#and she’s way to sensitive to have a civil conversation with her about her poor behavior and manners

[stonesandswords]

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[fingfamily-blog-blog]

A Walk in Malang with Anna

Today I walked around Malang with my friend Anna. She received some important news and it was good to go out and observe the external world. I mentioned in the last post Anna's adoption-search. This is her first visit to Indonesia, and the good and the bad are playing out before, and within, her everyday. She'll be going back to Jakarta tomorrow, to continue her arduous journey of identity discovery. Today we went to Alun-alun, the central park of Malang. It is ringed by fantastic banyan trees. I said, "Humans should have built their civilizations in banyan trees." I love seeing them, endlessly twisting around on themselves, dangling their future stalks tentatively from their branches. Like mangoes, banyans are symbolic of the tropics for me. But Alun-alun is not all that compelling (none of Malang is, really). So we walked to Jodipan, the multi-colored kampung along the river, near the train station. A kampung is a slum, basically. But Jodipan, where perhaps two or three thousand people live, was (some years back) brightly painted and ornamented with some fine graffiti and art-work. While this is an eye-catching place, and wonderful for taking photographs (because it's so densely-packed and angular), it is also an occasion for rich tourists to wander through a poor people's neighborhood, gawk and take pictures. So, again, interesting, but blemished. Next we walked to the Hotel Tugu, on the circle where the City Hall is located. These days the circle is decorated with mock-coffins, the pictures of dozens of victims, and numerous banners decrying the Kanjuruhan soccer stadium disaster, which is still under investigation. There is no news about it, no apparent movement whatsoever. But the local people haven't forgotten. The Usut Tuntas (Investigate Thoroughly) signs are everywhere. The government has put a lid on it. Then we ate lunch at the restaurant in the Hotel Tugu, the Melati. This is one of the swankest places in Malang, and one feels the true chasm of having and not-having in the city in such a walk. We ordered from an extensive menu, with European (Italian and Dutch), Malang street food, Indonesian and pan-Asian dishes. But one can only eat one plate of food. So I got duck and really enjoyed it. Talking with Anna is the best conversation I've had since I came to Malang. She is fully an artist, deeply spiritual, widely experienced and sensitive and intelligent. We discussed in particular how the body stores the mind's traumas, never releasing them until they are acknowledged and worked through (over time, with concerted effort), and the ways that society discourages that acknowledgement and those efforts. I hope one day we will find a way to work together as artists. There is so much to communicate!!

[flickeringart]

Neptune in aspect with Mars

(Read my post about Sun and Moon aspecting Neptune and Mercury and Venus aspecting Neptune)

These planets aspecting each other makes for a curious connection, because in a sense, they represent opposing principles; Mars represents the personal drive and the ability to spring to action, the force that works to impose one’s independent will on the world – Neptune represents the inner urge for emotional unity and the religious/spiritual experience of being merged with the source of life. When these planets are in aspect in the natal chart, the personal ability to carry out one’s will is inextricably linked to redemptive longings. Simply put, Mars-Neptune individuals will put their energy into fulfilling the ego ideal, the perfection of potential that existed before the personality began to form. The personality cannot assert itself in a way that would crush the dream of perfection. Neptune is the dream of purity, the undifferentiated beauty of never having left the garden of Eden. Mars on the other hand is the agent of independence and self-motivated action – he has the purpose of fighting for the individual self which is antithetical to the Neptunian principle of surrender. While the Moon and Venus are quite social; the Moon represents nurturing and care-taking of needs, Venus represents the ability to be loving, affectionate and gracious; Mars is selfish and to a certain extent anti-social – most definitely anti-Eden and its eternal bliss. Subsequently, Neptune paired with Venus or the Moon is a little less of an obvious conflict than Neptune paired with Mars.

The conjunction of Neptune-Mars might cause considerable frustration and unconscious manipulation, because one cannot assert oneself, which is to declare separation, without feeling a deep sense of guilt and shame. It’s a little bit like the Bible story of Adam and Eve eating of the forbidden fruit and immediately becomes aware of sin. This is certainly not an easy phenomenon to deal with. The impulse to avoid accountability for one’s actions can be overwhelming, even if the consequences are perceived to be good. There can be a tremendously inflated sense of righteousness accompanying every move the individual takes because deep down there’s the feeling that one has committed a terrible trespass, that one will be unable to atone for. While the softer aspects, the trine and the sextile, more easily lend themselves to genuine selfless acts and natural inclination to fight on behalf of every bleeding heart and soul in the world through acts of sympathy and kindness, the conjunction usually brings more troubles. There can be an overwhelming feeling of having to do certain things because one cannot stand the idea of being separate from other people. One finds it easy to identify as the martyr or victim, unwilling to take radical responsibility for one’s actions – or if one does it’s in order to self-sacrifice. Often the individual will adopt any ideology that promotes the mass before the individual – often socialism or marxism fits the bill. Neptune is symbolic of undifferentiated reality, blurred edges and passive surrender. It’s not a planet that promotes autonomy and individuation. Not uncommonly, decisions and actions are referred to as byproducts of societal or larger-scale units that have little to do with the poor self. These individuals are usually profoundly dissatisfied with the ways of society because on some level they believe that individual autonomy and agency is a sin – and that the only way to redeem oneself and humanity is through some kind of chaotic dissolution of difference. This urge is seldom conscious, but it is there none the less. Vladimir Lenin had this conjunction and he wanted to revolutionize society to fit the marxist ideology, but really what this means is to overthrow the upper class – to punish those that seem to revel in the delights of Eden, to get rid of the internal shame of being excluded from paradise.

