration likely.

So the simpler choice really would have been Trooper, Number or Fett, but Rex, of course, had to make things complicated for himself. He was a part of the 501st battalion and they never took the unchallenging path.

Therefore Rex had to watch as his General and Commander were currently attempting to utterly trash each other on the mats of the temple’s training rooms, cheered on by a variety of vode and Jedi.

“Don’t look so miserable,” Padmé said as she sat down next to him, the twins floating beside her in their cradle. “They are fighting for your honor after all.”

Padmé looked tired. Rex knew for a fact that she had been running herself ragged attempting to reduce the damage Sidious had inflicted upon the Republic. Many Senators who had been in Palpatine’s pockets before were now turning on her, trying to make it seem like she had been his pawn as well since she’d been his prot��gé for the longest time. Of course, it helped that her Delegation of 2000 knew that Padmé would never support a Sith Lord, but before she could get her plans on the Senate floor, she had to spend an unreasonably long amount of time proving her ideas worked to support the Republic. She hardly had any time for her family and Rex was honestly expecting Anakin to walk into the Senate any day now to shut everyone up, which might work for a military campaign, but not for politics.

Despite her exhaustion though, Padmé was obviously enjoying the spectacle in front of them.

“I’d rather they didn’t,” Rex sighed. “They look two seconds away from starting to brawl.”

Padmé only smiled in reply and took one of the babies out of the crib and handed them to Rex. Bright blue eyes stared up at Rex and a quick glance at the bracelet the child was holding told him he was now responsible for little Leia Naberrie.

“Be good for Uncle Rex, yes?” Padmé told her daughter as she took Luke into her arms.

He let out one short unhappy cry for being separated from his sister – drawing Anakin’s attention away from the fight for a split second, something Ahsoka immediately made him pay for – but settled as soon as he was in his mother’s arms and Leia close again.

Force-sensitive twins were apparently very attuned to one another from the moment they were born and hated being separated, which didn’t make things easier for their parents and rather large circle of aunts and uncles.

“She’d never misbehave for me,” Rex said confidently. “Right, verd'ika?”

Leia only yawned in agreement and began to dose off again. Asleep like this, she didn’t look like the tiny terror with the incredibly loud voice Rex knew she could be. She’d be a great General someday, or simply a Jedi. If Rex could help it, neither Leia nor Luke would ever have to be called General by anybody. They shouldn’t have to lead battalions anywhere, they had fought so hard for the peace the twins ought to experience.

Now that Leia was sound asleep in his arms, Rex could actually focus on the fight in front of him. Ahsoka was still holding onto her two ‘sabers while Anakin was experimentally spinning his new lightsaber. After Sidious had destroyed his in battle, Anakin had walked around with a modified training ‘saber until he’d been able to go to Ilum and get himself a new crystal a week ago.

Ahsoka jumped forward, one ‘saber high and the other low. Anakin blocked the one above his head and sidestepped the other, tripping Ahsoka.

“You already have two Skywalkers more running around!” Ahsoka shouted and evaded Anakin’s grip. “Let me have this!”

She launched another assault, forcing Anakin on the defensive again, but it was becoming quite clear that if the fight continued on for much longer, Anakin would start getting the upper hand. Ahsoka seemed to realize this as well as she began to fight dirtier, less with the stances she’d been taught at the temple and more with the underhand guerilla warfare tactics she’d learned in the various campaigns.

“Luke and Leia both have Padmé’s last name,” Anakin argued and then, in a tone more befitting of a youngling, added, “And Rex was my Captain first!”

Ahsoka huffed and jumped over Anakin’s head in one of those flashy moves that had the younglings cheering.

“But he likes me way better!”

“Liar!”

Their bantering continued on for a while, entertaining their spectators and Rex too slowly found himself enjoying the spar. He only looked away from the fight when Padmé tapped his leg, drawing his attention.

“Trouble’s coming,” she said and pointed in the direction of the entrance from where Obi-Wan was slowly approaching the ring.

The Jedi Master watched his former apprentice and his grand-Padawan spar for a couple more minutes, highly fascinated by their snark

“What are you two even actually fighting about?” Obi-Wan asked finally, his face blank but his tone colored with amusement.

“Rex’s last name,” Ahsoka answered immediately and ducked beneath another strike. “Master, don’t you also think he should have mine?”

Obi-Wan only blinked in confusion and if not for Leia still asleep in his arms, Rex would slowly make his way out of the training halls.

“Looks like the secret has been discovered. I’m using Luke as a shield, you can use Leia,” Padmé laughed and not a second later Ahsoka and Anakin both turned to Rex, matching expressions on betrayal on their faces.

“Rex!” They shouted. “What does he mean you already picked a last name!”

“Well, Sir,” Rex coughed. “Senator Amidala was very kind and asked me the moment the Clone Citizen Recognition Act was finalized and I accepted. General Kenobi helped me with my registration.”

Ahsoka dramatically fell against her Master’s chest, pretending to be heartbroken. Anakin held her in his arms and gently sunk to the ground, finalizing their tragic breakdown.

“Betrayal!” Ahsoka exclaimed. “I fought for your honor and it didn’t even matter to you!”

“My own Master and wife collaborating against me! How shall I ever recover from this?” Anakin added and theatrically raised his arm towards the ceiling.

The younglings in the room giggled again while the Master and Padawan duo began lamenting their pain. Obi-Wan only rolled his eyes and moved past them over to Rex.

“They’ll be inconsolable now,” Padmé said.

Obi-Wan only shrugged and sat down next them. “Not my problem.”

“I thought those two would always be ‘your problem’,” Rex spoke up, quoting one of the lines he’d heard the other General mutter under his breath when he’d seen what antics Anakin and Ahsoka had gotten up to.

“You be silent, Rex Amidala,” Obi-Wan said and paused.

Rex Amidala, nobody had really called him that yet, he’d only had his new last name for a very busy day after all, there had been no time to tell anyone.

“It suits you,” Anakin said. Ahsoka was still half draped over him, but the two of them were watching the others now.

“Not as good as Skywalker or Tano,” Ahsoka teased, “but pretty good all in all. It is the name of a royal.”

Rex smiled and let himself enjoy this. Months ago he wouldn’t have ever dreamed about this, living at the temple and calling it home. There were still so many problems they had to overcome, but they had gotten this far – they’d manage everything else as well.

They were as unstoppable as a sun.

“I thought so too, Commander,” Rex replied.

#star wars #clone wars #captain rex #ahsoka tano #Anakin Skywalker #obi wan kenobi #padmé amidala #leia organa #Luke Skywalker #HAPPY FIX IT #fanfic #technically speaking both twins go by naberrie

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nurseofren · 4 years ago

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Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 23

Read on AO3

Read chapter twenty-two

Title: Choice

Words: 8200

Summary: When one is hurt, comfort is imperative.

ST Rambles: Hello! It has been nearly a month, not quite, but I have missed you all so entirely too much to admit. This story is my heart, and sharing it means the world to me. I took my first exam of the semester this morning and wanted to finish this chapter so I could upload prior to going to my first maternal-newborn clinical rotation on Saturday.

During my time away I have had the opportunity to read many amazing works, whether they be one-shots on tumblr or ficlets right on A03. One that has evoked such a strong response in me has been Three Blind Tooke by ElmiDol. She is a beautiful soul with such a gift for storytelling. I have quickly fallen in love with this story and I hope to encourage many of you to do the same.

My plan for the semester and writing is to take one week writing and then take one week to read the stories that I want. I think this will provide the necessary balance needed for me to be successful in school while also creating and enjoying other creator's content.

[MASTERLIST]

Time has always had a funny way of making itself scarce when needed most. It seemed that you could barely remember the trial, like it had never happened and all that remained to prove that it had were the restraints locked tight around each of your wrists and your neck. Above you sounded the molten, fatal buzz of the plasma guillotine, though it was mere background noise to the riotous cacophony of the rabid crowd awaiting your final moment. As you knelt, trembling against the icy durasteel, face frozen under cold-stuck tears, you tried and failed to settle into acceptance that this would be your last act of life.

“Please,” you whimpered, unsure if anyone could hear you, “I… I saved that man’s life. I didn’t hurt anyone. I don’t deserve to die for keeping my oath.” You tried to scream but the pleads were barely whispers.

Out of sight came a bellowed laugh, full and ragged just as it had been in the past. “That isn’t why you’re here, young officer.” Snoke could hardly contain his glee. “You’re forgetting, you may have saved one life, but you took another.”

Nausea waved through you and your head started pounding; Snoke’s presence was pain, magnified with each echo of his words as the arena shook against the surround sound. An uproar of cheers and chanting came from before you, the crowd booming with enthusiasm, hanging off of every word their Supreme Leader spoke.

Through the fog of terrified eyes you saw an image appear behind the audience, scaling the entire back wall and striking you with rage. A scrollbar read something you could only assume to be his First Order given name, your focus too centered on the enormous projection of Robbie’s face, smiling while he held his helmet tight against his chest. He looked too nice, just as he’d seemed when you gave him a name. He was being renowned as a hero, his death marking you as the villain.

“I… He! I was defending myself, he was going to kill me!”

“But instead you killed me.”

This voice was angelic, familiar and welcoming in the storm surrounding you. It was accompanied by the footsteps you’d become so fond of, coming closer with every panted breath that fell from your lips. Kylo crowded your view of the blinding screen, a cape trailing in his path. He stopped when he was centered in your view and crouched so he was eye level with you.

He wore no mask, nothing to conceal his beautiful visage as the sight of him constricted your heart. When was the last you’d seen him? It felt like it had been so long, yet you could barely grasp any concept of time. It was frustrating, like you were barred in your memory. Kylo’s face gave no indication into his emotions, yet for a fleeting moment you swore you saw a tear glint over his cheek.

“Yet another of your victims, yes?” Snoke remained hidden, his voice shifting between your ears, slithering like the snake he was.

“You made me! I had no-,”

“Choice.” It was a discordant wrath of voices; at first Kylo’s, then Snoke’s, trailing off with the whispers of Robbie’s and Mason’s.

Kylo brought one hand, bare and freezing, to your cheek. It hadn’t been there before, but his face was now split with the consequences of battle, a gash – open, pulsating, and weeping – ripping through his features. A shiver sank into you, you throat tightening.

The way in which he next breathed your name made you weep, his thumb catching the tear that burned into your skin. “You’ve always had a choice, remember? You just keep making-,”

“The wrong ones.” You finished his sentence, remembering the first time he’d said it. A futile attempt was made to reach for his hand, a sting coming as the restraint bit into your wrist.

The crowd was growing impatient, hordes of screams coming from behind Kylo’s shoulders. The screen behind him shifted to present the live cast of your suffering, the view suggesting that it was Kylo’s own eyes giving view to the onlookers, your face excruciatingly close, allowing every audience member to bask in the terror that plagued you.

You sniffled, nuzzling into his hand and looking between his eyes. He mimicked you, though his gaze was empty, just as it had been one of the last times you could remember seeing him. “I trusted you,” he said. “More than anything.”

Kylo began to leave you, his fingertips lingering just before he could take three steps backwards. The plasma blade above you began hissing louder with inevitability, your eyes squeezing shut as you awaited your sentence’s completion. Pain took root in your left upper thigh, a kind of burning as you continued to kneel. A string of agony tore through your throat as your eyes shot open to see Kylo’s hand shoot up.

“No, no! Please! Kylo, no!” You could see your face twist with desperation behind him now, tears willful in their presence as each one painted creaks of pain down to the durasteel.

Snoke let out another flood of evil-tinged amusement as Kylo turned his face toward the direction the sound came. “You still don’t understand, stupid girl.” Another bark of laughter. “You might have had a choice,” he said, “but your Master never did. Never will.”

And as they were spoken, you saw that crushing glimmer of humanity flicker in the face of Kylo Ren as he turned back to you. Snoke, infuriatingly, was right, of course. Hearing it out loud, accepting it as fact, calmed you down. Staring up at him, watching his fingers twitch, you spent your last remaining second pitying him for all the control he believed he had, knowing more than he did that it was a masterful mirage. Snoke had Kylo wrapped around his finger; you had only aided in tightening his grip.

More than anything. It was the last thought before you heard the overhead blade drawing near, its volume immense until it wasn’t. The next thing you were aware of was the overbearing smell of flatcakes wafting into your nostrils. Taking a few deep breaths, your attention went to the ache twisted into the back of your skull, the dryness sticking to your lips, and the warm weight present over your right leg.

Taking one more deep breath, you coughed, lungs feeling like they’d been stagnant for a while, rejecting the stretch of air. Light was obvious even as your eyes remained shut, its overwhelming presence leading you to blink a few times before adapting.

“Where am I?” you croaked out. Answering your question, you first saw the familiar polygon meal tray sitting atop a bedside table while your watch rested next to it, next catching view of the pulse oximeter resting over your left index finger. This was the medbay.

The first thing that came to mind was your dream, remembering Kylo’s wounded face. He was hurt. Where was he? Was he okay? The monitor to your left sounded louder as your heart rate accelerated. Warmth left your right leg as you saw something move in your periphery. A person.

Mason had been asleep, his hair stuck to his face when he first looked at you with shock and relief. “You scared me!” He sprung up from the chair he’d been sitting in and flung his arms around you. “The news about Starkiller came and I didn’t know where you were.” He hummed your name into your neck while rocking you back and forth. “I thought you were… I thought you had… I didn’t know…”

“Mason.” It was all you could think to say, your arms resting at your side as he kept his hold on you. Maybe you should’ve felt relief that he was here and that he was okay, but all you could feel was regret and an overwhelming sadness. Mason was none the wiser, but his very existence was a reminder of what you’d done, undeniable proof of the choice you’d made.

He finally leaned back, keeping his hand locked around yours and staring down at you with red-rimmed eyes. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his nerves settling more the longer he looked over your face. “I tried calling you—” a laugh accompanied the distant raise of his brows “—but I lost my commlink. I guess. I actually don’t know-,”

“What?” you interrupted his explanation, confused by his recall of events, wondering why Snoke wasn’t the focal point of his reasoning.

His face fell. “What? Did I say something? Are you hurt? Do you need water? Food? I actually ordered some flatcakes for me, but they’re all yours if you-,”

“You lost your commlink?”

His brow creased and his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Yeah? Yeah. I mean. I guess. It’s been crazy around here today and—” his face bloomed in horror “—oh, fuck! I didn’t mean that your day hasn’t been bad, I just. Yeah. I lost it.”

He didn’t seem like he knew anything about Snoke, or that he remembered ever enduring the pain you’d heard him scream through the communication device earlier – actually, how long had it been?

“So… There was nothing… I mean, you weren’t… Summoned? Or…?”

“Summoned?” Mason looked at you with amused confusion. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t give you any pain medicine, but you’re acting a little loopy.”

He didn’t know. He was blissfully ignorant to Snoke’s involvement in your or his life. Again, instead of relief you were met with that bleakness from before. “Maybe I was just dreaming,” you brushed it off.

Dreaming. Kylo. “I need to see him,” you mumbled, moving to stand and becoming extremely aware of your left leg once more. A hiss left you before Mason could pull your shoulders back against the bed, your hand reaching down to soothe the blanket-covered wounds.

“Not so fast,” he said. “Doctor Belkar wants to examine you before you start walking.”

“Belkar?” You couldn’t remember ever hearing that name, though your memory may not be the most reliable at the moment.

“I heard my name.” A man – shorter, skinny, and dark-skinned – peered into the door before knocking and stepping in. “Oh, good! Glad to see you’re awake. You had us worried there for a moment.” Belkar took a few more steps so he was on your left, clutching a datapad under his arm and smiling down at you. His presence was comfortable and professional. He seemed to possess a bedside manner not common of many physicians, and he’d barely even spoken.

Squinting towards his badge you found his first name. “Trace Belkar.” You sounded it out, feeling a faint sense of familiarity. Looking to his face, it finally struck you. “Oh! You’re, you are the one who… You helped me with my friend earlier.” Warmth set in your cheeks when you realized you knew him.

“Ah! My first surprise patient of the day. Funny how things seem to come full circle, isn’t it? Now-,”

Further realization hit. “You also helped me that night. I was the nurse who…” Maybe he didn’t remember who you were, and maybe he didn’t need to, given your actions that night were rather infamous currently.

“Yes! I knew you looked familiar seeing you yesterday. You are the nurse that saved my patient’s life. Great work that night, by the way. Fast-thinking, resourceful. Gives me hope for the next generation of medics.” A quick smile flashed across his face before he reached into his coat pocket. “Now, if you don’t mind following my finger with your eyes.”

It probably took too long for you to follow his request as you were taken aback by his praise for that night. The only emotions you’d ever attached to that it had been pain and fear, likely influenced by the way you were being reprimanded at the moment, thinking of that night as a crime rather than the miracle that it was for that man.

“Um, yes. Sorry.” You shook your head and followed the tip of his finger as he dragged it around – up and down, right to left, and finally in a diagonal cross.

“Any nausea, pain, weakness, dizziness, headaches?” His tone was absent while he traced his penlight in and out of sight to finish his PERRLA assessment.

“I’m really fine. This isn’t necessary at all.” You couldn’t stand being treated like a patient. Even when you were one. Knowing the inner workings of every check made it difficult not to see through their purpose. “I could probably leave now and I’d be fi-ah!” You’d tensed your wounded leg without thinking when shifting in the bed.

“How’s that leg treating you?” It seemed he was psychic in his assumptions, though you knew he’d probably had a nurse do a head-to-toe assessment while you were out.

Mason was puzzled when you looked over at him. “What’s wrong with her leg? She passed out. What’s wrong with her-,”

“Mason, will you go find me some water? And maybe a warm blanket? Please.” Your eyes were locked with Belkar’s as you quieted Mason, mindlessly squeezing his hand to encourage his leave. Mason did not need to see your brand. He wouldn’t understand, and you didn’t feel like having to explain to him, that you felt deserving of it and much worse.

There was a silent moment as you watched Belkar and felt Mason’s eyes before he squeezed your hand back and told you he’d be back soon. The door shut behind him and the quiet swallowed you.

“From what I read in your chart it seemed you’d given yourself a makeshift dressing. Your nurse was actually impressed at how well it was done. I do have some questions about the scars under it, though. If you don’t mind.” He seemed to know to tread lightly; his demeanor reminded you of the one you were instructed to use on abuse survivors.

You shook your head, but this only clued you into another pain. “Jeez! Ow!” Your hand fled to your forehead, finding a bandage sealed over a large bump. It was tender to touch, flinching as you remembered Robbie banging your head into the door.

Belkar took his datapad from under his arm and tapped away as you recovered. “There.” He pressed the screen once more before returning it to its original spot. “The nurse should be in here soon with some-,”

“I don’t want it.” You swallowed, dropping your hand and staring at your lap.