It seems like Neptune-Mars shows up in individuals with the capacity to move a crowd, perhaps most importantly, with the capacity to be the front figure and leader of the masses. Vladimir Lenin certainly affected the masses and so did Napoleon I with the same conjunction. Hassan II of Morocco, known to be one of the most severe rulers widely accused of authoritarian practices and abuses of civil rights had this conjunction as well. These examples are far removed from Neptune’s reputation for denoting empathy, soft-heartedness and sensitivity. However, it might be precisely because of the refusal to abandon the hope of the sweet sweet nectar of paradise that can only truly be accessed in a state of pre-birth if even then, that the outrage is so total. Most children scream when they are born, and this is probably the kind of terrible rage caused by separation that lingers in these people. The sign the conjunction falls in will certainly affect the expression the energies filter through – Lenin had the conjunction in Aries, Hassan had it in Leo and Napoleon had it in Virgo. Virgo is a much more analytical and practical sign than the prideful fire signs of Aries and Leo – consequently Napoleon is famous for his fine skill for method and strategy in war. On his Wikipedia page, it states that Napoleon had a hypnotic effect on people and could bend the strongest leaders to his will in one-on-one conversations. Hypnosis is a marked Neptunian phenomenon. What happens is that the person is able to gently infiltrate the other person’s will – which is quite extraordinary. If someone is receptive and open enough to suggestion, the opportunity and the invitation is there to mold the other through unconscious communion. Since there’s no obvious forcing taking place under hypnosis, the hypnotized person must cooperate on some level – yet it’s not a conscious cooperation which is why the whole phenomena of hypnosis is so unnerving. In general, people would like to think that they are in complete control of themselves, but it’s more of a fancy fantasy rather than an actual reality. We don’t know what we are receptive to and Neptune reminds us of this. He seeps through the most tightly shut doors.

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My own family is quite Neptune dominated and what often happens is that I feel subtly manipulated, yet the manipulation is never fully conscious on the part of the individuals so it becomes difficult to confront them. The times I have, they either take offense or seem genuinely perplexed. It is impossible to confront Neptune, because he works underneath the surface, below the threshold of consciousness. When confronted these types are deeply disturbed that they could’ve imposed something on someone – they either go into a introspective mood, become appalled or proclaim their love and sympathy in an attempt to restore union. My mother has Mars in the 12th house and although it’s not aspecting Neptune, Mars is placed in the house pertaining to this planet and she has Neptune in her 1st house. She never gets angry but people around her certainly do. She is eternally understanding of everyone else’s anger and has acceptance for it, yet she doesn’t respond to any of it on a personal level. She apologizes every time something upsets her. She is never aggressive, yet she does instill subtle guilt through little cues and hints every now and then because it is a sin to have a will that does not align with the crowd that one finds oneself in. Sometimes, when things aren’t the way she wants to see them she doesn’t see them. She presumes that on the most basic level, all people want the same thing, which is probably true on a “soul level”, but sometimes it doesn’t translate to everyday matters. People’s personalities contradict each other and this is no trivial matter – people can and do clash because of individual differences and it can be detrimental to one or all of the individuals involved. However, Neptune doesn’t like to see a clash as a clash – that would be to treat it as a definite fact, which would contradict the fluidity of oceanic union. The frustratingly passive statement “It’s everyone’s fault” or “It’s everyone’s responsibility” is the attempt to not deal with cause and effect while establishing the fact that some abstract common force is always at work. This is neither true nor false but this attitude conveniently keeps everyone “unified” and dependent upon each other.

Admittedly I went with the most gruesome examples when writing about the conjunction, but it goes without saying that not all people with this aspect is going to be a Lenin type – Ryan Gosling, Avril Lavinge and Timothé Chalamet all have this conjunction and they’re all quite popular entertainers in their own ways – they move the masses on some level. Ryan Gosling has a Pisces Rising so his chart ruler is Neptune which makes it particularly strong. He gives off that pure hearted watery eyed look that is extremely mesmerizing to the public – he portrays himself as sweet and compassionate, he seems to have a marked innocence and purity to his outward projected identity. Avril Lavinge has her Sun-Mercury in the 12th house squaring her Neptune-Mars conjunction in the 3rd. She has more of an edge to her personality with a lot of planets in Scorpio but she certainly comes off as a chaotic, intense and absent-minded creative which I would attribute more to Neptune. Her strong rebellious “I don’t care” statements through her music resonates with a lot of people, but so does her more sentimental songs. Timothe´ Chalamet has his Moon in Pisces sextile Mars-Mercury-Neptune and he is quite the stereotypical Neptunian boy – he looks delicate, introspective, dreamy and androgynous, more like an ethereal creature than an earth-bound human. With the conjunction in the 5th house there’s no wonder that he can act and express himself in a very fluid way. Acting and performing musically are the specialities of the Neptune, and if enough components in the chart support the endeavor one might just become famous. The trine and sextile aspect also lend themselves well to these kind of occupations. These people can effectively gain the sympathy of the public because people recognize something of themselves – something pure and unborn, a mutual feeling.

A good example of someone with the trine aspect between Neptune and Mars is Russel Brand. He is quite the Neptunian with an angular 10th house Neptune opposing his Sun and trining his Jupiter-Mars-Moon planets in Aries. Even though he certainly has the fire and energy of an Aries Mars that can sometimes be a bit too much for people he is not only fighting for himself he is fighting for all people. In many ways he’s embodying  universal hope and rage. He is fiery but also very receptive and deeply concerned with not causing any damage or hurt despite his characteristic blunt and direct approach. He has a marked religious/spiritual inclination, which is usually the case with a strong Neptune in the chart. In his early years the longing for Eden was sought through drugs, alcohol and fame, while it has now shifted to a more healthy inner exploration and focus on being of service to people. The soft aspects between Neptune and Mars-Moon-Jupiter planets in his chart helps him to cope with the disturbing Sun-Neptune opposition. In recent interviews, he admits that he still feels the pull of fame and success, yet he knows that if he goes down that path he will lose himself (his Sun) and will ultimately end up disillusioned and dissatisfied. I have the trine in my own chart, and I float aimlessly through life with the notion that things will work out and my actions will come to me, because I can’t plan or control anything. I have learnt that I have to trust the way things unfold, because I have a clear sense that my forced actions won’t lead me anywhere except to frustration and a sense of isolation. The sextile aspect seems to function a little bit more as an asset and a skill for the person to use. Politicians like Hillary Clinton, Angela Merkel and Francois Hollande all have this aspect and they can effectively use their receptivity to the masses and people in general to inform their actions.

Now to the harder aspects. Britney Spears is a good example of the dilemmas created by the Neptune-Mars square. Her Neptune squares Mars in the 12th house, the house belonging to Neptune and Pisces. Because of mental instability in her twenties she was put under a conservatorship which is essentially the equivalent of giving up personal control of one’s personal matters in order for an outside source to manage them until one gains some foothold. Mars is one of the prime factors of personal ambition and autonomy, but when it’s in the 12th it is given up – it is essentially a slave to the undifferentiated realm and subjected all the forces of the unconscious. A 12th house Mars in itself doesn’t have to produce the mess that Britney found herself in, but with it squaring Neptune, Mars is going to get swamped, mislead, confused, manipulated and subtly coerced because of the need for fusion, into doing things that will pull her further away from independent action. Another good example is Kylie Jenner. She has Neptune in her 1st house squaring Mars on the MC. She is publicly known for being part of the Kardashian-Jenner family, but she’s also gained attention because she skillfully created her own brand Kylie Cosmetics and became very “successful” (as in earning a lot of money) due to her own independent action and initiative. However, Neptune is anti-independence – and curiously enough there’s always some dishonesty involved when Neptune makes any hard aspects in the chart. She was declared the youngest self-made billionaire by Forbes in 2019, but, she has later been accused of forging tax documents to appear to be a billionaire. Neptune simply can’t let her be all that her Mars wants to be – a successful business woman with a clean record. Self-sabotage is almost always the case, however minor with this aspect, because Neptune refuses Mars’ need to be potent in the world.

The opposition creates a different dynamic although the dilemma is similar to the square. The person can be called to completely abandon an independent will to take action in favor of the glamour and blissful archetypal experience, not unlike the example of Russel Brand and his indulgence in fame and crowd-pleasing at the expense of his sense of self. The difference between having Sun opposing Neptune and Mars opposing Neptune is that in the first instance one is prone to give up a sense of self in favor of Neptune’s waters, while in the second, one feels the urge to give up the ability to direct one’s own life in order to merge with life around oneself. The opposition usually lends itself to extremism because the two polarities, in this case Mars and Neptune, can’t coexist. Queen Elizabeth II has this aspect, Mars-Jupiter in the 1st opposing Neptune in the 7th. She is on the one hand seen as an archetypal figure, immortal and divine and blissfully kept out of the real world in order to serve as a symbol and a fairytale for people to feel spiritually connected to. She’s non-aggressive, forgiving and compassionate, transcendent of the fuss of the world yet overseeing it all with care. She is essentially functioning to satisfy the religious/spiritual instinct of the masses, although it’s certainly done at the expense of her own selfish wants and needs. Luckily for her, her Mars drive is quite global and collective in nature considering that it falls in Aquarius and is conjunct Jupiter – it keeps her objective and less personal in her martial assertion. However, I’m sure she struggles with the contradiction between her own will and her role as an immortal unreality that would seem to activate itself in the interaction with other people (Neptune in the 7th). Edward Snowden also has this opposition falling in the same houses. His Mars-Sun conjunction opposes Neptune, and he famously leaked information about mass surveillance programs to the press. Neptune has everything to do with leaks and the dissolution of boundaries. He’s both been called a hero a traitor – which perfectly fits with the contradiction that the opposition represents. He certainly made a personal sacrifice by revealing the things he did so he is perfectly shouldering the martyr cape. In any case he did what he did for the public with the concern of other people in mind (Neptune 7th house) he took a non-selfish stance for the sake of a higher ideal and ethical conviction. Both Queen Elizabeth and Edward Snowden are quite extreme in their Neptunian capacity and has taken on fates of mythic magnitude.

[thesunshinebunny]

When the world falls apart, the only thing we can hold onto is ourselves (Part IV)

Series Master list

pairing: canon Eren Jaeger x reader

content: Angst, unstable relationship, breakup, smut/nswf+18, major character death, violence, blood (obviously), war (pretty obvious)

summary: War and hate. It’s what defined the world at this exact moment. You failed your comrades, and by failing them, you failed yourself. Your relationship is hanging by a thread and your enemies will not only be found on the other side of the sea, but also in the mind of the person you love the most. How will you take the reins in the face of so much destruction?

Chapter Summary: Talk doesn´t seem to be like a good attack plan and now reader has to run for their life and avoid being caught by the Jaegerists.

Words Count: 6.1k

Silence reigned in the room. Only our breaths could be heard, some agitated, others calm, as well as footsteps fading at the end of the corridor. I could feel my heart pounding hard on my chest, inwardly wishing that no one could hear it. From the distance that each one was, I doubted it was physically possible; But let's face it, in a world full of humans turned into Titans, whose possessors can regenerate their body parts, listening to the beat of a heart shouldn’t be a difficult task.