Belkar paused and shifted in his stance. He clicked his tongue, put his datapad down, and pulled up a chair. He called you by your last name, professional yet with a considerable amount of concern. “Will you tell me what caused your injuries?”

He was attempting therapeutic communication. And he was succeeding. An uncomfortable laugh left you. “What is there to tell? I’m hurt. In ways that aren’t physical. Ways that are.” Your lip began to quiver before you caught it with your teeth.

Another pause from Belkar. His hand twitched and your eyes jumped to it. He noticed this. “Can I hold your hand?”

The offer was tempting, but you declined by shaking your head and finally looking up at him. There were crinkles splayed outward from his eyes and gray hairs obvious in an overgrown stubble on his cheeks. He was a kind soul, you could tell; it was evident in his eyes, clear and green yet full of warmth. Soon after setting eyes on him you felt your throat thicken and your eyes water.

“You know,” you laughed, scraping at your eyes and sniffling, “I don’t even know what I’d say to any of the questions you mentioned before.”

A kind smile, no teeth, brought his cheeks up. “How about just one, then?”

“Yeah. One. I guess.”

He made sure your eyes were on his before he spoke again. “Do you want to report the person who did this to you?”

Another nervous laugh left. And then a sob before the heels of your hands met your face. “That’s not necessary,” you said through hiccuped words. Robbie’s face flashed into your mind’s eye, the pool of blood spreading below him before the door hissed shut. Your dream, the screen presenting his smiling face. “I… I don’t even know what to do anymore! I can’t… I have… I can’t fix this!”

Belkar squeezed your hand, bringing you back to reality. His face was blurry through your tears. “Slow down. Just breathe. Shh. Slow down.” He modeled how to do so, exaggerating when he took a deep breath through his nose.

After several breaths you closed your eyes and threw your head back on the pillow, keeping your hand in Belkar’s. “I’m sure you’ve seen the scars? Or read about them at the least, right? And then I know you were the one who caught me before I passed out so you obviously know who I work for.”

“Are those two things related?” He was trying not to assume anything.

“All that matters is that this—” you gestured to your head “—and this—” you placed a gentle hand over your wrapped thigh, petting a thumb over it “—are unrelated.” Belkar knew not to speak when you choked on your tears in search of words you weren’t even sure you wanted to say. “I was… Someone broke into my residence just before the explosion. And he.” You paused again, feeling Belkar’s grip tighten and relax over your trembling hand. You cleared your throat. “I was taken advantage of. He went down with the base. It would be pointless to report when the perpetrator is already dead.” Bloodied scissors flashed into your memory before you looked back up to Belkar.

He nodded, placing his second hand over yours. The warmth was welcome, and surprising. “Should I order an emergency contraceptive or a spermicide?” There wasn’t a fraction of discomfort when he asked the question. Complete care and professionalism. He felt safe.

“No, I don’t need that. I had a chip placed last year.” You ran your tongue over your teeth, swallowing before speaking again. “But, um. I was wondering if…”

“Yes?”

“Commander Ren,” you said, searching his eyes for judgment, “is he… How is he?” Your bottom lip would need to heal from chewing it so much.

Another warm, small smile lifted on Belkar’s face. “It’s admirable, your passion for his care. Even in your current state. Even with those wounds you only care about his wellbeing.” Fire bit at your face, your eyes falling back to the bed. “It’s the mark of a true healer. Setting aside your own pain to lessen someone else’s. Your patient’s.”

“Yeah, well,” you raised your eyebrows, “do you know how he’s doing?”

“Before I came in to examine you, I was actually on my way to see Commander Ren. Would you like to come with me?”

“I should probably…” You trailed off, finally feeling relief when thinking about seeing Kylo and avoiding Mason. “Do you think I can walk? How did the nurse say I was healing?”

Belkar scooted out from the chair and stood, offering you a hand for support. “I actually would prefer you start walking now to discourage clotting. It’s likely you can leave here tonight once its officially been twenty-four hours since your admission.”

He made sure to fix your gown so you weren’t exposed while standing before you could tie the lower fastener. He kept a hand lightly placed over your mid-back, the other now holding your hand. “How long has it been since I got here?”

He started you on a slow pace and you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Robbie may have been the one to die, but death took residence in you; a bruise splotched out over your forehead, your hair flat and knotted, exhaustion shadowing your eyes. There were multiple bruises lining your arms, their origin a mystery, though you could only suspect a majority had come from the crowd of people you’d stormed through the stairwells with. The one injury you’d grown to cherish was masked by the ill-fitting white and grey patterned gown, the article most definitely shielding an additional multitude you were still unaware of.

“The Command Shuttle arrived soon after Starkiller exploded. Ren was transferred to medbay in less than a minute and began treatment within the next five upon arrival. You fainted before then.” He led you into the hall and began walking through the maze of bustling hallways. “You’ve been resting for nearly sixteen hours.”

“Sixteen. Stars.” The pain in your leg lessened the more you walked, seeing the faces of coworkers who last saw you that fateful night.

“We monitored your intracranial pressure for the first few hours, but it seems you were only severely exhausted and mildly dehydrated. Understandably, of course.” He took a familiar left turn and the entrance to the Elite medbay came into view. “I had entered orders to start you on oral antibiotic therapy as soon as you woke up, completely a prophylactic measure, but it won’t affect anything to hold off for now.”

Belkar swiped his badge across the scanner and the doors hissed open, your heart now thumping in your chest. The last time you’d seen Kylo, you’d assumed would be the last time. Even as you kept forward, nerves twisting your intestines, you couldn’t deny the need you felt to see him again. It scared you, though, imagining how he’d react to your presence.

“Um, maybe this is a bad idea. I don’t think Commander Ren needs any more visitors than necessary.” You stopped Belkar just before he swiped to open the door to your Master’s exclusive medbay.

“It’s a good thing neither of us are visitors.” The door shot open. “We’re his providers.” Belkar stepped past the threshold. “He wouldn’t mind either way,” you followed in after him, hesitant while you stared down at the floor, “I placed him in a therapeutic coma to keep him from disturbing the stitching in his wounds.”

This news brought your eyes up as you entered the room and felt the door shut behind you. Kylo Ren, outfitted in the same gown as you, was supine on the bed, unconscious. Peaceful. His gown was left unsnapped at the shoulders, a blanket resting above his hips and tucked under his wrists. The assessment table had been replaced, an IV pole set up on his left side, a monitor reading off the contents and status of the three current running fluids: metronidazole, normal saline, and a third – separate – line running a bag of packed red blood cells. Kylo was breathing on his own, though there was an intubation kit ready on the bedside table, you noticed while routinely scanning the room for necessary emergency intervention equipment.

Belkar rid the distance between him and Ren, your own feet stopping just before the door. The physician looked at you with a creased brow but quickly dissolved his expression as he accepted your decision. After setting his datapad down he gently peeled back Kylo’s gown, resting it over the blanket and then gesturing towards him with his hands.

“The coma was a last resort,” he began. “Commander Ren was exhibiting signs of delirium when my team began his care. After nearly two hours of noncompliance I wrote a STAT order to initiate it.” Belkar sighed, this fact disappointing to him.

“When you say delirium…” Your hands strangled in and out of fists, nervous fingers smoothing over the fabric of your gown while you looked on at your sleeping patient.

The physician’s mouth had settled into somewhat of a pout, considering your question. “Ren’s health history was scattered and scant in the archives, virtually nothing resembling a family history. It was most likely the physical trauma that caused it, but…” Belkar turned his body to you while keeping his eyes on Kylo. “Whenever any of the nurses or techs would attempt to orient him during those first two hours he kept telling us he’s dead.”

A single step took you further from the door. “Was.. Did he ever say who he was talking about? A name?” This information confounded you, leaving you to wonder whose death could possibly matter so much to Kylo Ren that he’d recount while his mental defenses were weakened?

A deeper, more frustrated sigh left Belkar. “There’s been so little time and the staff is already so overworked with all the new admissions.” He uncovered one of Kylo’s legs and checked the placement and setting of the compression device wrapped around it. “I appointed a droid to sift through the archives to find anything, to see if there was any information on a Ben.”

“Ben?”

“That’s who we assume is dead, as he kept repeating.”

“You assume? What does that mean?” Another step and your eyes shot to the vitals monitor, seeing his heart rate was in the low fifties. Bradycardic, hence the fluids.

“The two phrases came sporadically. At times he would say the name, and whenever any of the care team would ask him who Ben was…”

“They’d suddenly be at a loss for words?”

Belkar’s mouth quirked for half a second, falling quickly when he shifted the blanket back to its original place. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.” He looked at you again, contemplating, narrowing his eyes. “I imagine you’ve endured such acts. I only assume given—” he gestured to your leg.

Heat flared in your cheeks and your pulse picked up. Swallowing, you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and crossed your arms. “Yes.” He didn’t seem to know why Kylo Ren had left his mark, only that he had. This brought you ease. “Yes, Commander Ren doesn’t have the best handle on his…anger. I suppose.”

Belkar swallowed, watching you. “Does he scare you?”

This caught you off guard, fingers biting into your arms when you took another step forward. “Does Kylo Ren scare me?” You took a few seconds to really think about it, feeling comfortable when you met Belkar’s eyes again, only a few paces from the bed now. “It would be counterintuitive to be afraid of my own patient.”

“Do you feel safe when you are working with him?” He was subtly attempting to screen you for abuse – well, further abuse – his face trying to hide the curiosity in his tone.

“Doctor Belkar, I do appreciate you’re worried for me. But it is misplaced. Now, would you tell me more about my patient, please?”

He was momentarily taken aback by your forward effort to change the subject. “I do apologize if my questions have made you uncomfortable. I noticed your hesitancy to be near him and thought-,”

“That’s unrelated, Doctor,” maybe in too harsh a manner, you bit his words off. You didn’t feel like telling the edited version of how you believed yourself to be the abuser when it came to Kylo, and you were sure Belkar, just as Mason, wouldn’t understand if you tried. “Will you please just tell me how he’s been doing?” A crack in your voice revealed how weak your defenses were.

The physician’s head nodded back slightly in understanding. Today was good for no one. Tensions were high. He knew you had just woken up after experiencing both known and unknown traumas. “Would you help me change his dressings while we discuss his care?” A truce, gentle and acknowledging.

Your shoulders fell with a breath you hadn’t realized was waiting to escape, your throat clearing when you walked to the drawers set up behind you. Activating one, you pulled out the necessary supplies and set them up as Belkar opened them. He walked you through the various monitors connected to Kylo – leeds stuck to his chest, a cuff around his upper right arm, the pumps over his legs, the IVs placed. He uncovered Ren’s pelvis and had you assess his catheter, mentioning the drainage bag below the bed. The antibiotics were prophylactic, just as yours would be; there had been too many unknowns around Ren’s injuries to not protect against potential sepsis.

When Belkar had completed his assessment – stopping to listen to breath and bowel sounds, motioning for you to do the same with the provided stethoscope to test your knowledge – you helped him fix the gown and sheets back over Kylo’s chest, your breath catching when your fingers brushed against his skin. The doctor tucked his datapad back under his arm and walked to the door, activating it before stepping out. However, you had remained at Kylo’s side, watching him as he slept.

“Doctor Belkar?” you called after him, not looking away from Kylo.

A sigh left him, this one fond. Kind. “A true healer.” He was thoughtful in tone. “Use the assistance indicator should you become faint. Should your friend inquire about your whereabouts-,”

“Tell him I’m okay—” you licked your lips as a tear slipped down your cheek “—tell Mason he can leave if he… Tell Mason he can leave.”

There was no response before the door hissed shut, allowing you to let free the whimper which had been stuck since you first set eyes on Kylo. You realized you’d never seen him asleep. The one night you’d shared his bed your focus just on that fact, not on observing him. That night had been the only time you’d seen his full heart, or at least more of it than you had. Now, standing beside him, still reluctant to get too close, you were crying just as he had. That night seemed like a separate lifetime, like a dream you’d only ever get to revisit in your memories now.

Tearing your eyes away from him, clearing your throat and thumbing away more tears, you ran your fingertips along the hanging fluids; the saline would need to be replaced soon, and the metronidazole was running at an accelerated rate. The blood, you checked the label, had been hung just prior to your arrival, the colloid causing you to stop and gently press into its plastic confines. A huff of weak amusement left you; it had never occurred to you that this blood would ever be used for its intended purpose, intended recipient. Seeing it running into Kylo’s veins, checking the transfusion sight for infiltration and redness, you felt a sort of sick irony settle into the room. This very fluid, more or less, would be your demise; it was capable of sustaining life, replenishing it, yet would be the very thing to end yours.

The monitor blinked in your periphery, catching your attention; his heart rate was improving, finally skimming the upper fifties, his respirations coming evenly. Steeling yourself, bunching your gown in your hands, you looked down at him. Kylo Ren, resting and vulnerable, lay below for your appraisal. Belkar had walked you through the proper routine to change his dressings, his abdominal wound and the one scraping across his shoulder healing well under the soaked gauze. The wound fixed along his face, however, had been created too awkwardly to be dressed as the others. A grafting patch had been placed along the length of the injury, a black stripe of the regenerative material precise in its placement.

There was so much pain etched into him, you wondered if his outward appearance now matched his inner, the thought choking you with a sob. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. It was silly to wait for a response, to look at him in anticipation, but you did.

It took several minutes of deliberation, but you eventually joined him in the bed, gently sitting on his right side as to not disturb anything. The tips of your right index and middle finger trailed along the ridges of the unbandaged wound, feeling his pulse in the raised flesh, landing on his forehead and brushing into his hair.

“Oh.” It startled you when your fingers got stuck in a mat at his ends. Rolling it between your fingers you found it to be dried, congealed blood. It wasn’t surprising; hair care was not the priority right now, the nurses already straining themselves without paying attention to trivial duties.

But you had time and he was here with no way of objecting, your hand cupping his face before you began gathering your supplies and setting them up. The silence was comforting for only a few minutes, soon leaving you to your thoughts, those which shuddered through you with images of Robbie and Snoke and Kylo.

“I don’t even know how we got here,” you mumbled while filling a basin with warm water. A bitter chuckle, a cough chasing it. “I do, actually. I know exactly how we got here.” Placing the full basin on the bedside table, carefully wheeling it to the head of his bed, you gazed over him. “Snoke. Mason. Rob-,” the name stuck in your throat. “The stormtrooper.”

Gentle thumbs tracked like feathers atop his cheekbones, your remaining fingers pushing into his thick locks and brushing it behind his ears. After admiring him for a moment longer you collected the necessary linen, grabbing three extra towels, four in total. Setting them up – one beneath him, another two rolled and resting atop his shoulders, and the last spread over your lap when you sat on a stool – you reached for the cup you’d earlier grabbed and filled it with water.

“I should’ve told you.” It seemed you would never stop crying; a tear struck his forehead as you poured the first cup over his head, ensuring to guard his eyes and ears. “I never… Snoke threatened Mason. He threatened him and all I could think was that I wouldn’t allow someone else to endure punishment meant for me.” Kylo’s hair darkened as it wet, the towel beneath him turning pink with diluted blood. “That wouldn’t be fair. Someone suffering because my own mistakes? No. No, that would be selfish. Selfish and, and… I don’t know.” A sigh and a swallow. “I don’t know.”

With a second cup you wet the rest of his locks and lathered shampoo between your hands. “I woke up yesterday hating you, wishing I was dead so I didn’t have to see you after that day. I fucking hate him so much!” Your chin trembled in anger, imagining Snoke knowing this was happening, wondering how much he really knew, if he could see while Kylo slept. “And it wasn’t even… That’s what I hate the most. You had so little say in it, so little choice and I spent a whole month, wasted so much time, hating the wrong person. Hating you.”

Rolling his ends between your fingers, you scrubbed at the mats until they became loose. “I wish you could know that everything I told you was a lie. You were right about it all. I don’t hate you.” Words came easier, tears still streaming with ease, yet your throat clearing with each admission. “Maybe in the beginning when I didn’t know so much, when I didn’t know you. Maybe then I had wanted to, but it’s an impossibility now. Today made me realize that.” A pause while you watched his chest tide, stopping to recount the apology you’d known to give him, remembering how it felt as he held you – broken, raw – in his arms. “Today made me realize a lot of things.”

The last mat had been the toughest, your fingers rolling and rubbing for nearly five minutes until it softened. “Can I… I mean, I know you can’t answer, but…” Your throat got thick again, burning as you tried to swallow a sob. Closing your eyes, you dropped the subject, not wanting to recount the event to even an absent mind yet.

Clearing your throat, you began again, instead recalling the various mentions of Kylo Ren’s history during the past day. “Maybe I don’t know as much about you as others do, though.” Water drenched the towel below his head as you massaged the soap out of his hair, your pulse quickening as you thought about your next question. “The old man. The one on Jakku… He mentioned something about a time before Kylo Ren, or something like that. How did he even know you? How did you know him?”

Working your way through his hair, you rinsed until there were no bubbles remaining. Questioning him felt foreign; if he were awake he would have surely stopped you from continuing. Or from starting at all. But you pressed on, wanting to distract yourself from the reality that lurked in the back of your mind.

“And then later, when I…” Warmth spread through you at the memory of his bed, him setting you there, holding onto him until he left. You tried to hide the pain in your throat, knowing if you allowed yourself to sob once you’d surely lose the ability to stop. “I heard you. When you were speaking to someone, talking to your grandfather. Was he in there with you? Or were you on a commlink?” You shrugged, knowing all of these inquiries were in vain. “My maternal grandfather passed away before I began university. I never met the other one. Something about family secrets and drama and blah blah blah.”

Another tear fell to Kylo’s face, remembering the pain you’d felt losing someone for the first time, remembering how helpless you were to change anything. A sigh of desperate defeat left you. “I must be cursed. A true healer? Maybe in another life. In this one it seems I can only save a life in turn for another, be it mine or someone I care about.”

After rinsing your hands in the basin, you gathered conditioner on the tips of your fingers and began working it into the now clean ends. A whimper came in place of the stuck sob, breathing becoming difficult as you denied it life. “You said that to me, remember? The night I had gone to Mason. Not exactly but, you said something along the lines of me only listening when the things I value are threatened. It seems the two things go hand in hand; I can’t help anyone without hurting someone else, I can’t make a decision without being forced into it, without being threatened should I make one wrong choice.”