"I wanted to speak with you"

Eren's lifeless eyes weren't focused on anyone in particular, I could notice his face even darker than it had been in recent days and a look much duller. My hand on the table was very close to his, threatened with blood staining from the crimson pool that was forming on the beautiful white tablecloth.

On my left side, the little girl was shaking up and down, not looking at anyone or anything at all. She also had her hands on the table, as did everyone. I directed my gaze towards the other companions at the table, the three were reversed in a conversation that I had no intention of being part of. The only thing that interested me was to give a little security to this poor girl.

I made a little movement with my elbow and shoulder toward her, trying to get her attention, but it didn't make her turn around. I tried again, this time launching a breathless and very low 'hey', taking advantage of the voices at medium volume to lighten mine. That did work. The girl had turned her eyes to me, she was still extremely scared and it showed in her eyes and all over her face. I was very sorry to see her like this.

I gave her a slight smile, curling the tip of my lip upward, and nodded. Her gaze locked with mine for a few seconds and I could see how she was calming down, even a little, but it was there. It was a stressful situation for everyone, I didn't even want to imagine what she must feel, and if my possibilities were within bringing her some calm, I would. I made a little "s'ok" with my lips without speaking, not even whispering.

"Are you paying attention?" My gaze turned to the source of the problem again. Eren had his eyes fixed hard on my face. I thought I might have gone unnoticed, but I was wrong.

I adjusted my posture on the chair, now staring forward, but with my eyes fixed on those intense but haggard gray-green eyes. I took my gaze away from his for a second to see the girl next to me, who was again trembling with fear, and I reached my hand towards hers, returning my gaze to it’s previous position. Eren  clenched his fist at this movement and furrowed his brow even more, sending me a silent and mental warning. I ignored his threat and grabbed the girl's hand, at no point taking my eyes off his and accentuating my head up high.

"Keep your hands on the table Mikasa"

His gaze now turned to his childhood friends, standing myself alone at the side of the table, failing incredibly to calm a twelve-year-old girl. And as if there was nothing that could make the situation worse and make the moment much more stressful, they had to touch on sensitive issues, issues that were like putting a finger on the sore.

"Armin, you keep going to see Annie, do you really do it of your own free will?" Was it really necessary? There was nothing, or so it seemed, that could give any indication that Annie was about to wake up, and the fact that Armin wanted to go see her didn’t seem bad at all, or at least that’s what I thought; Indeed, it clearly showed Armin's sentimental attraction to her.

Yes, Annie was an important key to the investigation of the titans, but that was four years ago, now we were just sitting back in the chair and hoping that, by some miracle, the glass that surrounded Annie and left her in a reverie state will unfreeze. That Armin came to see her didn’t change anything in the plans of the militancy, much less the legion.

"Since you inherited the memories, a part of you is now Berthold"

Ah, that’s where the shots came from. It was difficult to understand the powers and responsibilities that came with being a titan shifter. We weren’t only talking about the short life that the owners unfortunately had to endure, but also the memories of their predecessors, memories that could haunt their current owner.

Likewise, blaming Armin for Berthold's memories wasn't going to fix things. Armin was still Armin, the sweet and calm boy, willing to fight if necessary, but always opting for the least violent solution, the most civilized one. He tried it on Annie and he tried it on Berthold, failing both times.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to blame Armin for having the memories of one of our enemies in his mind, memories that I never wish to obtain or see. As far as I knew, Grisha's memories, while they had been an impact towards the general knowledge of the world, hadn’t shaped Eren ... had they?

Nor was it fair to see how the same boy who had so supported his childhood friend in the years as a recruit, was internally unbalanced by the stubbornness of that friend. See how fear invaded his gaze and he was petrified to such putrid revelations.

"Eren ..." I tried to stop him, God, I swear I tried to stop him.

I tried to use the word my comrades wanted to use so badly, the words Armin wanted to use, but they weren't enough. In a thousandth of seconds, horrific ideas flashed through my mind, wishing none of them would come true. If the conversation went this way, it could end not just a friendship of years, but the sanity of all of us. I wasn't important in this trio, I was an add-on, and I couldn't allow Eren to continue destroying relationships and people wherever he stepped.

But I wasn't quick enough to stop him with words. When he finished defenestrating Armin, he turned his attention to Mikasa. Of all the people, the one who I was most afraid was her, the person who would collapse the most if he detached himself from her half-brother.

"You too Mikasa"

My eyes went wide as I heard the truths of the Ackerman clan. Created and genetically engineered to protect and follow orders, without conscience, without free will. Mikasa was devastated and I could see in her eyes how images of her childhood passed through her mind, images and memories that now seemed like a lie, a sham.

"In short ... a clan created to protect others who have no conscience of their own"

"Eren, stop" Armin was just as scared as I was, praying to any God who had been watching us that so much evil stop at once, that those words would stop coming out of that damn viperine tongue. Eren was vomiting word after word, without measuring the consequences, without measuring the damage it could cause to Mikasa's mind.

"In other words, slaves"

The situation was getting out of hand. Nothing we could say or do right now was going to help. The conversation that Armin wanted with all his might to take place was going overboard. If the others could be present with us, they would see clearly like me how the faith in his friend was dissipating with the seconds in the blond's gaze.

"At last I understand why I hated to see a slave who carried out all orders without question"

His eyes were filled with hatred, resentment, anger, contempt, and a thousand other degenerative feelings. His intention was very clear the moment he entered the room: to hurt; and he was succeeding.