A hand smoothed over the last remaining tendril of hair, soft with the new product, your chest heavy with regret and hindsight. “You wanted me to give my whole self to the First Order. I did, Kylo. And now… I have nothing. There’s nothing left and it’s my fault.” Mason’s worried expression flitted into your mind’s eye. “And if I do have anything left… It’s nothing I want.” Closing your eyes, you ran the pad of your thumb along the rim of the cup, clutching it to your chest. “I wish I could go back. Earlier when I… When I came home. I wish I had told you then. If I had, maybe neither of us would be pawns in Snoke’s game. If I’d told you, maybe I wouldn’t have been-,”

Pain speared you with daggers of rejection. There was no easy or gentle way to confront the truth. No matter if you’d briefly mentioned it with Belkar earlier; to verbalize it, to say out loud what had gone one, scared you. It made it real, gave it power and life. But this would be the only way you’d get to confess to it; soon you’d be alone, left to relive the act over and over until it would be all that remained. It would consume you if you let it.

“I was raped.” You said it before it got stuck again. Finally, after choking on it for so long, that sob broke free, cries grating against your sore throat. “It was the stormtrooper. The one you’d set out to protect me from. The one Snoke had told me you’d been thinking about.” A shaky hand collected another cup of water and let it rinse the conditioner away. “RB-6745. Robbie. Shit! I’m so, so stupid! I’m so dumb I wish I could fucking die! It would be so much easier if I could just stop…existing, if I could just stop breathing it would all be- none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t- damn it!” A roar tore through clenched teeth before you dragged the towel set across your lap and smothered it against your face.

Scream after scream after scream left you, each one more painful than the last, more broken than the last. The towel collected what tears had set on your cheeks, your voice diminishing before you had the sense to stop yourself from continuing. With the damp cloth draped over your hands, you rested your head in your palms, heaves and hiccups unbidden and unrelenting.

“I gave him a name, Kylo. I did. I gave him a name and I started all of this,” muffled, you finally confronted the truth you had been so unwilling to acknowledge. A bitter crack of laughter left. “You will only ever be the start and end of the issue,” you echoed Snoke, voice distant and decimated. “Yeah, well. I guess he was right. I did start it.” Pulling the towel from your face, staring down at the peace painted over your Master, a cold shiver stalled your lungs. “I started it. And I ended it.”

Silence once more met you with suffocation. Studying Kylo’s face – noticing his eyelashes, the cracked nature of his dry lips, finding a fondness in the angle of his nose – you took a deep breath and settled into your new reality, accepting it as it would be, allowing yourself to begin healing as he was before you. “I killed him. I left him to bleed out just before Starkiller exploded. He’s dead.”

The last phrase reminded you as you finished your task, patting the towel into his hair, lifting his head to fully dry him. “Whoever Ben is… and if he’s dead or not –” you rested the towel over your left thigh “—I wonder if I knew him.” Another thought of Kylo’s figurative family. “I wonder if he knew you.”

Once you left here your privileges as his provider would be revoked; when he would wake and sign the proper documents, notify the necessary people, every tie you had to him would be severed. So, to indulge in one last moment, you parted a triangle of hair from the center of his hairline, separated it into three equal sections, and began the simple pattern: left over middle, right over middle, adding hair with each repetition to create a continuous, tight braid. Aside from giving you more time with him, the style would discourage any new mats from forming.

Repeating this process two more times, one more on each side of his head, you made sure that the hair that couldn’t be contained was brushed and flat beneath him. You set a towel under his head to collect any remaining moisture and prevent knotting. The clean-up process was leisurely, your focus shifting to his monitor every now and then to see he was no longer bradycardic. The last time you checked the monitor, a normal sinus rhythm tracing along the display, you found his pulse had risen to sixty-seven beats per minute.

Finished clearing the last of your mess, you sat on the stool, still at the head of his bed. No matter the new addition setting into features – though, in a way, it suited him well – you admired him; here he was at peace. Resting. Healing. The sobs had died out but tears were still liberal in their formation, another falling to hit the inner corner of his right eye. You collected it, chewing your lip before leaning down and again tracing along the outer region of the wound.

Kylo’s breath warmed over your forehead in the proximity, your own catching as it all became too much. Placing your hands on either side of his face so the tips of your fingers held loosely over his jaw, you brought your lips to rest on his. Kylo couldn’t reciprocate it, you knew, but this would be your goodbye.

“I wish I could have given you more than this,” you whispered, lips brushing against his own. “More than anything, Kylo, I wanted to give you more than this.”

Trembling lips pressed into his, your tears reviving the dry flesh, a whimper leaving when he remained still. He would never kiss you back again, the thought piercing as warmth slipped from your cheeks and onto his. However long you stayed like this, your face on his, you tried to silence the reality looming over you. But you couldn’t stay here forever, and you’d probably been gone for far too long already.

Leaning up from him your nose drew a faint line up his bridge, feather-light lips setting against his forehead in a final show of unrequited adoration. With a breath your spine straightened, eyes strict in their effort to keep forward. There was no moment of hesitancy as you passed the threshold and left the Elite wing; if you had indulged in a final glance, you knew you’d have never left.

On the journey back to your room – head hung low, teeth rooted in an effort to stop the trembling of your bottom lip – you met a stiff wall of muscle as someone exited a room, your feet stumbling back before you completely fell backwards, landing on your tailbone. The room spun when you opened your eyes after hitting the floor, a gloved hand extending down and offering you assistance. Taking it, you looked up to find General Hux.

He looked as you did, exhaustion heavy in his features before he was struck by your identity. He didn’t recoil, though, pulling you up and even steadying you for a couple seconds. Hux’s eyes darted to the bandage on your forehead and quickly over your gown, narrowing only slightly when he appraised the red rims of your own. He remained silent, retracting his hand as he nodded once.

“Officer,” he acknowledged. “I heard about your fainting spell.” His tone lacked the animosity you had come to expect.

You took hold of the wall support, looking up at him, confused at his sudden civility. “Oh.” It was the best you could do right now.

Something about him seemed off. Even as he remained more guarded than most humans you knew, it appeared as though something had him worried. Maybe it was the fall out from Starkiller that had him acting out. He had just lost men.

“Is there an official count yet?” you asked, filling the silence.

Hux swallowed, the corners of his mouth dipping before he returned to his normal façade, his shoulder going up and back when his stance shifted. “Nice work during the transport.”

“Thank…you. Uh, thank you, General.”

Another nod and he turned away from you and walked out of sight. A crease bit at your brow. How strange. Or maybe it wasn’t. The last twenty-four hours had been less than favorable for the entire First Order. Nobody could be expected to be at their best right now. Or even at their normal.

Before you started down the hall, your periphery caught view of the room where Hux had come, your heart falling. Confusion was drowned by new concern. Talia was slumped into her shoulder, asleep while she sat upright, both arms resting at her sides to reveal bruises from multiple IV attempts. There was one line running from her left forearm which led up to a bag of fluids, the contents of which you couldn’t read from a distance.

Peaking around the hall, you ducked into her room and clicked the door shut with your back, keeping the volume to a minimum as to not wake her. It seemed like a week had passed since you saw her seize, Snoke’s men abducting you before you could aid in her care. It had been less than a full day.

Walking up to her right side you noted the oxygen secured over her ears, a nasal cannula delivering two liters per minute. Nothing excessive. That was good. But still curious. The fluid bag was filled with electrolyte replacement, another bag hanging empty behind it. Looking for more clues, you found the information board to be devoid of any recent updates, only indicating her nurse and the continuation of the current fluids. There was a check mark next to a note which read sterile urine specimen, CBC, CMP.

When you kicked your foot under her bed, swinging it mindlessly while holding onto the upper bed rail, something skidded beneath your sock. In a manner which didn’t stress your wounds, you knelt to the ground and picked up the item. It was a white square, shiny material which glinted under the harsh fluorescents. Holding one corner, it unfolded to reveal a second half. Turning it over, eyes blinking back to make sure you were reading the images correctly.

Everything was in the right spot, every label and measurement and identifier correct and official. Dropping completely to the floor, your legs splayed across each other, you peaked up at your friend and back to the printed picture multiple times, not knowing what to make of the situation.

Talia was pregnant.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren imagine #st kyp #ao3

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cyber-sub · 4 years ago

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All’s Fun in the Haunted House.. until it’s not🍂

heeeeeellllloooo wonderful crepe customers! i wanted to apologize for having this out after Halloween- there’s actually gonna be a few halloween themed Pumpkin specials post Halloween due to uhhhhhhhhhhh my commitment issues what’s been going on in my life as of late but i think my posting schedule is gonna be a bit better!! so thats gr8 ANYWHOO sorry for rambling

warnings: tw: anxiety attacks

genre: uhhh uhm angst with a happy ending !

“FUCK!” you gasp, clawing into your own palm, the pain from your nails taking your attention off your ragged breathing. This idea was not as good as you thought it would be.

You had been extremely stressed out as of late because of those damn college exams coming up but you also wanted to enjoy what the treats of Autumn had to offer in it’s entirety: The horror film marathons, pumpkin patches, warm drinks, and haunted houses, etc. so, when you saw you had a free day in your schedule- right before Halloween no less, you proposed the idea of going to the annual UA haunted house to your boyfriend.

Katsuki shrugged his shoulders, as expected, but nevertheless agreed.

Despite his cool composure, you knew he loved Halloween, much to contrary belief. You took notice of the small smile playing on his lips as he watched you prance around the apartment singing the whole of the Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack. You also saw how his face slightly lit up when you guys passed the Starbucks by your place, gaze glued to the sign that promoted the drink called “pumpkin spice cold brew”. It was even painstakingly obvious how his eyes stayed on the costume section of Target a bit longer than normal while you guys shopped for toilet paper. He loved everything about it actually, but in his own unspoken way… or maybe he just really loves the fact that the holiday entails scaring children to the brink of crying. You wouldn't put it past him.

In all honesty, once Bakugo heard the suggestion come from your pretty little mouth, he couldn't wait to go. You guys had been together for a little under a year now and this was your first Halloween together. He would never admit it out loud but he couldn't wait to do all the couple-y things he had read/heard about during the season of tricks and treats. Anything to end up closer to you, physically and emotionally.

The token haunted house was a stand alone building in one of the forest training facilities. It looked just like a creepy mansion you would expect to find in horror films; one of those houses where you could just tell that something was going to go wrong.

You couldn't have been more excited, your eyes wide with fascination as you gave a little squeeze to Katsuki’s arm, trying to ignore the feeling that something was off; You pushed the notion away. You were going to enjoy this break whether you liked it or not.

At first, Bakugo didn't notice anything.

You were as cheerful as always and extremely ecstatic, bouncing around as you both waited in line to go in. It was dark out so he was less focused on people noticing the amount of blush that creeped onto his cheeks and more so on how it felt to have your chest pressed against him with those bright eyes looking up at him.

Things started getting weird not long after you entered.

You didn’t cling tighter to him like he had secretly hoped, you actually let go of him all together and seemed a bit overwhelmed- but he just figured that was due to the intricacy of the haunted house. Bakugo didn’t want to crowd you so he just watched you from a short distance.

It wasn’t until after the first scare that he finally became aware of your heavy breathing, the way your chest heaved up and down- but wouldn’t lighten up. Every little jump scare petrified you and he was becoming concerned.

You were acting odd… clutching onto yourself way tighter than you should be and way too tense for a silly haunted house. You were going to give yourself scars.

He inched over to you, not wanting to cause a fright as h e lightly cupped your balled up fist with his warm hand. His eyes grew wide at the sight of tears spilling down your face while your breathing became unhealthily heavy. He knew your adrenaline kicked in when your focus was going in and out- he had to calm you down. He stopped you mid step and brought both of you down to a crouch.

“Y/n.. you pushed yourself to go out tonight didn’t you?” He asked with clenched teeth and a tensed jaw.

You couldn’t form the words so you shook your head.

“You’re lying to me.” He sighed with displeasure before tipping your chin up.

This was not the first time Katsuki dealt with a panic attack but it was the first of yours. He didn’t know what you needed in particular but he knew that you needed to get out of that house as soon as possible and the last thing he should do is leave you alone to go look for an exit.

“Okay baby, I’m going to pick you up and we’re gonna go find an emergency exit.” He said, indirectly telling you to brace for the action of being lifted. Once in his arm, you hid your face in his shoulder and kept one hand clutched to the collar of his shirt. The shaky staggered breaths you were releasing broke his heart, the only thought in his mind was that he just needed to get you outside. He could help you outside.

Thankfully he found an emergency exit sooner rather than later and next thing you know, the cool air hit your face, crisp and in an instant.

A few steps outside and your boyfriend turned his head to you before whispering, “I’m gonna put you down now in the grass, okay?” With a slight nod, you were gently placed down. Your breathing had lulled and you quietly reached one hand up to wipe the tears that trailed down your face while the other stayed planted in the soft grass.

Standing beside you, Katsuki was looking out into the trees surrounding the house, his eyebrows drawn together with his jaw clenching and unclenching. You had made him mad, you just knew it.

More tears began to escape your waterline, the sniffle you made caught his attention.

Red eyes now wide and looking down at you, guilt shot through chest hard.

“Kats-suki, I’m s-sorr-ry. I jus-st wanted to go out w-ith yo-u and I rui-nned it.”

“Y/n…” He sighed and crouched down to your level, “I know you’ve been stressed. You can’t push yourself like that, stupid girl.” He cups your face and catches a falling tear with his big calloused thumb.

You close your eyes and lean into his touch.

“Okay, we’re going to go back to the apartment and spend the night watching scary movies since you can’t seem to handle dealing with jump scares in person,” He smirked, “and you can cling onto me as much as you’d like… scaredy-cat.”

His words were underlined with an inviting warmth that you greeted without delay by sniffling and letting out an airy chuckle. Katsuki ran his thumb over your cheek once more before asking how your legs felt and if you think you could walk.

Trying to use your words, you let out a shaky, “I can t-try.”

Extending his hand to follow you up, your knees wobbled and you fell into his homely hold.

Leaning into him, you both walked back to the entrance before calling a cab and heading back to your place. The whole time, you were looking at how your boyfriend glowed under the street lights, his beautiful blonde hair softly glowed an orange halo around his head. The lighting hadn’t done the trees justice as it had with your boyfriend, it only made the wilting trees look more sorrowful as a few leaves broke away from the branches.

Now curled up under the softest blanket you could find with an oversized tee and fluffy socks on, you curled closer to Katsuki as you stared at the screen in dread. Freddy Kruger walked down a dark and eerie alleyway, his arms swaying, freakishly stretched out and knives scratching the buildings he was in between. The image alone caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. Bakugo could feel the small prickles under his palm that rested on your thigh.

Pulling you close, he murmured in your ear, “Baby, don’t worry,” the chuckle that came from his chest was deep and whole. He raised a hand from under the blanket and you heard the infamous crackles before watching sparks fly from his palm, “he wouldn’t dare to hurt you. Not while I am around.”

A small giggle left you as your gaze settled on your man.

Safe. You were safe.

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lokimostly · 5 years ago

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Polaris (Ch.11/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU Word Count: 3,163 Warnings: none! Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything– if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: Thanks for being so patient, I needed to rework some future plot elements. Everything is lined up nicely now. Enjoy ;)

Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three ~ Chapter Four ~ Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen

You woke up suddenly. The sand-covered stone was hard beneath you. Light filtered through the palms, shining from the curved entrance of the rocky overhand and baking the stone floor in its warmth. Rainwater dripped from the ceiling, but there were no outward signs of the storm: no howling wind or flashing lightning to assault your tired vision.

You sat up and gasped in pain- your hands reached for your back, but stalled a bit. Moving your arms hurt. Every inch of your skin ached with soreness. You felt like your muscles had unravelled into string. You gingerly rubbed at your shoulders, finding them sensitive to the touch, and let out an echoing sigh. You couldn’t imagine the state Loki’s body was in.

Loki. Where was he?

You looked around the cave. He was nowhere to be seen.

Despite the protest of your aching limbs, you stood, dusting the sand off of your chemise and pushing up the frilled sleeves. This was now your only piece of clothing to wear, and it was completely indecent. More than that, you had no doubt that the white color would turn sheer when wet.

Lovely, you thought.

Your hair felt stiff from the saltwater. You stepped out onto the long grass and took a deep breath of warm, salty air. The breeze was fine, teasing at your clothing and spinning it round your legs. The palm trees were much smaller and less frightening in the light of day than they had been last night, leaning lazily from side to side and hiding clusters of fruit at the bases of their leaves. Were it not for the fact that you were stuck here, you might have called it paradise.

You followed the path out of the grove of trees, trusting your intuition and walking until the grass turned to sand. The sea unfurled like a map before you: aqua blue, completely flat and sparkling in the sunlight. The storm clouds on the edge of the horizon, black with anger and growing smaller with every passing minute, were the only sign that the storm had existed at all. Everything else about it was warm, windy, and perfect.

Loki stood in the shallows. The water was up to his knees, a sharpened staff in one hand. He stood perfectly still, staring down at the water with intense focus, his wavy hair tied half-back. You watched as the wind teased his hair, pulling at the edges of his billowing shirt, but he did not budge.

Finally you relented to curiosity and called out. “What are you doing?”

Your voice didn’t startle him. “Fishing,” he said shortly. His voice was still ragged from yesterday’s trials, and much deeper than you expected. A pang of guilt twinged inside your chest. You were to blame for that.

“Caught anything?” You asked hopefully.

You watched Loki press his lips together and took that for an answer- he didn’t seem to be in much of a talkative mood. You stood on the water’s edge, unsure what to do. The waves lapped up at the sand, turning it a shade darker before receding. A crab scuttled across the shore. You watched it disappear with bemused curiosity.

Finally, Loki seemed to accept the fact that the universe was not currently handing out fish and lifted his makeshift staff, walking up to the shore. As he came closer, you realized not only that he was limping, but also that his lithe body was covered in bruises. There were the marks along his side from falling to the deck, and new ones you didn’t recognize: miscellaneous scrapes and dark spots, most namely a huge bruise spanning a hand’s length in the middle of his chest. Normally, seeing him unclothed would be a reason to avert your eyes, but clinging to him for dear life– for hours on end, no less – had rather worn off the novelty.

“Did I do that?” You asked, a bit horrified.

Loki’s eyebrows pulled together and he looked down at the bruise you were referring to. He chuckled dryly. “You were determined to kill me, if I were a fish.”

You pressed a hand to your mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head dismissively, reaching up and unravelling the knot that held back his hair. “Don’t be.” Loki let out a noisy sigh and sat down, wincing. He unwrapped a poorly done bandage covering a long cut on the side of his foot. The saltwater had helped, but it still looked raw, and the skin around it was red with agitation. He flipped over the bandage.

You reached forward quickly, catching his wrist. “No, let me.” His blue-green eyes snapped upwards, looking dangerously sharp-edged, but he let go, allowing you to tear a clean piece of cloth from the hem of your chemise and hand it to him.

He raised an eyebrow. The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Are you not naked enough?”

Your face flushed, but you continued to hold it out stubbornly. “Unless you want to trade clothes, there’s not much I can do about it.”

Loki hummed. His expression was a cross between amused and thoughtful, and it agitated you. He still hadn’t taken the bandage. “What is it?” You snapped finally, emphasizing the cloth in your hand. “I don’t have the plague. Take it.”

He laughed, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head. He took the bandage from you, his hand brushing over yours. “You were easier to embarrass when you were fully clothed.”

Your face flushed. You crossed your arms and said nothing for a moment, watching him re-wrap his foot. Your rebuttal almost came to you too late. “Good to know I’m growing some spine, then.” You turned away, finding distraction in the flat horizon. There’s nothing out there: no land, no ships to speak of, only the sandbars that eventually disappear beneath the blue. Nothing, and no one for uncounted miles.

You felt the familiar ache of despair squeeze your chest. “What are we going do?” You asked quietly, not to Loki, or anyone in particular.

But it was him who answered, one hand on the small of your back. Its presence there wasn’t surprising, and the fact itself shocked you. “Well,” he sighed, with a raise of one dark eyebrow. “We take a look around, for a start.”

Together, you and Loki mapped out the island over the course of the morning. You discovered several things: firstly, that the island was probably three miles long and half as wide, made up of two large hills surrounded by a ring of trees. Your cave was nestled inside the larger of these two mounds of earth and stone. A spring was hidden in the valley between them, bubbling above the ground before it disappeared back into the earth. There were no other caves on the island’s surface, or notable landmarks to speak of.

Secondly, there was food here. Some of the trees were fruit bearing: small, wild mangos, larger than your palm and half bitter. They probably weren’t ripe when you and Loki picked them, but their skin broke beneath your teeth and the nectar was sweet enough to lift your spirits. There were probably other fruits and nuts to be found. You didn’t look hard: Loki’s limp could not be disguised from you, and you adamantly strayed away from any difficult terrain. He had suffered enough on your account.

Thirdly: you were not the first ones here.

“Stop,” Loki said suddenly, making you halt between the wide trees. The sun was nearing its peak, so you had decided to travel back to your hideout in the cover of shade. The heat, though somewhat diluted by the ocean breeze, made you grateful that your clothes were light– even if they were grossly immodest.

Loki set his foot down harshly, and was rewarded with a hollow sound. The two of you shared a similar, conspiring look. You got down on your knees and began pushing away at the sand and loose grass attempting to grow over wooden planks. Loki helped, grunting as he wedged his fingers between one of the boards and pried it loose. A cloud of dust came up and he coughed, looking down. “I can’t see inside.”

“Pull another board,” you suggested, uncovering more planks. They looked half-rotten, and the second one snapped under Loki’s grasp instead of coming out clean. He shrugged, dusting off his hands and setting them on his knees, taking another look. “It’s not deep. A few feet.”

Without waiting for him to make more observations, you swung your legs over and dropped. A shout of protest escaped his lips, but your feet hit the packed ground before he could reach for you, or do anything to stop your descent.

The hole was just deeper than you – that is to say that you could walk beneath the boards without having to duck your head. The light came down in a dusty pillar, and you blinked as you adjusted to the light, coughing at the upheaval of dust that filled your lungs. Then you sucked in a gasp.

“Loki, come down here.”

“Alright, alright,” came his exasperated reply, and the sound of feet on hard earth told you he had landed behind you. He caught your shoulder for balance, removing it just as quickly so as not to offend. You were too distracted by your newfound boon to notice.

Barrels. Barrels and crates and clothes. Or some kind of fabric, anyway. Whoever was here decided to make a stash of their excess supply – from the looks of it, they had either forgotten to return or taken a long trip around.

“Bloody hell,” Loki swore quietly, twisting one of the barrel caps open and looking down at the contents. “There’s salt here.”

“Never mind that,” you said, unfolding a large piece of thick cotton. You swung it over your shoulders and displayed it to him the same way you might show off a dress, half-twirling with a giddy smile. “Now we won’t freeze to death at night.”

Loki chuckled, watching with something like amusement. “Your faith in me to take care of you was that little?”

“No,” you conceded, smirking, “but this helps.” You turned back and continued to rifle through the contents of your findings. There was grain, tightly packed to avoid going bad from the damp, and more textiles: homespun tunics, even a pair of trousers that you silently claimed as your own.

“Pity,” Loki commented over your shoulder, startling you. “I was looking forward to our mutual lack of clothing.”

Your jaw dropped as your face turned red. “Really? You haven’t yet had your fill?”

You were met with that infuriating, wolfish grin and an unabashed shrug. “The threat of death tends to steal away one’s focus.”

You scowled. “I meant of your jesting, not the--” you waved your hand in an inarticulate gesture, earning a laugh on his part.

“That, too.”

You groaned and pulled one of the tunics over your head, ignoring the slightly musty smell. It had clearly been made with someone larger in mind, and almost replaced your chemise in function. Still, with this company, an extra layer couldn’t hurt.

Your face burned like a lamp in the dark. The threat of death, and then relief, and then focus on staying alive had precluded you from spending any time dwelling on your dreams or feelings. Now they were coming back with full, brunt force. You felt the absence of the ring from your finger more than ever, touching the bare skin.

You heard shuffling behind you and turned around to watch Loki lift himself out and offer his hand so you could do the same. You handed him a bundle of clothes first, taking his hand once he set your bounty aside. Despite his soreness Loki lifted you out easily, helping you stand in the grove of trees. He was close, you noticed. You could feel the heat of his bare chest, smell that faint scent of leather and rose that seemed to accompany him no matter his state of undress.

He looked down at you, watched your eyes flicker before you pulled away and gathered the textiles. He shifted his jaw, catching his tongue between his teeth; partly in silent annoyance, and partly to keep himself from making another insufferable comment. Even you had your limits.

He knew how your body felt, clinging to him in the water for hours. For the sake of saving your life Loki had been allowed the discovery of how soft you were against his calloused hands, the way your breath came out and made your chest shudder. He hadn’t sought out the knowledge of you on purpose, but it was his nonetheless. Now he itched for the feel of you in his hands. Like anything Loki had ever sampled, and liked, one taste wasn’t enough– he longed to swallow you whole, to know you inside and out. To make your breath hitch and your heart pound.

And the universe had rewarded him with your company, alone, on a desert island. He was convinced that some part of you shared that mutual desire, even if you refused to admit it. What Loki needed was patience, and time, and enough self-control not to push you into hating him through his own snide remarks. The last one hadn’t even been clever.

His mind didn’t register that you were halfway through the grove and nearly out of sight until you stopped, turning around with a frown. “Are you coming?”

He snapped out of his thoughts of you and met with the reality: waiting expectantly under the dappled light, sun-dried hair pulled by the breeze. An open sky full of air, and the sight of you made it a struggle to breathe.

He raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Don’t wait for me.”

The sky was turning muted purple as the sun dipped below the horizon. You finished adjusting your new clothes– the trousers had to be cuffed, of course, and the tunic was sinfully low-cut, with no tassels to make adjustments – but it was better than your chemise, which you had neatly folded next to the other unused garments, now in service as cushions to soften the cave’s unforgiving floor.

You stepped out and walked through the grove to the beach, finding Loki there with a meager fire before him. He was coaxing it to life, encouraging it to take hold of your collected driftwood. You sat down in the sand and pulled the cotton cloth over your shoulders, watching in silence until the fire was crackling happily on its own.

Loki handed you a speared fish to cook over the fire. The afternoon had finally proved fruitful in his attempts to catch something. You took it. The two of you sat in silence, turning over your dinner to brown the sides and eating in silence. The fish was salty, but it was your first real meal in god knew how long.

The stars were coming out. You leaned back on your elbows to watch them appear, silently counting until they became innumerable, blinking in the twilight. You thought back to the book in Loki’s cabin, feeling a pang of regret that it wasn’t with you now. You wished you knew their names.

Loki made a sudden noise, startling you from your thoughts. You turned to find his seaglass eyes skyward, too. “What is it?”

He leaned closer to you and lifted his arm, pointing out a bright light amongst the canopy of stars. “The north star.”

You opened your mouth in silent acknowledgement. Its name was on the tip of your tongue. “Why that one?”

Loki’s brow furrowed gently. “Because it shines the brightest, I suppose.” He sighed, falling back and putting his hands behind his head, reciting the wisdom from memory. “If you can find Polaris, you know your way home.”

Polaris. You savored the name silently on your tongue. “Do you?” You asked, turning away from the stars to look at his face. The starlight and shadow of the fire softened the sharp edges of his features. Loki’s brow furrowed again, and he turned to look at you. “Do I what?”

“Know the way home.”

He hummed in his chest and looked back at the sky with a critical gaze, studying it. He held up one large hand, and after some consideration, pointed to your left. “That way.”

You were surprised at the laugh that escaped your lips, throwing back your head. “How helpful you are. I see now why I should keep you around.”

Loki chuckled in his chest. “I am ever at your service, little one.”

The familiar nickname made your stomach flutter. You dropped from your elbows onto your back, setting your hands on your stomach and doing your best to ignore the fact that his shoulder was pressed against yours.

The fire crackled and sparked, sending embers up into the dark sky where both your gazes were fixed. Loki shifted his jaw and tried to focus: on the warmth of the fire lightly burning against his skin, on the chill of the night breeze and the smell of salt. Anything but the warmth of your skin beneath the fabric that separated you.

A streak of light graced the darkness. He made a wish.

“Well, then,” you sighed, nestling further into the makeshift blanket and letting your eyes fall closed. “What do you think we should do with our time, stuck here for the foreseeable future?”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “I have a few ideas.”

You hummed. “Tell me.”

His chest expanded with an inhale. “You need to learn to swim, to begin with.”

Your eyes snapped open and you sat up, leaning on your elbow to look over him with a stony expression. “Absolutely not.”

“Your ardent refusal is the first reason why.”

“Loki, I was in mortal danger of drowning less than a day ago.”

“That is exactly my point,” he argued evenly, staring up at you with a mild expression. The firelight cast you in a warm, angelic glow that turned his cheeks red to notice. He continued his statement with averted eyes. “You cannot expect to live on a desert island without knowing how to swim.”

“Can’t I?” You challenged, more for the sake of egging him on. Loki wasn’t having it, and growled in his chest as he closed his eyes. “I am too tired for your antics.”

You quieted, staring at his face for a moment longer before dropping onto your back again. The wind picked up, dimming the fire and making you shiver through your cotton wrap. You turned closer to Loki, setting your forehead against his arm. If he noticed, he did nothing in return. You had a suspicion that he was close to falling asleep.

“You had better be a good teacher,” you murmured. You felt him shift beside you, roused by your statement. Then he chuckled softly. “Do you doubt my ability to take care of you?” He asked, his voice low and thick with exhaustion. Your face flushed. The one time you suspected that he didn’t mean it as a double entendre, but you had taken it that way.

In either instance, your answer was the same.

“No. I trust you.”

“Smart girl.”

- - -

Tag List (Closed): @neontiiger, @un-consider-it, @jessiejunebug, @nerdypisces160, @lokiisntdeadbitch, @e-wolf-90, @cursedmoonstone-blog, @kikaninchen-2, @bluebellhairpin, @evy-lyn, @midnight-queen-1, @travelingmypassion, @harrybpoetry, @adefectivedetective, @absolutecraziness13, @kumikokagato, @randomfangirl7, @timetraveler1978, @tarynkauai, @arcanethamin, @ornate-ribcage, @julianettedoe, @kinghiddlestonanddixon, @yespolkadotkitty, @befearlesslyauthenticc, @ladybugsfanfics, @thisisaclusterofablog, @groupies-do-it-better, @just-the-hiddles, @quenilla, @amyy-moonlightt, @pandacookieowo, @thatweirdwalangpake, @alexakeyloveloki, @littlemissporter, @yes-captainstark, @justawriterwithdreams, @beautyandflannel, @eyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, @myoxisbroken, @rjohnson1280, @the-republic-and-face-of-texas, @snapessecretdiary, @sailortaylorfin, @cottoncandy1010, @androgynousdeputyfarmhero, @blackcherry26-blog, @saljstuff, @devilbat, @scarlettghost13, @arch-venus25

#loki #marvel #loki fanfic #loki x reader #loki x you #loki x oc #loki x reader fanfic #loki imagine #pirate!au #loki angst #loki fluff #loki smut #loki x reader insert #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston x you #marvel fanfic

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yusuke-of-valla · 5 years ago

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[A/N]: I finally wrote a thing based on this post!

TW: Injury, Character death (but it’s not any of the PT), just Yusuke not having a good time in general.

Also on AO3

For what must be the twentieth time today, Yusuke curses his luck as he dodges a shadow’s attack.

It was a restless day in Tokyo, which obviously meant changes in Mementos. There were hordes of shadows stalking the tunnels today, and a particularly bad ambush had left the Phantom Thieves scattered.

Then, to make matters worse, the Reaper just had to show up and chase him until Yusuke was forced onto a lower floor than the others.

From the snippets of conversation Yusuke managed to pick up via Necronomicon, it seemed like the others had managed to regroup and were looking for him. He just has to try his best to hold out until then.

Yusuke chuckles to himself. Easier said than done.

A fire spell comes dangerously close to striking his face.

‘F-x… there?... -ing!”

“Oracle? Oracle? Can you hear me?” Yusuke barely has time to catch his breath as he ducks under razor-sharp claws. “Hurry, please.”

Because the universe has decreed he’s to suffer today, the shadow that’s cornered him uses fire attacks, is immune to ice, and barely looks bothered by Yusuke’s physical attacks.

The shadow swings at him again, and Yusuke’s just a bit too slow this time. It slashes his leg and Yusuke drops to one knee. Seizing the opportunity, the shadow casts a fire spell that hits him square in the chest, throwing him backwards.

Yusuke crashes into the wall behind him, then clatters to the ground like a rag doll.

‘F-x! H-d on… -ease! We’r… -st there!”

Yusuke tries to get up, but he can't. His whole body is screaming. The shadow fades in and out of focus as it comes closer to deal the final blow.

Then, suddenly stops its advance and lets out a blood curdling scream. It takes a moment for Yusuke’s vision to become clear enough that he can make out a figure in red that must have attacked the shadow.

“Ann?” he mumbles.

"Yusuke? Yusuke, are you alright?"

That voice…

The figure in red comes closer to him, close enough that he can make out their face. Aside from the yellow eyes, it’s the same one that lurks in the deepest part of his memory.

"Mom?" Yusuke mutters.

“Yes darling, it’s me. I’m here.” His mother’s voice is soothing.

There’s a sound of static in his ears.

“Sorry.” Yusuke mumbles

“...Fox!”

Yusuke feels tears rolling down his face. He doesn’t think he can stay awake.

Hands start running through his hair. “It’s alright sweetheart, you can sleep now. I’m right here, I’ll take care of you.”

Try as he might, Yusuke can’t keep his eyes open any longer, and succumbs to the darkness.

The first thing Yusuke’s aware of is someone laying him down on the ground.

“If you little brats want to try and take my son from me, then I will happily rip you apart.”

Slowly his mind starts working again, and the pieces of what happened start to slip into place.

“You wanna go? Fine.”

The relief Yusuke feels when he realizes he’s actually alive can’t be properly described— though it will certainly make for a good painting later—, but it’s very quickly drowned out when with confusion when he opens his eyes and sees his mother.

For a second Yusuke wonders if he’s still hallucinating, but the pain in his leg and chest where he was burned convinces him it’s real. Yusuke turns over— the pain’s not anywhere near as bad as before, but moving still isn’t pleasant— and sees the rest of the Phantom Thieves ready for a fight.

Yusuke’s head still feels foggy. Vaguely he realizes that the Phantom Thieves must have found him with his mother, and assumed she was the shadow who attacked him. So this is all just a misunderstanding.

Wait.

No.

His mother is dead. So that means…

This probably isn’t her.

Right?

Because why would his mother be in Mementos?

Makoto unleashes a nuclear attack that his mother(?) brushes off with ease. In turn she uses her own burst of red energy— it doesn’t look like curse, but it’s not exactly as though Yusuke’s in the best headspace to recognize spells right now— which knocks Makoto clean off of her bike.

“No. Mother, don’t.” Yusuke says. He tries to stand up, but his leg does not like that.

“Fox!” Ann shouts at the same time his mother(?) says “No sweetie, you’re still hurt.”

They turn to each other and scowl. His mother starts(?) towards in his direction but Ryuji cuts her off with a lightning bolt.

“No one is taking my son from me.” his mother growls.

“I don’t know what your problem is, lady, but you’re not keeping him down here!” Futaba shouts.

Ann summons a fireball and launches at his mother, and without thinking, Yusuke reaches out.

“Stop!”

A wall of ice goes up between his mother(?) and the Phantom Thieves.

Everyone’s attention returns to him as Yusuke crawls over to the wall and leans against it to half pull, half-push himself back on his feet. “Alright. Everyone just stop. Mother, these are my friends, there’s no need for you to fight them.”

The Phantom Thieves share a look.

“Fox,” Ryuji says slowly, “I’m sorry but- you know- that ain’t.”

His mother(?) starts to glow with the same red energy as before. “What are you suggesting?”

“Stop it!” Yusuke snaps. “Just… everyone please.” Yusuke tries to focus, leaning more against the wall. There has to be a way to work this out.

Yusuke turns to his mother(?) first. “If you’re really my mother then let me ask you something.” Yusuke racks his brain. What would only his mother know?

“Yusuke, you don’t trust me?” his mother(?) asks. The energy surrounding her fades slowly, and she looks like she’s trying not to cry.

“I would very much like to,” Yusuke insists, “but given how this place works, you’re more than likely an unusually hostile figment of my cognition I created when I thought I was going to die.”

Although, would something from his cognition attack his friends? Maybe she’s a shadow that’s using his cognition to create a disguise? Except, why then didn’t she kill him?

She still looks upset, but nods. “Alright, do what you must.”

They all stare at him expectantly.

Yusuke breathes in. Alright, something only his mother would know. Yusuke racks his brain for snippets of his earliest memories.

“Do you need some help?” His mother(?) asks, after he still hasn’t said anything.

“No, I’ll think of something.”

“You used to love ketchup and macaroni and cheese!” She offers.

“It doesn’t count if she comes up with the question.” Ryuji shouts.

“I know.” Yusuke says.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I was just trying to help.”

“I know, thank you.” Yusuke says. He looks at her. He’s not sure how to read her expression.

Her expression…

“Alright,” Yusuke says, “here’s one: what is the true meaning behind the Sayuri?”

“The Sayuri?” she repeats, tilting her head to the side and brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”

Yusuke blinks. That’s... not the answer he was expecting. “Your final piece.” Yusuke clarifies slowly.