He’d done me a lot of damage in the last year, such damage that it reached the darkest and inner corridors of my mind and it was impossible for me to move forward on a gray and dubious course, and now he was willing to continue doing more damage, this time to his closest friends, those people that I never thought, that never crossed my mind, he could destroy internally. He was annihilating their willpower and their desire to fight, and he’s doing so by colossal steps.

"Eren that's enough!" Armin and I shouted in unison. We didn’t necessary have to say a word or look at each other to know that the next words were going to be disastrous.

"Mikasa, I have always hated you"

That was the breaking point. Mikasa's eyes filled with tears and they didn't last for a second on her lids, they were already being spilled onto her cheeks. She was completely devastated and I couldn't blame her. The person who had given her a home after the brutal murder of her parents, the person to whom she was so devoted and would give her life, was turning his back on her, as well as killing sentimentally.

"You damn bastard!"

Armin jumped on the table with the intention of reaching the dark-haired man, but he didn’t get very far, being pulled from the chest to the hard wood of the furniture by Mikasa herself. And that only made the situation worse and agreed with Eren. It was as if fate was laughing at us for trying to pull the strings of our paths, strings that handled us like puppets and over which we had no control.

Mikasa let go of Armin's hand when she realized the act she just did, horrified with herself, and he now had the opportunity to pounce on Eren, throwing a punch in the middle of his face and throwing him to the floor. With that, the table flew backwards and in a reflex action, I also threw myself back, letting the chair fall to one side and avoiding any blow that the table could give me.

Unconsciously I lunged towards the girl next to me, preventing at all times that the table hit her or that some of the two men who were fighting each other to ended up bumping into her. I pushed her away from any crossing point and hid her behind my back, using my body as a shield against any impact that could shoot towards our position. Mikasa had also run to the left side of the wine cabinet, contemplating the scene before hers with complete sadness.

Eren's fist slammed into Armin's face, throwing him straight into the cabinet, knocking a few wines against his back and knocking a couple of ceramic plates to the floor. My instincts screamed I needed to help Armin, even knowing that he could regenerate in a matter of seconds, that the cuts and bruises weren't going to last long, but that wasn't why I wanted to help him.

It wasn’t the pain and physical blows that worried me, but the psychological anger and damage that this was entailing.

"Jaeger-san!"

Two followers slammed into the room, pointing their rifles directly at Armin and Mikasa's heads. They were unaware of my presence, paying more attention to the boy beaten from head to toe and the girl crying like a river.

I took a step forward and reaffirmed my theory, my presence wasn’t being recognized. I took another step, and another, and another, until I was right next to the fallen table and turned around, making sure the girl was still where I left her, that she was safe and sound. I gestured with my finger to my lips for her to be quiet and to stay still and turned to the scene in front of me. Eren kept beating poor Armin, who was unable to defend himself properly. He was right, in a hand-to-hand fight, Armin would be the worst off, even myself, but that didn't mean I couldn't manage to come out victorious.

Next to me, the chair Eren was sitting at a few seconds ago was still in the same place where he felt. With great care and tranquility, I bent down to grasp the back legs of it, without taking my eyes off Eren or the pseudo-guards who still had with their rifles at a shooting position, raised it to the height of my head and then smashed it against the two armed men in the stomach area. I hurriedly kicked each of them to the face, preventing them from having a chance to get up quickly, just as I slung the rifles from their shoulders with the same leg and pushed them away under a window. Without wasting time, I turned around to find Eren realizing the events that were happening next to him, and I wedged a blow in the middle of his face, in the same way Armin had done.

The blow hadn't been quite strong since he didn't fall to the ground, but it was enough to throw him off balance and make him leave Armin alone. The blonde fell to the floor, exhausted and sore from the multiple punchs to the face he had suffered, and I continued to give a new blow to the stomach height to the brunette in front of me. One of his knees fell to the ground, giving me the opportunity to grab his arm and twist him from behind, immobilizing him. I put my other arm over his armpit, preventing him from moving his arms and his upper body.

“That’s enought you fucking bastard. Mikasa..."

My face was on the crook of Eren's neck, preventing me from seeing clearly ahead, but my partial gaze sought out those tear-filled gray eyes to signal her to help me. My voice was already a signal for help even if I wasn't yelling. I could see how those eyes were full of conflicts, a battle was being fought inside her mind and she seemed to not be able to reason what she saw.

"MIKASA!"

This time I did yell, asking with all my will Mikasa could come to her senses, that she could help me with the lost cause Eren was now. I wasn’t going to be able to control him for much longer, I didn’t have the necessary strength and that was why I was trying to reach her. But the fear in my eyes was reflected when I saw that she wasn’t moving, that she was simply watching with tears in her eyes, eyes that would surely be cloudy and couldn’t see clearly. My fear was reflected when I saw that no one was going to be able to help me.

Eren hit his head against mine, right on the septum of my nose. My head jerked back involuntarily and my arms lost support on his. He grabbed my left hand, holding it high, much higher than my head, uncovering my stomach and his knee hitting it’s pit, not just once, but twice. His leg hit my knee, yanking it back and knocking me off what little balance I had left.

His grip on my hand released and I fell hard on my knees and hands onto the wooden floor. My stomach was spasming and I regurgitated bile, struggling to take in some air that I was deprived of in a matter of milliseconds. I coughed all I could until my stomach settled back, but I was unable to get back to my feet. I felt two pairs of hands grab my arms and I stood up abruptly, grabbing my hair even and looking up as the turquoise eyes set at my point of view.

"Why do you always have to be in the middle? Why can you never stay quiet in a corner without sticking your nose in someone else's butt? " Without my noticing, his fist slammed into my nose, hitting the septum back and most likely breaking it. My head cocked to the side and I could see drops of blood falling to the ground and a stream spreading from under my nostrils to my chin. "It was frustrating to see how in all the missions you were there, being a useless without importance"

Useless? I was the one who treated his wounds in training, tying his head when he hit the stone floor in his practice with the movement equipment. I was the one who put cold water on his ankle when he bent it while running through the lush forest on a rainy day. I was the one who pushed him to the side when he was going to hit a stone face down for not looking where he was going. I was one of those who saved him when he was captured by Reiner and Berthold. I was the one who pulled him out of the middle of an onslaught of titans when he first activated the coordinate, even with a wounded and bleeding shoulder.

I was the one who slapped him to make him stop crying inside the cave when Rod Reiss was transforming, claiming this wasn’t the time for his tantrums and that if he wanted to make a change in this whole twisted story, he better put down the crocodile tears for when he was in the quiet of his bed.

It was me who warned him of dozens of Marleyan soldiers when he shed from his titan back at Libero.

“And yet you continued to stick to me like a lap dog to the leg of it’s owner. Yet another slave. Makes me gag just looking at your face"

I turned my face to him, fixing my eyes on his, conveying all the hatred and contempt he was making me feel. I felt my heart shrink at such crude words, but my duel had started several weeks ago and they didn’t achieve the same effect as with Mikasa. What he did was get me to give him a contemptuous half smile and laugh in his face. His eyes darkened when he saw my reaction. Whether he expected it or not was no longer important to me. He gave a slight nod to the men behind me and I noticed how my arms were gathered around my back and tightened so that I couldn't move. One of them walked away from me and went straight towards Mikasa and Armin, pointing his rifle at their heads.

"Take them, the brat who killed Sasha too"

I wasn’t going to allow it.

My two comrades were pushed into the corridor outside while I glared at them waiting for my turn to go out with the man behind me. The girl was completely scared and she had walked to the door of her own will, perhaps avoiding being further hurt. The moment Eren was about to leave, I slapped my head against the man's face repeatedly until his grip weakened and I was able to move freely again. I turned to him, kneeing him in the face and stomach. When I managed to reduce him to the ground, making him roll into a ball and couldn't move without causing him pain when he breathed, I wanted to turn towards the door with the sole intention of getting the poor girl out of the conflict. My hand was halfway searching for her when Eren grabbed it and yanked me back violently, slamming me against the table.

I lost my balance for a second and as an involuntary act I grabbed the tablecloth, but that didn’t do much, making me fall to the floor in the same way. Eren lunged at me, his body falling completely on top of mine and pinning me to the ground. His legs were positioned at each place of my torso and his fist hit my face not once, not twice, but three times, noticing how the cheek bone began to burn. I lifted my knee to the side of his ribs, my nails finding the skin of his face, and pushed him toward the table, hitting his back against the hard wood and tangling with the tablecloth.

I got up to run, but his leg hit my ankle causing me to fall on my face and hands. When I wanted to turn around again I felt his weight against mine, his legs now better placed on my knees and both hands holding my neck. He squeezed, I felt like the air was beginning to thin, my vision was turning white and I could feel my face redden. I tried to hit him in the face, but I wasn't strong enough to make him stop. I reached the same hand towards my side visualizing one of the chairs thrown by the fight with Armin but Eren was faster and his knee was now pressing against my inner arm.

I was running out of air and at any moment I was going to lose consciousness. In a desperate attempt I turned my eyes around me as best I could and found a bottle of wine broken in half lying a few inches from us, though too far away for me to just reach out. My fingers couldn't even touch the surface of the glass and on my last attempt before I fainted, I pushed myself towards the bottle, grabbed it by the spout, and pulled it towards Eren's face, driving the broken surface onto his cheek and eye. 

Eren grunted in pain and released his hands from my neck, giving me a chance to push him back with both legs and barely get up to run. With cloudy vision and an incredible urge to cough thanks to the pressure on my cervicals and thyroids, I could not make out the whereabouts of the Marleyan girl and ran out the door to the corridor. As I passed the threshold slamming the door wide, rifle bullets were aimed at me, miraculously failing to hit my body. I shrunk my body as much as I could without stopping my feet and looked towards the end of the corridor, finding the second man who was with Armin and Mikasa shooting at me from behind them.

I was about to fall to the ground when Mikasa slammed her shoulder against his, causing him to stagger backward and she struggled to get the rifle out of his hands. In those few seconds of advantage, Armin stepped between the line of fire and me in case any bullets were fired and yelled from his position.

"Go!" I don’t know if it was due to lack of air that I couldn’t react at all quickly and when seeing my indecision to run to where the two of them were or go through the back window, Armin again shouted angrier and more determined "Just go!"

Behind me was a window with broken glass, I assumed due to the bullet holes of the rifle, with a simple blow with my elbow I could break a large part of the glass and jump to the side of the street, but not before giving one last look at Armin and Mikasa, who were still battling the man and Eren coming out of the room half healed and with smoke coming from his wounds.

I fell onto the cobbled street and started running towards the main avenue. My legs were on fire and my lungs were about to collapse, every step I took was a stronger pain in my throat. I wanted to stop and cough to regain normality in my breathing, but I heard behind me the footsteps of people running and yelling to stop me. They were chasing me and if I kept on foot I wasn't going to get very far. I put my fingers to my mouth and whistled as best I could, calling out to Phillip from afar. I had left my horse right at the front door of the restaurant, on the other side of the avenue, so I ran in that direction in order to find him early.