Her face lights up. “Oh that, it’s an-” Suddenly she cuts off, and frowns. “It was a piece I made for you, since I knew I would have to leave you soon. I ended up leaving you sooner than expected thanks to Ichirayusai, of course, and I never got the chance to name it. I’d obviously hope that my son would name it in my stead when you were old enough, so Yusuke, why did you choose that name for it?”

“I didn’t.” Yusuke says. “Madarame named it.”

She starts laughing. “Oh really? Did he now? Why?”

Yusuke bites his lip.

What is going on?

She can’t be a being purely from his cognition because then she’d recognize the name Sayuri.

But she also knows that Madarame left her to die, which no one except him, Akira, Ryuji, Ann, and Morgana know about.

If she somehow got that information from one of them, then she’d know about the Sayuri.

So that means...

This actually is his mother?

“Why did he name my painting for you, Yusuke?” his mother asks again, shaking Yusuke from his thoughts.

“He wanted to pass it off as his own.” Yusuke says. “He even painted over me, to make the piece more alluring.”

“He WHAT?!” Her roar shakes the entire tunnel, and cracks start to appear along Yusuke’s ice wall.

“B-but, he’s been brought to justice!” Yusuke says quickly. He doesn’t remember every seeing his mother this angry. “Thanks to my friends,” Yusuke points to the Phantom Thieves, “we made him confess his crimes, and he’s currently in prison. So as I said before you don’t need to fight them, everything’s fine. We can all get along.”

His mother’s face softens again, more like he remembers. “Oh Yusuke, my son. The light of my life. You don’t understand. People will make you think they’re your friends. Offer you a place to stay, even a home, pretend to care about you, and then right when you’re at your highest moment, they’ll rip it out from under you for their own gains.”

The other Phantom Thieves brace themselves.

“Mother, I know what he did to you was awful, but my friends aren’t like that.” Yusuke says desperately. There has to be a way to avoid this fight.

His mother laughs. “Yusuke, you’re so sweet. I’m happy you want to trust people, really. But it’s a mother’s job to protect her child when the child doesn’t understand how the world works.”

With that, she snaps her fingers, and the wall of ice separating her and the Phantom Thieves shatters.

The Ryuji opens his mouth to cast a spell, and in a split second, Yusuke’s mother picks him up and throws him 20 feet down the tunnel, where he bounces before skidding to a stop.

“Skull!” Yusuke shouts. He tries to move towards the fight, but his body is working against him today, and he only manages to stumble forward before sinking to the ground.

“Dance, Carmen!” Ann calls out. Fire launches towards his mother, but she’s completely unfazed. With a wave of her arm, red energy crashes into Ann, sending her to the ground.

“Milady!” Haru’s persona unleashes a wave of bullets on his mother, and that actually seems to slow her down.

“She’s weak to gun skills!” Futaba announces.

Akira gives a nod, and he, Morgana, Makoto, and Haru rush his mother while she’s still dazed from the bullets.

When they’re done, his mother is still standing, but she’s even angrier than before.

With an inhuman scream she unleashes a shock wave of red energy that knocks the others to the ground, and even manages to push Necronomicon backwards.

Akira’s the only one who’s managed to dodge. The rest of Phantom Thieves are scattered on the ground, someone groaning, some distressingly still.

Akira pulls out his gun, but his mother’s too fast. In the blink of an eye, she’s smacked the gun out of Akira’s hand and single-handedly lifts him up by the neck.

Akira’s gun skids over to the ground.

It lands right in front of Yusuke.

“Mother, please.” Yusuke begs.

Akira gasps as his mother tightens her grip on his neck. “This is for your own good, Yusuke, I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I’m so sorry.” Yusuke says. “I love you, mom.”

Yusuke picks up Akira’s gun.

He pulls the trigger.

He closes her eyes and doesn’t look at her face, terrified that it’s the same look of betrayal she wore when she collapsed to the ground and Madarame didn’t call for help.

“I’m sor-” Yusuke says, but suddenly, the pain is back, just as screaming hot as before, and Yusuke doesn’t fight it as the darkness overtakes him once again.

. .

Even in the dark, Yusuke can recognize the ceiling of Leblanc’s attic. It’s the middle of the night, and when he turns his head he can see what must be Akira sleeping on the couch he himself had used months ago. Yusuke shifts a little, and his arm brushes by something small and warm sitting on top of the comforter.

“You’re awake!” Morgana says.

“What happened?” Yusuke asks, focusing on the ceiling.

“After you passed out, we got back to the real world as quickly as possible. Akira called Takemi over, and she bandaged up your wounds. You took a real beating, so you’re going to be on bed rest for the next couple of days. How are you feeling?”

“I’d feel a lot better if it had all been a dream.” Yusuke says softly.

Silence settles on the room.

“I’m sorry.” Morgana says.

“Do you think it really was her?” Please, please tell me I was wrong, is the part he doesn’t say aloud. Let it be some wicked shadow who was trying to toy with him for the worst reasons.

“I think,” Morgana says, moving closer so that he’s closer to Yusuke’s face. “Hypothetically, if someone died, but they had powerful enough emotions at the time of death, then their shadow could linger on through sheer force of will. And given the circumstances behind her death, that could’ve been her.”

“Oh.”

“But, if that was her, then that means the two strongest things she felt at the time of her death were anger at Madarame’s betrayal, and a desire to protect her son.” Morgana says. “And I think that’s admirable.”

Yusuke doesn’t say anything, just absently starts petting Morgana.

“We’re here for you, you know.” Morgana says.

“I know.” Yusuke says, thankful Morgana either can’t see or is choosing to ignore the tears coming down his face. “Thank you.”

#alto writes #yusuke kitagawa #persona 5 #whump #angst #a little hurt/comfort #wordcount: 2000-2500 #ask to tag

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applepiewinchesters · 5 years ago

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Found Out (Aziraphale x Reader)

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

Requested by: Anonymous

You hadn’t been with Aziraphale long, but it’s probably been the best relationship you’ve ever had. He was kind, sweet, actually cared about your well-being and feelings, and he could make the best cup of hot cocoa you’ve ever had.

Overall, it was a great relationship you two had, you’ve became quite close, and you even helped him and Crowley, along with four kids, a witch finder, a psychic, a witch, a really bad computer engineer, and a dog, save the world from the end times.

All was going great, that was, until the angels Gabriel and Uriel showed up at the bookshop one afternoon when Aziraphale was out.

“Haven’t you caused enough trouble?” you asked the two, glaring at them as you tried to focus on organizing a few books on the shelf. You weren’t really scared of them, they were just a couple of douchebags.

“It’s you causing the trouble now, little human,” Uriel spoke.

“What could I possibly have done to anger heaven?” you asked, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms, staring down the two angels.

“We know about your relationship with Aziraphale, it’s forbidden, so, you’re coming with us,” Gabriel said, giving you a rather fake smile.

“You can go to hell,” you said venomously, turning to grab a book on the table behind you.

Before you could react, your arms were pulled behind your back and a rag was pressed to your mouth roughly, within seconds, the world went black.

When Aziraphale returned to the bookshop and found you no where in sight, he started panicking a bit. He looked up in his flat, in the shop next door, and he called your cell phone, it rang in your purse that was hanging on a hook by the door.

So, he called Crowley then. “Angel,” the demon said when he answered.

“Is Y/N with you by any chance?” Aziraphale asked quickly.

“Uh, no, no she’s not,” Crowley spoke, obviously confused.

“I can’t find her anywhere, I left the bookshop for an hour and now she’s gone,” the angel said, pacing the room as he spoke.

“Maybe she just went out, I’m sure she’ll be back,” Crowley said casually, he definitely wasn’t as worried as Aziraphale.

“She didn’t take anything if she did, her purse is here, her phone…. what if something’s happened?” Aziraphale asked, he could feel nervousness building inside him.

Had someone hurt you? Taken you? Killed you?

A sudden realization hit him like a train in that moment, there was only one group of people, celestial beings rather, that would ever want to hurt you in anyway.

It was just a hunch, but it was probably the best hunch he had. “Meet me at St. James,” he told Crowley, “Now.” With that he hung up and grabbed his coat, hurrying out of the bookshop.

When you woke again, everything surrounding you was, bright, too bright, it hurt your eyes and you had to blink a few times to get them adjusted to the sudden brightness.

You managed to register you were tied to a chair, your arms and legs restrained. The room you were in was huge, white, and most of the walls were made of windows.

Standing in front of you was Gabriel, Uriel, and two other angels you recognized to be Michael and Sandalphon.

“Aw, looks like our little human is awake,” Uriel said, obvious disdain in their voice.

“W-Where am I?” you asked, still a bit dizzy from whatever they’d done to you.

“Drugged you, brought you to heaven,” Michael spoke up.

You glared at them, “Why am I here?” you asked, trying to pull at the restraints.

“Your execution of course,” Gabriel said, “can’t have our Aziraphale distracted from heaven’s plan.”

“You promised to leave him alone after his own failed execution!” you argued.

You all thought that was the last of the angels and demons you’d see for a while, Crowley and Aziraphale switching bodies was probably the most genius thing they’d ever come up with, there was no way the angels, or demons, had figured it out already.

“We lied,” Gabriel chuckled, shrugging.

“You can’t execute me! I haven’t done anything wrong!” you argued, pulling at the restraints again.

“We’re teaching Aziraphale a lesson, no fraternizing with the humans, one of his rules for living down on earth,” Michael said.

“That’s not true!” you yelled, you were panicking a bit now. Aziraphale wasn’t here, he had no idea you were in heaven, what if he didn’t come in time? What if he didn’t come at all?

“Have the sword?” Gabriel asked, turning to Michael.

“Of course,” Michael said, a sword appeared out of thin air suddenly, Aziraphale’s flaming sword to be exact, how ironic.

“Untie her,” Gabriel said, Uriel came forward, easily undoing the ropes around your wrists and angels.

“Stand,” Uriel told you, you did as you were told, following Uriel forward as they walked.

“You can’t kill me,” you tried to reason, “Aziraphale will find out who did it, he’ll come for you.”

“That sack of fudge?�� Gabriel said, laughing as he spoke, “I’d be more worried about a small dog attacking me.”

You glared at Gabriel as you were pushed to your knees by Sandalphon, Michael stepped forward, sword in hand.

“Any last words?” Gabriel asked you, smirking.

“Not for you, douchebags,” you spoke, trying to be brave. You couldn’t show how truly terrified you were, you were probably going to hell, these angels definitely didn’t want you here in heaven.

As Michael lifted the sword you closed your eyes, not wanting to see it coming, it was better not to know.

Just as Michael was about to bring down the sword, a voice echoed throughout the room, “STOP!”

Your eyes snapped open and you turned, smiling as you saw Aziraphale standing there.

“Ah, Aziraphale, just in time to see your human die,” Michael said, smiling.

“No one is dying today,” Aziraphale said, “except you, if you do not let her go.”

With a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, fire grew from his fingertips, you could feel the heat from your spot on the ground.

“You’re familiar with the damage hell fire can cause an angel, correct?” Aziraphale asked, smirking.

His eyes met yours for a second, and you swore they flashed yellow, you smirked.

“Y-You really are a monster,” Sandalphon spoke, backing up.

“Now, I suggest you let Y/N go and not go against the agreement we’d made a few weeks ago,” Aziraphale spoke.

The angels just nodded, shock and fear on each of their faces, it made you want to laugh.

“Come here, darling,” Aziraphale told you, smiling as he held out his hand.

You reached up and he pulled you to your feet, keeping your hand in his. “If these bastards are smart,” Aziraphale said, giving the other angels a pointed look, “they’ll leave you alone from now on. Come along.”

Following Aziraphale out of the room and to the rather long, shining escalator that led back to earth, you watched as he snapped his fingers once again, the flames going out.

When you stepped onto the escalator and were out of earshot of the other angels, you started giggling, “Well played,” you said, smirking, “Crowley.”

“Oh, it was nothing, Aziraphale called me, he was worried, always willing to help out a friend,” Aziraphale (Crowley) shrugged.

You laughed and shook your head, “I didn’t think I was getting out of that one,” you admitted, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Well, good thing your angel is so smart, this was his idea,” Crowley said.

You smiled, “I’ll definitely have to show him my appreciation for this then.”

Crowley shuddered, “Don’t need to know all the details,” he said, making you laugh.

“Where is he?” you asked.

“Bookshop, once we get downstairs, I’ll miracle us home,” Crowley said, you nodded.

The rest of the ride down was silent, you were still a bit shaken, adrenaline still pumping through your veins, but right now, you were alive, and that’s all the mattered.

When you finally got down, Crowley grabbed your hand, and with a quick snap of his fingers, you were back in the book shop, Aziraphale, well, sort of Aziraphale, stood from the chair he was sitting in the moment he spotted you.

“Oh, thank heavens,” he said, smiling at the sight of you.

“Before we continue with this, can we please switch back?” Crowley asked, holding out his hand.

Aziraphale nodded and you watched as they switched back, taking the other’s place. You smiled at Aziraphale, who was once again his normal self.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” he said, reaching out and pulling you into a hug.

You hugged him back tightly, burying your face into his shoulder, you thought you were never going to see him again.

“This is really sweet, but I’m going to go, you’re welcome,” Crowley spoke, you heard the door of the bookshop open and close and you giggled.

“He’s still not comfortable with affection I suppose,” you said, Aziraphale smiled and shook his head.

“Probably never will be,” he said, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips.

When he pulled away, you smiled, reaching up to adjust the angel’s bow tie, “I heard that this was all your idea,” you told Aziraphale.

He smiled, looking down sheepishly, “I had to save you some how my dear,” he told you, taking your hands in his, bringing one up to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly.

“You’re too good to me,” you said.

“That’s my job,” Aziraphale told you.

The rest of the day was spent cuddling on the couch and reading, Aziraphale even made your favorite for dinner. He didn’t even let you out of his sight for an entire week after.

You’d never admit it, but you loved how protective your angel was, even if he was a bit overbearing at times.

A/N: Hi friends! I hope you loved this one aaannnddd ALSO MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN AGAIN SO PLEASE FEEL FREE TO REQUEST SOMETHING, I LOVE WRITING FOR YOU ALL! Thank you so much for reading, love you guys! ~ Sara :)

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wolfpawn · 5 years ago

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I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 97

Chapter Summary - Tom and Danielle are found out, but how does the world and indeed the pair themselves react?

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long. This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @jessibelle-nerdy-mum @nonsensicalobsessions @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @fairlightswiftly @salempoe @wolfsmom1

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

Taylor who? Tom Hiddleston has a new love.

The luck of the Irish, Tom Hiddleston’s new girlfriend is Irish.

St Patrick was not the only Irish person to banish a snake.

Hiding in plain sight, Tom Hiddleston has had a new girlfriend since last October.

Did Tom Hiddleston cheat on Taylor Swift?

Taylor Swift romance proven to be a contract as Tom Hiddleston walks out with his real girlfriend of almost a year.

Was Taylor Swift romance just a ploy to divert from real girlfriend?

Tom Hiddleston’s new girlfriend, his family clearly approves.

Tom Hiddleston’s new lover, chosen by his mother.

It had been a lunch with Emma and Jack that had finally been when Tom and Danielle were found out. They were due to go to Ireland for a few days the next day before they started their next bout of work, but decided to meet his sister and brother-in-law before going. It was a normal restaurant, but in London, it was flooded with people and as a result, they were noticed easily enough. Fans took photos on their phones and posted them online. It took less than three minutes from the first photo being posted and Luke’s call. Tom gave Danielle a look and she knew it was out; she inhaled deeply, but said nothing, only nodding slightly. Emma pulled her friend in against her and spoke a few encouraging words into her ear before they continued with their meal. When they were done and had decided to leave, there was a glut of photographers outside the restaurant shouting for Tom’s attention as they passed. Jack and Emma had gotten out easily enough and went to their car, Tom and Danielle however, were surrounded. Tom had not wanted to fuel them too much, but he feared Danielle getting overwhelmed, having never experienced anything like it before in her life, so he pulled her to his side, his hand on her waist, her body leaning in against his and they made their way to the car. Neither said anything, both looking straight ahead.

Luke released the information as they had requested; the media eating it up in moments, most elated to get everything they wanted without ever having to do anything for it, some irate that Tom and Danielle had effectively taken ‘their’ exclusive from them. The fans divided into their camps immediately. The obsessive ‘Hiddleswift’ and Taylor contingents getting aggressive; Danielle was fat, boring, ugly, untalented, weird, a stalker, a bully, a girl hater, a temptress and all around horrible person, Tom was the devil incarnate for breaking their goddess’ heart. Those who despised Taylor seemed overall happy with a somewhat more ‘acceptable’ other half for their Internet Boyfriend. Though there were some that loathed her as much as they did any other woman Tom had been linked to, if not more because she had dared to go near their obsession and for that unforgivable crime, they effectively tore her character apart without ever having met Danielle. Then there were the fans, the ones that were utterly gushing over Tom and his new love. They scoffed at those who were adamant that Tom was still with Taylor, they pointed out that they knew it was the same girl as went to dinner with him and his mother, who walked the dog in the park, some eagle-eyed fans had actually figured out it was Danielle in the photo with Tom and Emma Watson on New Year’s Eve. To most, their attention to this detail told them that Tom and Danielle were not some farcical rebound or contractual relationship. She knew his family, she was close to his family and she and Tom had not thrown the relationship into the spotlight, to them, it was legitimate, and seeing Tom with someone that they felt was clearly more on his level, was a cause for celebration. They tried to come up with a nickname for the pair, Ben jokingly texted that “TomElle” was the new big thing. Even though Tom severely disliked it, he did not dislike it enough to not jest about it to an even less impressed Danielle.

She did not tell Tom, or anyone else, but Danielle went online to see what people were saying. Overall, she smiled a lot, elated at how people seemed to realise she was nothing like Swift. She was hurt by some of the comments, but she forced herself to remember that these people did not know her, or indeed Tom for that matter. It was clear from some of their comments no one would ever be good enough, they thoughts she was not smart enough for him, or that her career was incompatible with his, that she was using him; but her mind immediately reminded her of how that very morning, she was the one that was in bed with Tom, him begging her to stop teasing him as she toyed with him and his manhood and that was the most important thing to remember, she had Tom and the jealous internet brats could not take that from her. The one thing that had her smiling above all others were those who hoped they would see more of the pair together, that seemed to think she made Tom happier and more alive again. She was being given credit for things she knew she had no right to be, like his demeanour on the Kong tour and even people who seemed to think her and Mac were what Tom needed and were complimenting her; one page even going so far as to start logging her fashion choices, saying she was the role model for the normal girl, to be yourself and comfortable in yourself rather than depressed, overly skinny and wearing clothes only fit for a ridiculous runway, the word ‘wholesome’ was being used again, but this time it did not bother her as much.