The so-called Jaegerists kept firing behind me, a bullet struck my leg and hit the stone on the ground and ricocheted to the left side against a house. Multiple bullets continued to brush my body, some passing very close to my face and others aimed directly at my legs. In the distance I could see Phillip riding towards me, getting closer and closer. When he came to my side, without stopping, I grabbed his leash and jumped on his back, leaving half my body hanging from lack of strength. I grabbed his neck and motioned for him to turn around and head straight for the avenue.

Phillip was always a fast horse, I thanked the universe for entrusting me to this horse from the first recon mission. He was always there for me, a loyal, strong and very audacious horse, banking me on every expedition and whatever madness crossed my mind to save my companions or myself. I always thanked him for his swiftness and now more than ever I was thanking him in a shaking voice as he continued galloping through the crowd, heading toward the wall’s gate.

Having left the Jaegerists at a considerable distance, I positioned myself correctly on his back, grabbing onto the leash and leaning forward to stroke his head for his great work. I gave myself the freedom to cough and clear my throat of any discomfort, but multiple blows and a firm rumbling behind us made me realize that nothing was over yet, as they were still chasing me, now with their own horses. There weren't many, maybe five or six people and a coach from what I could make out from the hollow of my shoulder, but they were armed and that was what made them dangerous.

I told Phillip to keep riding, to go even faster, to get to the gate as soon as possible. With the riding, the saddle hit my legs and crotch, annoying and hurting me at the same time, but I had to hold it and keep going; we had to get to the gate and fast, very fast. We were a few blocks away when I saw the gate in the distance, wide open and with their respective guards on either side of the threshold.

"Close the door!" I screamed as loudly as I could, feeling my vocal cords tear in the attempt and made my throat hurt even more. The guards turned their heads towards my figure, but none deigned to do what I asked them, they just stared at me stupidly.

"CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR!" I coughed as I let out such a scream hoping it was clear enough in the message. Seeing me continue to gallop towards the gate and now hearing the bullets being fired, the guards ran towards the internal mechanism and began to close it, giving me enough time to pass through it without being crushed.

The gate ended up closing when Phillip had already traveled about ten meters outside the wall, leaving the Jaegerists on the other side.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I dipped my head into the clear water of the river. The cold of the current massaged my battered muscles and cleaned the still bleeding wounds. It was already the third time that I’d put my head in the water and I could notice how little by little the pain was dissipating, but knew that the next day I would have a remotely swollen face and a septum to treat.

We had gotten quite far from the wall, maybe forty minutes or an hour galloping, and we had stayed by the river so as not to get lost. Phillip took the time to drink plenty of water and eat some of the dry grass that surrounded the river; I owed my partner a big one and if it was necessary to spend the little savings I had on a better chair and care for him, I would give it all… but when things were calmer and we could go home.

I lay on my back on the grass into a star-shaped possition and gazed up at the clear sky except for a few fluffy clouds. If it din’t for the recurring events in the last month, I would have taken the liberty of enjoying this beautiful day and the days before that surely there were, but I was too blind and busy to notice them.

The grass felt soft except for a few small stones scattered unevenly and the small field insects that landed on my arms and face and then flew off. It was relaxing, too relaxing. The heat of the sun's rays hit my skin and gave me a comforting sensation that soaked down to my bones, generating a pleasant interior warmth and tingling; I wanted to sleep, I wanted to rest, my body was forcing me to take a break, and this place, this moment, seemed like the perfect one. I closed my eyes, wishing sleep and tranquility would come as quickly as possible, but a vibration in the floor and Phillip's screaming snapped me out of my trance.

I raised my head, surveying my surroundings, the vibrations getting stronger as if they were getting closer. I looked at Phillip and followed his line of sight, far over the horizon, there was a litter of horses galloping over the stone paths that had been built a couple of years ago between each wall. Green overcoats could be distinguished over the horizon of the clear blue sky.

"Fuck, I was hoping to be calm for a couple more hours, come on Phillip"

I got on the back of my horse for the third time that day and directed it to the opposite side of where the other horses were riding. Being in the middle of an open field, there weren’t many houses where to take refuge, even though they had built a lot of houses between both walls. A little in the distance was a lush forest of tall trees, but not as tall as those of the Forest of Giant Trees, that enormous nature of fifty and eighty meters.

We stopped right at the entrance, hoping we had distanced ourselves from the litter of horses, but when I got off Phillip to rest my legs, I saw the path we had come from, and in the distance the same horses that he had seen on the stone path were approaching. There was no longer any doubt that they were the Jaegerists.

I turned my head towards the forest, from what I could see from the entrance the trees weren’t at a considerable distance from each other and the small dirt roads were too narrow. I didn’t know this forest at all and the mere fact of entering without knowing the terrain through the narrow corridors didn’t give me much confidence. But going around it wasn’t a good option either and I would end up being visualized in a matter of seconds. We were in a dead end, in a maze, and I had to play the few cards I had cleverly. I unbuttoned the coat which was already very badly placed on my shoulders and tied it on the strap.

"Phillip I need you to keep running, go as fast as you can and as far as your legs can reach" I pulled the saddle off his back, dropping it to the ground and tried to hide it inside a nearby bush with my foot. I brought his head closer to mine, resting my forehead on his muzzle and stroking his side one last time before saying goodbye.

"Go!" I smacked him on the back and Phillip ran down the narrow forest paths. As for me, I tried to dispel the footprints the horse had left behind before sending me to run down another path and go as far as I could into the heart of the forest.