There was one picture that was doing more rounds than any other, the one they had chosen to give themselves, Mac was front and centre, having photo bombed the selfie Tom had attempted to take only to cause both to laugh and lead to an incredibly honest and fun photo. Even those were not fans of Tom’s were commenting on how they had dealt with their being found out and the photo being perfect and honest and open.

Luke had also added that the pair asked for people to respect their privacy, that Tom wanted to remind people that Danielle was not a celebrity, she did not wish to be one, she simply fell for one so to give her some modicum of privacy, he knew that it was showing a rag to a bull to some, that there would be those who would hound her more, but most, it was clear, were only going for them when in public, still not ideal, but Danielle was willing to take it.

Tom seemed almost meek when he came into the sitting room with two cups of tea. “Hey.”

She smiled back happily at him, “Hello, what has you all shy?” “How are you with everything?” “Good, well, I mean, it was full-on, the world now knows I exist, which is odd, but fine,” She smiled reassuringly.

“I wish you never had to go through this, I wish I was just some ordinary person.”

“Tom, stop, you don’t mean that, you are you, and I knew that from the start.” She pointed out. “We knew this would happen, we elected to allow it by going in public, it has happened and it can’t un-happen so let’s just get on with things. Are you packed?” Danielle leant forward and took the mug she always used. “I am, the bags are by the door. Are you sure it is a good time to go over?” “Tom, Michael Jackson, Kim and Kanye, Marilyn Manson, Will.I.Am, Beyonce and Jay Z, Elton John and a fuck tonne more people holiday in Ireland all the time and no one ever knows the half of it, it is safe to say, no one cares there. To make a fuss is frowned upon, you get accused of having notions, you don’t want to have notions. Bono has them, terrible things.” “I heard that said before actually,” Tom confessed with a chuckle.

“It may actually be the best time for us to go, no one will expect there. They will see us at the airport and expect us to be going someone hot and foreign, it will send them completely into a tizzy and we will have a few days in cute little B&B’s and not giving a feck.”

Tom sat beside her, “That sounds idyllic.”

“I am going to bring Mac for a walk in a minute, are you coming?” Truthfully, Tom was not in the mood for being harassed a second time in twenty-four hours by cameras, but he knew they would hound Danielle, in a way, he suspected that was her way of asking him to go with her for support, though not voicing her concerns on the matter aloud. “After tea.” “Of course.” On seeing her physically relax, he knew that his assumptions had been correct.

* The walk was awkward. There was a photographer following their every move, and that caused fans to notice Tom as well; meaning there were a couple of them taking photos too. The pair just acted as though they were alone, it was Mac that was less than pleased by those that were following them, though if anything, his eyeing the photographer was what kept the man from getting too close.

“Are you alright?” Tom asked in a low voice as they made their way through the park.

“Fine, I knew this would happen at first, it will be fine, they’ll realise we are just as uninteresting as anyone else going for a walk and get over it soon enough.” Danielle smiled. When they got to a field area, Mac started to jump around, looking back at them. “What?” “That’s my fault,” Tom admitted as he reached into his jacket pocket, producing a tennis ball which caused Mac to focus fully on Tom, sitting in front of him as patiently as possible, his butt barely tipping the ground in his excitement. “We started doing this when you were in Ireland.” “He never chased a ball for me.” Danielle stared between the pair of them.

“Really? He loves it.” “I am not going to lie, I am actually a little hurt.” Tom looked at her worriedly, “Should I not have…?” “Not at you, at him,” She pointed to Mac, who barely glanced at her for a moment before looking back at the ball in Tom’s hand. “Judas.” She unclipped his lead and the dog did a little spin on the spot before sitting waiting for Tom the throw. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Tom threw the ball as far as he could, resulting in Mac bolting after it, catching it after the second bounce before running back elated with himself. “Why didn’t you do that for me?” Danielle demanded, to which Mac placed the ball at her feet as an answer. “Three weeks I spent trying to get you to fetch, we could have been doing this for ages.” Again, he just looked at the ball. “I am getting one of those sling things that throws it further.”

“I saw them in the pet shop when I got that, are they any good, they are so cheap I didn’t think they would be?” Tom asked as he watched Danielle throw the ball and Mac chased it.

“Yes, they get another twenty or so feet on it sometimes, he’ll love it.” When Mac returned, he dropped the ball for Tom. “Good, we can grab it when we get back then.” He looked to throw the ball again but paused on seeing someone in the distance.

“What?” Danielle looked around, thinking there was an issue, when she spotted someone, she groaned. “Careful of her.” “Yes, we interacted with her before, we walked by and she nearly, as you say, had kittens, that Mac was on the same path as her dog, and it started going insane barking at him and she got rude with me.” “Yes, that happens a lot, small dog owners don’t actually train their dogs or indeed treat them as actual animals and then get all annoyed when some crossbreed or other big supposedly ‘vicious’ breed is calm and their dog goes bananas, and Archibald tends to go batshit crazy.” “Who’s Archibald?”

“That barking rat.”

“She called that thing Archibald?” “Yep.” Tom found himself having to look at the ground as the woman in question came close enough to glare at them, her miniature poodle, beside her, shaved to look like it had been attacked by a lawnmower, the pair merely ignored it as it began to yap incessantly at Mac, whose only concern was why no one had thrown his ball for him. He gave a look of mild disgust at the irritating creature before nudging Tom to get his attention for the ball. “Sorry Buddy.” As soon as the woman and her dog were passed, he threw the ball again.

Danielle noticed the woman taking note of the photographer that had followed them standing nearby, photographing them; she looked between the man and the pair she had seen on a few occasions and held in such contempt, never realising that it was someone of note that she thought herself above. “Well, we have her attention now.” “Who is she?” “She was on the phone one day as she passed me, she is the wife of some Tory idiot that was running for parliament. Dunno if he got in, but she seemed to think that made her someone.” Danielle turned and took the freshly retrieved ball and threw it again. “I don’t know and I don’t care, as long as that rat doesn’t bite me, I don’t want to know.”

“Agreed.” Tom took the ball that time.

After ten minutes, Mac was lying in front of them, giving them both the idea he was done, so they reclipped his lead and walked towards home again, not paying any heed to the photographer. “I’ll get our things, you make sure he goes to the bathroom.” Danielle walked into the back kitchen and retrieved all of Mac's belongings for the kennels as well as the two roller suitcases that were ready inside the door. When she came back out, Mac was in the car, as was Tom. She put his belongings in the back with him, Mac looking at them as she got into the front seat. “He knows he’s going back.” “I think so.” “Am I a bad owner, because I am doing this a lot recently and I feel like I am being pretty shitty.” She looked at Tom sadly.

“You are making sure he is in a place that cares about him and who treat him well, no you are not a bad owner.” Tom kissed her hand. “You are going to be working a bit at home soon, or at least around home, why not see if you can arrange to get a place that will allow you bring him. Ask Branagh if he minds you having him in your trailer. You have his passport, so you can bring him on the ferry to Ireland and France with you if you want and arrange the same there. I have seen actors have their dogs on set before, you can do it too.”

Danielle immediately smiled at that. “That is actually a really good idea.” “Of course it is, I thought of it.” Tom laughed. “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

#I Hate You I Love You #chapter 97 #tom hiddleston #Tom hiddleston fic #wolfpawn

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addictedforbooksquad · 5 years ago

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P I C K (S) O F T H E M O N T H: M A Y

The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics by Olivia Waite

Passion on Park Avenue by Lauren Layne

Mistborn: The Alloy Era Series by Brandon Sanderson

Mistborn: Secret History by Brandon Sanderson

Marriage for One by Ella Maise

A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin

The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics by Olivia Waite

Genres: Historical Romance, LGBT, F/F romance

Synopsis:

As Lucy Muchelney watches her ex-lover’s sham of a wedding, she wishes herself anywhere else. It isn’t until she finds a letter from the Countess of Moth, looking for someone to translate a groundbreaking French astronomy text, that she knows where to go. Showing up at the Countess’ London home, she hoped to find a challenge, not a woman who takes her breath away. Catherine St Day looks forward to a quiet widowhood once her late husband’s scientific legacy is fulfilled. She expected to hand off the translation and wash her hands of the project—instead, she is intrigued by the young woman who turns up at her door, begging to be allowed to do the work, and she agrees to let Lucy stay. But as Catherine finds herself longing for Lucy, everything she believes about herself and her life is tested. While Lucy spends her days interpreting the complicated French text, she spends her nights falling in love with the alluring Catherine. But sabotage and old wounds threaten to sever the threads that bind them. Can Lucy and Catherine find the strength to stay together or are they doomed to be star-crossed lovers?

Why we love it:

a beautiful love story between two women

female friendships and women supporting women

characters who find out about Lucy and Catherine are not homophobic but rather supportive

focus on both romance AND personal journeys of the characters

sexism and misogyny are challenged, by both female and male characters (some of them at least)

beautiful, poetic passages

Trigger warnings: mentions of emotional abuse, sexism, misogyny

≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡

Passion on Park Avenue by Lauren Layne

Genres: Romance, Contemporary, New Adult

Synopsis:

For as long as she can remember, Bronx-born Naomi Powell has had one goal: to prove her worth among the Upper East Side elite—the same people for which her mom worked as a housekeeper. Now, as the strongminded, sassy CEO of one of the biggest jewelry empires in the country, Naomi finally has exactly what she wants—but it’s going to take more than just the right address to make Manhattan’s upper class stop treating her like an outsider. The worst offender is her new neighbor, Oliver Cunningham—the grown son of the very family Naomi’s mother used to work for. Oliver used to torment Naomi when they were children, and as a ridiculously attractive adult, he’s tormenting her in entirely different ways. Now they find themselves engaged in a battle-of-wills that will either consume or destroy them… Filled with charm and heart and plenty of sex and snark, this entertaining series will hook you from the very first page.

Why we love it:

ambitious millionaire female character whose story is basically about rags to riches

soft male character

female friendships and dynamics are amazing

cute love story

Lauren Layne’s style has improved so much and it’s time to start reading her books

Trigger warnings: n/a

Mistborn: The Alloy Era series by Brandon Sanderson

Genres: Fantasy, High Fantasy, Adult

Synopsis:

Three hundred years after the events of the Mistborn trilogy, Scadrial is now on the verge of modernity, with railroads to supplement the canals, electric lighting in the streets and the homes of the wealthy, and the first steel-framed skyscrapers racing for the clouds. Kelsier, Vin, Elend, Sazed, Spook, and the rest are now part of history—or religion. Yet even as science and technology are reaching new heights, the old magics of Allomancy and Feruchemy continue to play a role in this reborn world. Out in the frontier lands known as the Roughs, they are crucial tools for the brave men and women attempting to establish order and justice. One such is Waxillium Ladrian, a rare Twinborn who can Push on metals with his Allomancy and use Feruchemy to become lighter or heavier at will. After twenty years in the Roughs, Wax has been forced by family tragedy to return to the metropolis of Elendel. Now he must reluctantly put away his guns and assume the duties and dignity incumbent upon the head of a noble house. Or so he thinks, until he learns the hard way that the mansions and elegant tree-lined streets of the city can be even more dangerous than the dusty plains of the Roughs.

Why we love it:

amazing writing

plots and twists all around

we see familiar faces from the first trilogy *wink wink*

SO. MUCH. FUN.

western-sherlock-fantasy

most adorable character ever, that's on the spectrum

Trigger warnings: violence

Mistborn: Secret History by Brandon Sanderson

Genres: Fantasy, High Fantasy, Adult

Synopsis:

Mistborn: Secret History is a companion story to the original Mistborn trilogy. As such, it contains HUGE SPOILERS for the books Mistborn (The Final Empire), The Well of Ascension, and The Hero of Ages. It also contains very minor spoilers for the book The Bands of Mourning. Mistborn: Secret History builds upon the characterization, events, and worldbuilding of the original trilogy. Reading it without that background will be a confusing process at best. In short, this isn’t the place to start your journey into Mistborn. (Though if you have read the trilogy—but it has been a while—you should be just fine, so long as you remember the characters and the general plot of the books.) Saying anything more here risks revealing too much. Even knowledge of this story’s existence is, in a way, a spoiler. There’s always another secret.

Why we love it:

view on Mistborn Era 1 events from different perspective

reunions that will make you cry

we get SOME answers as well from Mistborn Era 1 and 2

Trigger warnings: violence

Marriage for One by Ella Maise

Genres: Romance, Contemporary, New Adult

Synopsis:

Jack and I, we did everything backward. The day he lured me into his office-which was also the first day we met-he proposed. You'd think a guy who looked like him-a bit cold maybe, but still striking and very unattainable-would only ask the love of his life to marry him, right? You'd think he must be madly in love. Nope. It was me he asked. A complete stranger who had never even heard of him. A stranger who had been dumped by her fiancé only weeks before. You'd think I'd laugh in his face, call him insane-and a few other names-then walk away as quickly as possible. Well…I did all those things except the walking away part. It took him only minutes to talk me into a business deal…erm, I mean marriage, and only days for us to officially tie the knot. Happiest day of my life. Magical. Pop the champagne… Not. It was the worst day. Jack Hawthorne was nothing like what I'd imagined for myself. I blamed him for my lapse in judgment. I blamed his eyes, the ocean blue eyes that looked straight into mine unapologetically, and that frown on his face I had no idea I would become so fascinated with in time. It wasn't long after he said I was the biggest mistake of his life that things started to change. No, he still didn't talk much, but anyone can string a few words together. His actions spoke the loudest to me. And day after day my heart started to get a mind of its own. One second he was no one. The next he became everything. One second he was unattainable. The next he seemed to be completely mine. One second I thought we were in love. The next it was still nothing but a lie. After all, I was Rose and he was Jack. We were doomed from the very beginning with those names. Did you expect anything else?

Why we love it:

soft and bubbly female character

broody male character

fake marriage trope

slowburn + cutest romance with a lil’ bit of angst

development is A+++

Trigger warnings: n/a

A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin

Genres: Fantasy, High Fantasy, Adult

Synopsis:

Long ago, in a time forgotten, a preternatural event threw the seasons out of balance. In a land where summers can last decades and winters a lifetime, trouble is brewing. The cold is returning, and in the frozen wastes to the north of Winterfell, sinister and supernatural forces are massing beyond the kingdom’s protective Wall. At the center of the conflict lie the Starks of Winterfell, a family as harsh and unyielding as the land they were born to. Sweeping from a land of brutal cold to a distant summertime kingdom of epicurean plenty, here is a tale of lords and ladies, soldiers and sorcerers, assassins and bastards, who come together in a time of grim omens. Here an enigmatic band of warriors bear swords of no human metal; a tribe of fierce wildlings carry men off into madness; a cruel young dragon prince barters his sister to win back his throne; and a determined woman undertakes the most treacherous of journeys. Amid plots and counterplots, tragedy and betrayal, victory and terror, the fate of the Starks, their allies, and their enemies hangs perilously in the balance, as each endeavors to win that deadliest of conflicts: the game of thrones.

Why we love it:

high fantasy political drama

well-written dialogue

if you’re already a fan of the TV show, the book gives you an even more detailed account of events with characters POVs while these key moments play out

amazing world building and backstory with so much thought and detail

GRRM has successfully achieved a whole new universe

full of backstabbing, bloody battles and political intrigue

multiple POVs

Trigger warnings: rape, sexual abuse of a minor, graphic violence, sexual violence, incest, misogyny

#book recs #dailylit #nadaily #bookworm #bibliophile #lgbtqa literature #books #the lady's guide to celestial mechanics #central park pact series #asoiaf #mistborn #marriage for one #pick of the month

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silas-lehnsherr · 6 years ago

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So there has been a lot of talk lately about how Arya does not want to be a lady. I mean, it has been a part of her whole storyline, right? She is shaking off the patriarchy and claiming her place amoung the great heroes of Westeros. And she has made it abundantly clear that she does not want to be a lady. But is it really that simple?

Recently I went and reread the scene in ACOK where Gendry confronts Arya about being a girl just for nostalgia sake, and I came away from reading it with two fundamental thoughts. 1) it plays out almost exactly like on the show. 2) there is a whole other layer to their exchange that is missing since GOT doesn’t give us a glimpse inside the characters heads. The below passage is what Arya thinks when Gendry acknowledges out loud that as a lord’s daughter she would be a lady:

Arya looked down at her ragged clothes and bare feet, all cracked and calloused. She saw the dirt under her nails, the scabs on her elbows, the scratches on her hands. Septa Mordane wouldn’t even know me, I bet. Sansa might, but she’d pretend not to. “My mother’s a lady, and my sister, but I never was.”

A Clash Of Kings, Arya V

Now, notice that Arya never actually says the words to him “I don’t want to be a lady”. She says that she is not a lady. There difference is subtle but it is there. When he calls her a lady, her first thought is about how unladylike she truly is. She takes in her appearance, her dirty bare feet, her filthy nails, the scrapes and scratches that cover her arms and hands, and none of it seems very ladylike. This is brought even more into focus when she thinks pointedly that Septa Mordane, already ashamed of her behavior at Winterfell and Kings Landing, wouldn’t even know her. There is a level of shame hidden beneath her thoughts about words. It isn’t about not wanting to be a lady; it’s about not being able to be one.

Now, on one hand, when have strong, independent Arya. She had spent all her young life dreaming of honor and glory same as her brothers, but she has also been forced to pertake in activities that she is neither good at or interest in. She wants to be out in the yard training, but instead she is forced to sew with her sister. It makes matters worse that she’s no good at it. And in the society they live in, she is supposed to be good at it, she’s supposed to marry and high lord and be a proper lady and all of that nonsense. All her life she’s been bullied for not being a proper lady, for not be traditionally beautiful, and so eventually she starts to say “I don’t care about all that.” But deep down a part of her does. Claiming she doesn’t is very much a coping mechanism, a way to push away that hurt all the bullying and the comments and being called Arya Horseface. She knows that she will never be a lady like Sansa (nor do I think she truly wants to). But it is what is expected of her, within the society she grew up in, so there is a certain feeling of inadequacy that comes with that knowledge. Coming to terms with not being like her sister but still being a lady, in her own way on her own terms, is a big part of her journey, IMO.

I just think it is too simplistic to but Arya Stark in a box and take her words st face value. There is a lot of subtext that contradicts her words. She needs to find that balance between herself, between being the badass fighter she has been training to be and being a woman. Until she comes to terms with it, she will never be whole.

#asoiaf #got discourse #arya stark

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eyreguide · 5 years ago

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Jane Eyre: A High Tea Dinner Theatre Event

Thanks to a timely post on BronteBlog, I heard about this production of Jane Eyre by The 413 Project being performed near me. It was a daunting 2-hour+ drive away though, but I was so excited about the concept of a high tea while watching a live theatre production, and my husband agreed we should take the time to go. And we had a wonderful evening!

The play was being performed at a restaurant - The Grand Tea Room in Escondido, CA. When we first arrived in town, our first order of business was to check out the venue, with an interest in seeing what might be in the gift shop. The Jane Eyre merchandise was slim (I was able to buy a cute tote bag with the cover of Jane Eyre on the front), but the shop was full of cute tea paraphernalia I enjoyed perusing. The show was at 7 pm though, so I left with my purchases to return later.

This restaurant as a theatre space had an interesting set-up. Long tables were placed along the sides to allow for the middle of the room to be used as the stage. The tables had chairs on both sides of it though, which put anyone sitting with their back to the stage in an awkward situation. Most people simply turned their chairs around for the show, but I was thankful that we were sat in chairs that faced the stage area so we could easily eat and drink tea while watching the play. In the image below, this was the view from our seats - at a pretty sharp angle to the stage, so we did often just get a view of various actors’ backs.

That didn’t hurt the production too much for me, though, and maybe that was because I’m familiar enough with the story that I could easily follow what was happening without seeing everything the actors were doing.

When we were seated, tea, finger sandwiches, and a selection of cheese and fruit were laid out in front of us, and we were able to start eating immediately. It was all delicious! The teapot contained a creme brulee tea that was perfect - full-bodied and a bit sweet. It perfectly complemented our meal. I also loved the little Jane Eyre bookmarks placed in all the teacups!

About 15 or 20 minutes past 7, the lights dimmed, and the actors came onto the “stage.” As with any 2-hour production of Jane Eyre, I’m always curious about what they will focus on, and I was surprised at how much this play covered! I can forgive cutting out Jane’s childhood, but this version included it and the story went from her childhood all the way through St. John and the discovery that they are cousins. The version used was adapted by Christina Calvitt, and I think the playwright did a great job of capturing the gist of the story while maintaining the character relationships and capturing the atmospheric mood of the novel. Interestingly, Helen Burns is a very minor character in this play but makes appearances throughout the narrative as she appears in key moments to echo something of Jane’s past and Jane’s emotional turmoil.

The production also utilized pre-recorded segments to good effect - ghostly echoes of lines from the show would play over certain scenes, and a soundtrack of sorts played between scene changes and key moments. I recognized the soundtrack of North and South (the excellent 2004 BBC miniseries) being used, as well as what sounded like a karaoke version of the “Wedding Processional” from The Sound of Music for Jane and Rochester’s wedding. Both pieces of music are near and dear to my heart, so I loved that they included it in the production. (I have to say that I considered having the “Wedding Processional” play over my wedding, but ultimately did not do it!)

And to talk about the adaptation once more, there was one inclusion I was not expecting to see - the Gypsy scene! I was delighted that the actual actor playing Mr. Rochester covered himself up in a long skirt and a cloak that effectively hid his face for the scene. I was also surprised by this because of how close the audience was in the room, and how difficult it must be to convincingly try to fool the audience that this is a different character. (I did wonder how many people did not know about this twist). I’m not sure how effective the Gypsy ruse was if you were viewing the actor from the front (I could only see him from the side) but from what I could see, the actor held the folds of the cloak around his face very closely. I thought it was well done, and again I was delighted that they even included the scene!

The actors in the production were well cast in my opinion too. Hunter Thiers as Jane has an ethereal quality that I liked and a very nice English accent (admittedly some of the other actors’ English accents were iffy). Mr. Rochester was played by Robin Thompson who had a befittingly booming voice and a nice physicality in the role. At one point while talking to Jane (who was standing) he puts his feet up on the bench he is sitting on and lays out on it. That made me smile. It seemed appropriately arrogant and confident of Rochester. Other stand-outs in the cast for me was Mrs. Fairfax (played by Tamarah Ashton - a last-minute cast change) who was the scatter-brained comedy relief in the production. In the scene after the fire in Rochester’s bedroom, she is randomly cleaning the room with a rag while talking to Jane, and she walked up and dusted the backs of people’s chairs and even complimented a lady on her sweater. I thought that was hilarious. The other stand-out was Blanche Ingram who was played by Kelly Saunders. She captured Blanche’s haughty and condescending personality perfectly. And her English accent was on point!

At intermission, the waiters and waitresses came out and served the dessert and some lovely scones. The Jane Eyre theme to the dessert was not lost on me! All of the treats were so tasty, with the macaron being my favorite!

Overall, this adaptation of the story was excellently done and I loved the cast and how effectively they used the space. The tea and food selections were wonderful and added so much to the experience. It’s obvious that a lot of care and attention went into the production and the presentation and I appreciated how special of an evening this was.

And I haven’t yet announced here that my husband, Mike and I both run a fandom, entertainment, lifestyle, and travel blog over at honeynerds.com! Today he’ll be talking about this production and his introduction to Jane Eyre. Please visit the post and encourage him to continue going to Jane Eyre theatre productions with me! :)

Now, I will end this post with one of my favorite promo photos for this show - it’s so beautiful!

#Jane Eyre #Charlotte Bronte #High Tea #Dinner Theatre #Adaptation #Play #The Grand Tea Room #The 413 Project

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hamlets-ghost-zaddy · 6 years ago

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st. jude (the patron of lost causes)

Part 4/8

Donald Malarkey x Reader

Summary: Bombs aren’t discerning, they aren’t sentimental, and they kill without discretion. It’s the truth that got you through Bastogne, when men came to you in tatters and their life blood flooded past the stoppage of your hands. It’s the harsh reality that whispers through your mind as you wonder why Renee and Anna died, and not you–why you were sent on a scavenging run at that precise moment. Then, when the church was shelled.

Moved to an evacuation hospital to tend to soldiers with ghosts in their eyes, you meet Buck Compton and his loyal sergeant, a man with a weight on his shoulders unknown to even Atlas. His name means bullshit, and somehow you find that appropriate: what he’s seen, what he’s gone through? It’s complete bullshit.

The evacuation hospital is set five miles back from the line, out of the sight-lines of German artillery but within range for ambulances or jeeps or whatever makeshift vehicle that has been commandeered for the wounded to come squealing up, loaded with groaning and bloodied men. It also means you have a clear view of the fireworks display, raining hellfire down on the frontlines, tonight.

Mortar blasts illuminate trees in great streaking paintbrush strokes of blue at their hearts, before flaring high into the pitch sky in tongues of orange and red. Two inhales and exhales—you number them, equal parts to count the explosions and to regulate your own too-short, too-high breath—separate the mortar hits, and flare ups, from the great booms of sound carrying through the snow-blanketed forest to you and Constance. Both of you squint against the flares of fiery light, both thinking of men being hit and wondering how many would be brought in before morning—wondering how much of them would be brought in, and if it was enough to save.

A breath catches, ragged, in your throat. Those men, those distant soldiers with featureless faces, who you hoped never to see (‘hoped’ because it meant they didn’t need you), suddenly all look like Malarkey in your imagination. Malarkeys scramble from foxhole to foxhole, dodging death and checking in with comrades, friends, soldiers who have become brothers. The tightness coiling in your chest jerks violently and for the first time since Malarkey entered your life and demanded a corner of your thoughts always be reserved for him, you desperately wish you never met.

Fire falls like rain and, for the first time, you have someone to lose and you are completely powerless to cheat Fate’s hand.

Buck Compton has stayed too long. The evacuation hospital is a midway point between aid stations and proper hospitals, meant as a prepping station for men to continue on to better, cleaner facilities or to take a handful of days to sleep, recover, and return to the lines. You know it, have been expecting Dr. Schroder’s orders to come through for days now, but you still feel a dagger plunge and twist when you receive the written orders, making you stop short as you cross the short distance between Schroder’s tent-office and the ward.

The all-American boy is to be loaded on the next medical transport truck and sent off to recover, to collect his senses and fight off his demons—a battle you’re not equipped to help him wage in an evacuation hospital. “It’s for the best,” you mutter as you read the orders.

Constance, at your side, gives you a grim, close-lipped smile and touches your shoulder. “It’ll be alright, sweetness,” she says. You’ve heard her call the patients ‘sweetness’ in her molasses-thick accent, but never you. Suddenly, you understand why the men always warm under that endearment. “You can visit him soon. Don’t you have a weekend pass coming up?”

Technically, you have about five weekend passes owed to you since the beginning of the war, when taking time away of the hospital seemed unthinkable with the amount of wounded coming through. You don’t mind; you fear what being in the civilian world would do to you—if it would expose all the memories you try to hide from, if you would be staring into some mirror in some hotel room and not recognize yourself. Still, it’s kind of Constance to say, so you reply, “Yeah, I do.”

She nods, as if that settles matters, and gives your shoulder one last squeeze before striding ahead and ducking into the hospital tent. You can’t take your eyes off the order for a minute and when you finally rip your focus away, the tent flap has fluttered closed behind her. Taking one breath, then another, letting the winter air bathe your lungs, you’ve just convinced your feet to move when the rumble of a Jeep engine makes you turn instead. A hand held your brow allows you to see—

“Sergeant Malarkey!” is out of your mouth before you can consider how you embarrass yourself, how insane you sound. Yet, you can’t really find it in yourself to care, instead waving and grinning because he’s waving back, and smiling, and laughing—and fuck, it is just like how I thought it’d sound.

“Y/n!” he calls, jumping out of the Jeep before the orderly fully stops. He jogs to you, smile stretching impossibly wider, and grabs your hands. “Y/n, it’s so damn good to see you!”

A blush is rising in your cheeks against your will, and you smile eagerly into his face only for your breath to catch. It takes focus to keep the smile stretched on your lips: the darkness, the ghosts, have grayed his face entirely and though he smiles now, there’s something hot and feverish about it. He’s seen things, done things. He’s not as whole as when you saw him last. Oh, my dear Malarkey, whispers through your thoughts. What horrors did you see last night? You force out a reply: “You, too, Sergeant. It’s been quiet without you.” You’re proud of how even your voice is.

Some of the wild shine in his eyes dulls, and he seems to realize he’s holding your hands, that you are close. He doesn’t move away. “I’ve been thinking about how you…and, and Buck are doing. How are you? How’s he?”

Your thoughts, a freight train of worrying over the pieces of him lost on the frontlines—of the darkness—of the ghosts—grind to a halt because of course that’s why he’s here. Of course. Still, it hits you and leaves you gasping for air. “Oh, uh,” you fill into the silence. Suddenly, there’s an expanse between you. “Um, Buck’s…Buck’s okay, err, he will be. Once he gets back farther from the line. Getting away from hearing the mortars will do him a lot of good.”

Selfishly, though, you know Buck’s leaving will do you very little good. Without Lieutenant Compton, why would Malarkey visit the hospital?

Malarkey nods, tension you hadn’t noticed before easing from his shoulders. He still hasn’t released your hands, and instead he squeezes them. “You still haven’t said how you are,” he says. You shrug, and he reads exactly what you mean.

(I knew he’d understand, whispers through your mind before you can deride yourself for how fucking ridiculous that is).

“Come on, Buck will be anxious to see you,” you suggest, regretfully dropping his hands after one last, brief squeeze and you lead him into the hospital tent. It takes a moment, it always does, to blink against the dimness and allow your eyes to adjust. And, when it does, you meet Constance’s steady expression and the questioning quirk of her lips. Her eyes dart from you, to Malarkey at your back, to Buck sitting on his cot, packing his rucksack. A single, manicured eyebrow rises in a magnificent arch. You know Constance will corner you later, but for now you scuttle under her attention, waving Malarkey to Buck unnecessarily. “Take your time. I’ll come let you know when the truck for him arrives.”

Malarkey nods, gratitude in his eyes. You’re relieved to see that heat from his eyes is gone, whatever flurried craze he arrived in scrubbed from and leaving him just a little more shattered, just a little fissured with cracks. He moves from your side and, it may have been your imagination, but you thought you felt the briefest grazing of his hot skin against your wrist.

(How heat thrills up your muscles could be your imagination, too.)

Constance stations herself on one side of Buck, you on the other, and Malarkey leads the way, hefting the rucksack (apparently heavy with bricks from how Malarkey ribbed Buck over its weight). It takes all three of you acting as support to boost Buck into the back of the transport truck, Constance clambering up to instruct him for the umpteenth time on his medicinal regime. Buck, in good humor, grunts and rolls his eyes. Assuring her he’ll remember to take the little pill in an hour, the slightly larger pill in three hours, and yes he has water to wash them down. He rattles his canteen to emphasize this point.

Malarkey takes Constance’s place when she jumps down from the truck, pale blue skirts pluming, and you lead her a few yards away to give the men an allusion of privacy. Constance checks over her shoulder, never one for subtly, before whipping her face close to yours and whispering, “So, the Sergeant.”

You roll your eyes. “You always start off gossiping that way,” you point out, no bite in your voice. A grin twitches your lips.

Ignoring you, Constance insists, “I’m right though, aren’t I?” When you only shrug coyly, she squeals, clapping her hands. “Oh, you minx, giving me that red herring with the Lieutenant when it really was the Sergeant the whole time.” She puts her hands into her apron’s pockets, head-tilt consideringly as she angles herself to get a better look at Malarkey while pretending she really wasn’t looking. “There’s something solid about him. Something good.”

You blink at Constance, at how her voice dips in consideration, and you know you’re properly blushing now. You can feel the heat radiating off of you, even as you smile in delight, before bumping her shoulder with yours. “You say the most ridiculous things.”

Constance’s eyebrow arches, but she doesn’t reply beyond a smile. She turns her face to the morning sun sending white glares of light off the snow, breathing in until her chest swells wide. Measuredly, she exhales, a puff of condensation rising from her mouth, and her words are on a breath: “You deserve something good, some happiness.” Her eyes wander to yours. You never realized they have a hint of green in them. “I haven’t been here long, so what do I know, but it seems to me that happiness is a rare thing in this war.” Her smile never falters, but now, accompanied by the pinch of her brows. Her grin no longer makes her look naïve. She’s different, changed; in the hospital for less than two months, and already the war shows itself on her face.

You want to reply, say something profound to accompany her insight, but she squeezes your shoulder and moves away, returning to the hospital tent. The faintest hint of lavender perfume and rubbing alcohol trails her, distracting you from Malarkey jumping down from the truck and crunching across the frozen, dead grass to stand at your side. He gives you a crooked smile—an expression less meant to convey happiness and more solidarity—as he turns. The truck’s engine turns over, roaring to life. Buck raises a hand of farewell in the murkiness of the truck’s back, you and Malarkey waving back.

Your hands hang suspended until the truck rumbles out of the hospital’s field, swallowed by the road and the Ardennes. It takes a concentrated effort to warm your muscles and coax them into moving, lowering your hand only for your fingers to drift to your icon of St. Jude. The metal is cold under your fingertips, chilled by the winter freeze, and you stare at nothing at all as you trace its familiar ridges.

With the truck gone, you are faced with the habitual emptiness that always shells out your chest after one of your patients leave. It’s for the best, you know: he can’t receive the care he needs here or from you—not with the meager resources of the evac hospital—but the fledgling friendship forged over dog-eared books and oatmeal is over before it began. Despite yourself, despite the months of experience, you still allow yourself to care for the men who came into your care like your friends, like your brothers. Buck’s love letters, his blue eyes wide and seeing beyond the physical world are now details of yet another soldier to be added to your collection. And, as you say goodbye to Buck, in the same breath you must say goodbye to Malarkey.

Not allowing yourself to doubt your decision, you unclasp the necklace from around your neck, and cradle one of Malarkey’s hands in your own. The chain, cool and coiling like liquid, slithers into the basin of his palm. “Here.”

Malarkey blinks down at the necklace and you can feel his eyes swivel to you, warming your cheeks with their confusion, but you refuse to look at him just then. “I can’t take this,” he says.

“You have to,” you reply, more forceful than you realize. You didn’t mean to voice it—that this would be the last time you saw him—but the implication is a heavy lead in your tone and Malarkey hears it plainly. You swallow around the dryness in your throat, folding Malarkey’s fingers over the necklace. “I don’t really need it anymore and I…” After losing Anna and Renee, you doubt St. Jude is really listening much, but maybe he’d watch over Malarkey.

Silence. Then, Malarkey rumbles a low, “Huh.”

“What?”

“Well,” he says, scrubbing his free hand briefly through his hair. You can’t help peek up at his curls, standing on end and in disarray. “I just realized I’ve been praying to your saint over the past few days. I…I didn’t really do it consciously.”

“Then you have to take it,” you reply, eyes drifting to his. It’s only because you’re watching him intently, attempting to decode the shift in those brown eyes just as you know he’s trying to puzzle you out, that you see a spark of decision—realization—ignite in his eyes. A shade of the grayness recedes from his face.

“Alright.” He nods. “I will, but you’re going to have to help me, my fingers aren’t really meant for these tiny clasps.” He displays his squarish hands as proof. A sudden surge seizes you to cradle his hands, to kiss his callouses, and heat floods your face. Malarkey politely doesn’t notice, continuing: “My mom would always ask me to help with her necklaces, and it’d take me minutes on end to get it.”

A bubble of laughter escapes you at the mental image of a boyish, flustered Malarkey trying and failing to battle a necklace. “I wouldn’t force you to fend for yourself. Turn around, I’ll help,” you order, and he complies and your suddenly faced with broad, strong shoulders; with the flyway curls mussed by his helmet and his nervous fingers, and an expanse of neck that is the perfect height for you to stand on tiptoe and press a kiss against.

You reach around his shoulders to bring the chain around his neck, clasping it quickly and with as little physical contact as possible. “There.”

He turns back to you slowly (or maybe that’s your imagination again), looking strange wearing two necklaces. Yet, the thought of double holiness—the double blessing—settles you. St. Jude’s icon is in his hand, but his eyes are seeking yours. “I feel like I should give you something, too,” he offers, the words rattling in his chest, like he debated heatedly with himself if he should say them.

But, you think as that something in your chest connected to him feels less like pain and more like relief, thank God he did. “No,” you insist, shaking your head. “Please, don’t worry about. You don’t have to give me anything.”

Malarkey looks like he wants to protest, has something building in his chest to rebuke your insistence—something that will shake the very earth, the very foundations of reality—but an orderly barks then: “Sergeant, you headed back to the line? Shake a leg, or you’ll miss your chance!”

He drags his eyes from you to look at the orderly, nodding, before turning to blink back at you. Whatever he was going to say, whatever precious notion of your reality he was preparing to shatter, had been ripped from his mouth before it could be voiced. As you watch him go—you’ll never get used to watching him drive away from you, you know it—you wish every word secreted in his thoughts and secreted in words could be voiced and you could talk for ever and ever. You wished you could talk until you talked about nothing at all, and still then, you talked.

You wished there was time for talking, and the war and the dying and the ghosts didn’t cram the words back in your mouths and silence you.

#band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers fic #donald malarkey #donald malarkey imagine #donald malarkey x reader #angst #hurt/comfort #friendship #my writing

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visualcommune · 5 years ago

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At Amanda’s House

Amandas home

On October 29th Amanda texted the group chat (me and Fala ) to inform us that Damien was not ready to have us in the studio this week either. For the last few weeks Amanda had anticipated our weekly meeting to happen in Damien’s Studio so that me and Fala could help him prepare his materials for the upcoming fair. However, Damien still was not ready for us, which previously was frustrating to Amanda who often referred to the artist as children and her self as mama but was now great news because now Amanda had a task that she was even more excited about. Amanda excitedly texted us about Jon Grey who was buying one of John Rivas’s pieces. Her text read “ this just in. Jon Grey wants his piece. I’m going to see if he can rcv it tomorrow. If he can, I need you ladies to come here, help wrap and drop it at ghetto gastro. Stay tuned.” “We are confirmed for Jon. But like a true celebrity he’s not giving me a time ** head explode emoji **” Fala and I congratulated Amanda even though later on we admitted to each other that we had no clue what the big deal about Jon Grey was. Fala also showed amazing initiative in the group chat and offered to bring all necessary materials for packaging the art.

When I got to Amanda’s home I had to wait infront of the skinny entrance for a while until they came downstairs to open the door. Amanda’s building was on 55th st, what I would consider smack in the middle of midtown. Her apartment building was sandwiched in between two very busy business’s and it was hard to imagine that any one passing by was a resident of this neighbourhood. As a New Yorker, I get living in the hustle and bustle but this area just seemed so unfit to be someone’s neighbourhood. What would community look like in this area that seems to only share wealth in common? Once Fala came down to open the door I got my first expereice inside of Amandas apartment.

I recall in previous conversations Amanda brought up her housing situation as if it was a situation. She had previously told us she was living with her parents, her parents had been moving for some time and that she was using her apartment to generate some extra income by running it as an Airbnb. Amanda told us the story of one time she rented it to an Australian couple. She said that when she was showing them around the apartment something felt off. She told us that the Australian couple then messaged her and said that they had decided to stay somewhere else even though they understood that they wouldn’t be getting a portion of their money back. Amanda struggled with us to not take it personally. She talked about how cute and well decorated her home was and asked us what could have been wrong with those people, even though we had never seen her place to vouch for the cuteness level.

Now standing in her apartment I saw that conversation differently. She had a studio apartment with a bathroom door to you right when you first walk in. That was the only door. The rest of the apartment could be taken in in two head turns. The tiny space was covered wall to wall in art. Large framed pieces hung from the wall. Nearly every artist was identifiable from our collection of artist. As we stood in her apartment she told us for maybe the 5th time about her living situation. That she was using her apartment as an airbnb to pay the rent on the very same place and that her parents lived in the same apartment building as her and that she was living with them while they finalised their move. In the elevator she asked Fala (29) if it was lame that she was still living with her parents at 40. Fala assured her that if the opportunity arose, Fala would also live with her parents for ever because of the convince of food and chores and that it made a lot of financial sense too. We looked at the art on her walls for awhile, most of it was her own that she had collected at discounted rates or she was holding on to for the gallery. One of the pieces was a sculpture of a monkey holding a functioning light bulb. According to Fala who recognised the piece, the monkey lamp was apart of modern pop art and Amanda said it was one of her favourite possessions. Amanda said that on the market the lamp cost $600 but she had won her lamp for $400 at a charity auction event. She did not speak at all about what charity event she had attended. One of her other pieces was actually going to be lent out and shown in a museum, Amanda expressed that she was excited to have her name written in the contributed by line.

The piece we had to package for Jon Grey was the biggest in the house. It was hanging on one of her walls and stood roughly 10 ft high and 8 ft wide. It left a gapping whole in the middle of her other pieces. So Amanda pulled out a large folder that was tucked away in the side of a table, in it held EVEN MORE ART. This folder held some of her prized pieces that still needed to be framed and were just waiting for their chance to be rotated in. Amanda also said she shared art with her mom so she might potentially bring one of her moms pieces into her home and trade it for one of hers in her collection.

When we got to packaging the massive piece we did it on top of her bed, primarily because there was absolutely no floor space in the house. It took all 3 of us to lift the piece from its mount on the wall and 20 minutes to securely bubble wrap it. Amanda complimented our professionalism in dealing with the art and said it was one of the finest packaging jobs seen had sent out. Which was surprising to me because although the job was well done it didn’t go beyond my idea of packaging standards, especially for a piece worth so much money. Efficiently using the bubble wrap so it hugged every corner and securing the tape along the extensive side was our focus.

Once that was done Amanda told us that Jon Grey STILL had not confirmed the drop off location, which frustrated Amanda because she had already texted him twice for the information with no response. She asked us if it would be too much or annoying if she sent a third text. We advised her to send a text about another topic but that if we needed the information that she should text him again. Amanda was even more nervous to text Jon Grey because of his celebrity. She told us that he had a Ted Talk and was so handsome and sweet. Amanda admitted that she might have a little crush on Jon Grey and assured us that we would fall inlove too even though he might seem intimidating at first because he was so tall. While we waited for his response Amanda insisted that we order breakfast from the local bagel shop and have the gallery pay for it. Once our breakfast was delivered we moved downstairs to her families apartment. Her families apartment was in the same building as hers but it was set up in a more traditional apartment way with two bedrooms, a seperate kitchen, dinning and living room. We sat at her families newly moved into dinning room. There was less art in this apartment but still quite a lot. Amanda pointed to one dark, ominous piece and said it was the oldest one in their collection and that her grandmother had collected it. Amanda said that her grandmother and other family members loved the arts even though her parents did not work in them instead they both were accountants. Amanda also mentioned that her family was from Peru and Chile. She also mentioned that she was divorced. We talked a little about the current political climate of Chile and the need for protest to happen to insight real change. Amanda told us about a recent video she had seen of Trump in the DC baseball field were they chanted “lock him up” at him. Amanda also scoffed at Melania wearing a jacket that said “ I don’t care, do you?” Or something of that nature. After an hour of small talk Jon Grey had finally gotten back to Amanda with the location of the delivery and then me and Fala were off. Amanda put us in the largest possible Uber that would accomodate the size of the piece and sent us to the Bronx. Amanda advised us to take an Uber to a fair mid point between where Fala needed to be in LES and where I needed to be in Brooklyn but also was not a gizzilion dollars for the gallery to pay.

During our Uber ride me and Fala watched Jon Grey’s Ted Talk. Jon Grey and his team are the founders of Ghetto Gastro a space where Colored cooking and art combine. Jon himself seemed to be an artist with a rags to riches story that ultimately has helped his community thrive. The outside of Ghetto Gastro looked like a pretty typical residential building but the inside held a large cooking island with lots of coloured people and colourful smells. In the back of was a studio space designed to look like the outside of a bodega. Jon Grey was a black man of nearly 7ft tall. He helped us set the piece in the back and was very kind about letting me photograph him with the piece. Amanda really wanted us to get a photo with him and the piece. When we confirmed with her that the piece had been safely delivered and sent her the photos she asked if he consented to the pictures being taken. I hadn’t thought to ask for permission to post the picture and regretted not keeping consent at the forefront of my practice.

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theloniousbach · 5 years ago

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50 Years of Going to Shows, Pt. 2: The Grateful Dead Universe

Part one of this series extrapolated from the conceit that the 9/4/19 Hot Tuna show here at the Sheldon Concert Hall also marked the anniversary of my Fall 1969 Johnny Winter concert that was my first rock show. 50 years!! That segment was about those early concerts in KC (well, a couple of Dylan shows in St. Louis and then Chicago).

The glaring omission from that note was the Grateful Dead (11/11-12/72; 6/16/74 Des Moines; and 10/28/77). I propose correcting that with this entry that can take up 7/26-27/94 and 7/5-6/95 (shows 4 and 3 from the end) plus visits with The Other Ones, The Dead, Furthur, Dead and Company, various Phil Lesh and Friends iterations (including the Q 3 times, the Campbell/Greene band twice, another time with Campbell, and this past summer with an Allison Krauss sit in); Ratdog maybe 5 times; Weir and Wolf Bros; and Joe Russo’s Almost Dead to whom I’ve passed the torch.

This is a quite modest Deadhead roll call, but it does include 1972, a Wall of Sound, and 1977. So I’ve been around long enough to have opinions.

And I do have opinions.

1972–The 11/11 show was all we thought we were going to get. A Sunday night show after them always missing us. There was a rumor then, pure fiction it turns out, that they opened (?!?) for Iron Butterfly (#@%!) in KC before I got on the bus (1969ish?). I was transfixed—the long unfolding two sets, pauses including for a cigarette puffs), the wide range of songs, the stacks of speakers and Macintosh amps even if it wasn’t quite officially a Wall of Sound show—but that’s all I remember. Set lists say there was a Box of Rain.

The second show got added and I was going to go no matter what—two school nights in a row. And that one is better fixed in memory because of an Owsley Stanley tape that captures a sprawling Playing in the Band to close the first set. I don’t need that tape to remember the Dark Star>Morning Dew, though being able to revisit it sure is a treat. It was in fact huge though I was beside myself from the opening notes announcing that the adventure was beginning. In the moment, I just knew it was happening and that was good enough then. It is a big big one though with lots of space travel before settling into the Dew. I turned grumpy about Dew but this one was magic then and now.

1974–I couldn’t get anybody to go to Des Moines to see them that June. My dad, actually, was up for the drive and camping (him staying in camp while I and the other Deadheads went to the afternoon outdoor show. He had a draft dissertation to read which he left somehow but we got it back). The key parts of this show (another Playing with a gnarly breakdown) were released officially as part of the Road Trips series honoring the Wall of Sound. That was a sight though I thought I’d seen a version of it inside in KC. Also a sight was Garcia’s chin and upper lip as he had reduced the beard to mutton chops for a very short while. The second set was where the meat of the show was culminating in the Playing. I experienced it at the time as meandering and anxious, without the tranquil spaciness of some of their explorations, but it’s just fine and part of the oeuvre as per repeated listening AND a much broader experience with their music.

1977–When Steal Your Face and then Blues for Allah came out, my enthusiasm was waning. To this day, I’m a pre-hiatus fan with a real focus on 71-74 when Kreutzmann was the only drummer. They were more lithe, exploratory, and dynamic. Still a good friend told me I was going back to Memorial Hall for a late 1977 show, so I got part of that magical year. And what stood out was 1977 slinkiness even though there wasn’t a Dancin’ in the Streets. But Lazy Lightning>Supplication, Samson and Delilah, and Passenger all caught my ear. It was fun, but I was not on the bus much.

The taping scene pulled me back in in the late 1980s, though I’d been intrigued by Lowell George of Little Feat producing Shakedown Street. I suppose in some ways I am a secondary Touch Head, though Without a Net too was welcome.

I was on the periphery of the Brent Mydland era and actually found Bruce Hornsby’s interlude a real boost to the creativity, particularly Garcia’s. That was spent really by 1994 and 1995. I went to both nights that they were in St. Louis on those summer tours. Still I was glad to see the break outs and covers (Here Comes Sunshine, Take Me to the River), but they were going through the motions, keeping Garcia in tow. It was fun, I'm glad, I'm went, they are memorable in a general sense, but I won't go play recordings. 1995 was the third and fourth shows from the end as they headed from here to Chicago. Within 5 weeks, Garcia was dead.

It was about the party or, ahem, the cultural experience. I'm glad I got that too with the originals (and subsequent Furthur Festival/The Other Ones/The Dead/Furthur/Dead and Company shows in big venues were as much about that as the music), but an advantage of the end of the big machine is that the shows got much smaller. The party was still there, but the music was closer. Also as I have aged, I've been willing to pay for better seats (to see Phil Lesh at Willie Nelson's Outlaw Festival this summer we even paid for premium parking. Sheesh.) so that helps put the music to the fore.

So has couch touring—and that is how my concert gang and I saw the first night of Fare The Well—GD 50 from Levi Stadium in the Bay Area as well as the Friday and Sunday from Chicago. We also saw a Phil Lesh Quintet reunion. Being in real time, I count those as shows which indicates that experiencing the music live is what counts for me.

The GD Meet Up at the Movies don’t, but they do remind me that I like to be in the presence of those songs and their creators. And that has pulled me along so far to shows that have included at least Phil Lesh and/or Bob Weir. I actually am a fan of Drums/Space and stay in my seat to watch the spontaneous magic happen, so having Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart along for The Other Ones, The Dead, and Dead and Company is just fine. But those operations felt a little bloated. They have to be in large spaces to accommodate the party, so the gestures are equally grand and the rituals are observed. Furthur (Lesh and Weir’s operation) was a bit more nimble—one drummer, Joe Russo, and more flexible set lists. But I saw them in a small arena (12 K) and The Fox Theater (almost 5 K), so those were big concert experiences.

Bob Weir is an indefatigable road warrior, sometimes when he shouldn’t. St. Louis was an early stop of a Fall 2004 tour that was aborted. But we got to see him and it was awfully good, one I return to. It jammed into Jack Straw into the opening of a Terrapin that would be concluded in the second set and the rest of the suite in the encore into Dark Star (my first since 1972 and the only one of two more I saw in person, both from Ratdog) that concluded at the end of the set before back into Jack Straw. The second set had Peggy O, The Winners, and Friend of the Devil for a can’t be beat acoustic interlude before firing up The Other One and Uncle John’s Band (its reprise after Terrapin proper closed the second set. With the exception of Playin’, he rehearsed all the big tunes and was energetic and in good voice. That one was a treat.

Ratdog was always fun, a solid band and a showcase for Weir’s quirkinesses which help make the GD experience. I like many of his songs more than Garcia’s, excuse the heresy, but I confess that I probably haven’t given up being angry at him not just for being dead but for dying, for giving up which probably started in the 1980s.

Ratdog shows were chances to hear the songs and Weir’s take on them, including Garcia’s at the heart of the canon were always good to hear. He brought most things into circulation. The bands were not the all star configurations that Lesh’s were, but they were effective. St. Louis shows reflected his connection with Johnny Johnson (a 2003 The Dead Show had Johnson and Willie Nelson jam on Little Red Rooster (overplayed over the years, but the way to do a 12 bar blues) and Lovelight that was historic). After Johnson’s death, it was his horn section sitting in, usually for one of the big jam tunes. A Dark Star stands out, but there must have been a Sailor>Saint or Eyes another year.

But it is Lesh who is the curator of the part of the universe that matters to me—the invention, the opportunity that any tune can unfold into a world of possibility. That was most clear with the Q—John Molo, Warren Haynes, Jimmy Herring, and Rob Barracco whom I got to see in their prime three times. They played the big barn with Weir’s Ratdog to open in July 2001, with a Weir sit in to open set one. The feature of that one was a Viola Lee Blues sandwich that wove out of that primal jam vehicle from the GD past four times with interludes of Lovelight, Tons of Steel, and Into the Mystic. Lesh would pull out tunes that had fallen out of the rotation—Alligator and Doin’ That Rag that night, Caution with Furthur at the Fox, Cosmic Charlie with the Q that November, and Viola itself. The Q revival Couch Tour show we saw had a Mountains of the Moon which suggested a potential (not developed) for that tune as a subtle jam vehicle just as it was the last night of Fare The Well. They did Beatles tunes, Brent Tunes, Van Morrison. The second show at the Fox for some reason doesn’t leap out as magical. But the third one, also at the Fox, on what would have been Garcia’s 60th birthday was. The first hour was Bird Song>Here Comes Sunshine>Not Fade Away and had me riveted. The second set had Sunshine of Your Love and a transcendent Low Spark of High Heeled Boys with Haynes somehow capturing the piano parts on guitar.

My only quasi bit of touring was to run over to Indianapolis to see Lesh in a hybrid band of Molo and Barraco with Larry Campbell, Barry Sless on pedal steel, Greg Osby on alto, and Joan Osborne on vocals. It was a hot hot day but good adventurous stuff. The Peggy O as a story with Lesh narrating, Osborne being the fair maid, Campbell as our captain was very cool. Bertha, Viola, and Shakedown stretched things out too.

With the Molo/Larry Campbell/Jackie Greene/Steve Molitz band, I got to see the premiere of the Ritter Eyes of Horus bass. A dark stage, the fretboard LED lights on, a solo into The Other One and then Truckin' made quite an impression. It didn't have the heft/power of the Modulus instruments he used before and after (a possibly smaller one) and it was more striking then pretty, but it was a moment of GD lore that happened on my watch. Those were two good shows with Campbell showing a range I hadn't expected. He could dig into the jams whereas I thought he would be more of a Robbie Robertson fills and one chorus solos player. It was also fun to watch Greene grow. It was like he went to grad school or maybe a post doc in that band.

I have seen Greene at least 5 subsequent times (Duck Room, Old Rock House twice (band and "acoustic," Delmar Hall, and as an opener for Gov't Mule). He has tasty covers including but not exclusively GD ones and some damn good tunes. It's good to see his efforts to extend the GD universe.

But I'm putting my money on Joe Russo's Almost Dead as where the legacy will reside.

I saw them earlier in the year and they strike me as not just a Dead cover band, but a PLQ cover band--anything can be jammed out, the tunes can be played in any order in any part of the set. Russo is a dynamo of energy on drums and his alter ego Marco Benevento is an inventive player. It's cool to see the varied opportunities the music presents.

My shows this year with Weir (the Wolf Bros trio) and Lesh at Willie Nelson’s Outlaw Festival felt valedictory. Weir was an interesting disappointment in that his wonderfully idiosyncratic guitar was at the fore, but too often through a too thin toned D’Angelico Bedford guitar. He had that jangled tone in Ratdog but it went away during Fare The Well and beyond when he used Fender Stratocasters. His voice too was thinner. So, while I wanted to see him in the spare setting, I don’t need to do it again.

And, though I’m likely to succumb to peer pressure if Dead and Company comes to town, I don’t need that party.

So, I’m content to go out on the Phil and Friends set at the barn with Willie Nelson as my last time seeing an original member. There was Molo once again, Jason Crosby and Stu Allen from the Terrapin scene, and a new other guitarist Cris Jacobs. The set had Jack Straw, Brown Eyed Women, Sugaree, and a Cumberland Blues (a favorite) as the closer. Eyes was the jamming tune, but so was Help>Slip>Morning Dew. And what a Dew it was as Alison Krauss sang it as she did on To Lay Me Down. Amazing and what a rare moment in the Dead universe.

Dead music is magical and so it has been for me right to this end.

But long live JRAD too.

#Grateful Dead #Phil Lesh #Bob Weir #JRAD #Ratdog #2019

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