I ran, ran and ran, my legs were on the edge, branches and thorns were digging into my skin making it burn every time other scratches were created in the same place. At this fact, I was resigned to the fact my clothes were bleeding and torn, as well as the matted hair and bruises on my body. My foot made contact with a tree root and I fell between the others, right in a hole, hitting my head and shoulder in the fall. I scraped my arm too, and my shirt was now full of dirt and dry leaves; surely my hair was the same. I heard heavy footsteps near me and I rolled into a ball in the hole, hiding behind the tree and seeking its protection.

"Find them, we can't let them escape"

Six people broke up and each one ran in a different direction in search of me. For an instant, my heart skipped a beat and my breath hitched when I saw one of them pass by the side of the tree where I was. At no point did he turn towards my location so I was able to breathe again. Minutes passed until I stopped hearing nearby footsteps, I got up leaning against the bark and kept walking inward, finding myself up a steep hill down.

I let gravity guide me and my feet unconsciously ran downward, avoiding rocks and bushes along the way. As I reached the low surface of the hill I tripped over my feet, losing my balance and colliding with a small tree that was right in the middle of where I was walking. As I stood up and turned it around, I came face to face with a Jaegerist, hooded, rifle in hand.

"Hey! You- "

My reflexes acted on instinct, my leg went straight to his ribs, hitting him squarely in the side of his stomach. I grabbed the rifle with both hands and hit it with the butt on both sides of the face and discarded it to the side when blood began to come out of his mouth. My hand went straight to his head, slamming it against the tree over and over again without stopping until his body fell unconscious on the grass. The interaction lasted no more than fifteen seconds, but it felt like I was about to explode. So many blows received and produced were leaving collateral effects on my body; at any moment I would pass out.

During the three years of training I have gotten used to physical confrontation and body training that lasted more than five hours, not to mention the months we spent annihilating each Titan within the walls. Those missions that lasted all day, if not more, were nothing compared to what my body was going through right now.

I sat next to the body, trying to catch my breath and rest my eyes. I rested my head on the tree and when I opened my eyes I saw a black figure in the middle of a grove a few meters away. He didn’t carry a rifle and seemed to have no intention of running to any specific place, he simply deigned to look around him, at the ground and towards the treetops. I froze to see Eren staring down at the body.

I shrank as much as I could to the left, hiding in the middle of the bushes, body to the ground, without taking my eyes off that figure that was now heading towards the unconscious body of one of his followers. I crawled back until I found a tree wide enough to hide.

"I know you are here"

It was the only thing I heard him say. My blood ran cold and a cold sweat began to form on my forehead. I was scared, very scared, I wasn’t going to deny it, but this wasn’t the time to sit and watch how they corner me little by little until they capture me. If this was the moment, I was going to give everything to get out of here. I stood up resolutely, taking a deep breath, and showed my face to my perpetrator.

"Do you want to pick up where we left off?"

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[themetaphorgirl]

in which Emily makes a poor choice

HEY Y’ALL I AM BACK!!! WITH A PATRON SAINT DRABBLE!!

Y’all can thank @linguinereid for this one!! Sweet Bee suggested this and I ended up writing part of it while I was in line for rides at Epcot. 

I’m excited to be writing and posting again!! Please tell me what y’all think of this one, and tell me what I’ve missed in the past couple of weeks!!

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Emily poked at her ear, trying to twist around to get a better look in the mirror. “Shit,” she mumbled, wincing as she prodded a sore spot. She leaned across the bathroom counter, almost sitting in the sink. “I think I fucked up. Shit.”

“That looks infected.”

She jumped in surprise and fell off the counter, hitting the faucet on her way down and splashing water across her shirt. “What the fuck!” she exclaimed. Spencer stood in the bathroom doorway, head tilted and eyes wide like a very small owl. “You little gremlin, you scared the shit out of me! What are you doing in here?”

“You left the door open,” Spencer said. “What’s wrong with your ear?”

She fumbled to turn off the faucet and pick up Hotch’s knocked-over toothbrush. “Nothing.”

“It’s red and swollen,” he said. “That’s a sign of infection. What did you do?” His eyes went wide. “Did you get that piercing after Hotch told you it was a bad idea?”

She smoothed her hair down over her ear. “Nope,” she said. “Why would you think that?”

“I heard you guys arguing about it,” he said. “Hotch said it was against dress code, and you said you didn’t give two fucks about dress code, and he said you were shit at cleaning the piercings you already have and you’d fuck up your ears, and you said-”

“Okay, okay, you and your eidetic memory can stop at literally any time,” Emily said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that big a deal. There was a girl at the party last weekend who said she’d pierced like everybody’s ears at camp last summer, and she’d always wanted to try an industrial, and-” She paused. “Why am I explaining myself to you? You’re ten.”

“Nine.”

“Close enough. Why are you here, anyway?”

Spencer shifted his weight. “I have to pee,” he said.

“All right, I’ll get out,” Emily said. “But not a word to Hotch, understand? Not a single word. He cannot know about this. You know how smug he gets when he right about something.”

“Is he right, though?” Spencer said. “Did you fuck up your ear?”

“Okay, no swearing either, Alex will murder me if you pick up on me swearing,” Emily said. She stepped out of the bathroom and gave Spencer a little push inside. “Seriously, though. Don’t tell Alex either. You know she’ll be pissed at me too. I’ll- I’ll buy you that Star Wars lego set you want as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

Spencer brightened. “The Millennium Falcon?” he said.

“Sure, sure, why not, just keep your mouth shut!”

She closed the bathroom door and went back down the hall to the common room. It was Derek’s week to pick for movie night; he was having a great time with whatever Will Ferrell comedy he’d chosen, but Hotch was focused on his homework and Alex was reading a book. Emily sat down in her usual spot, tucking her legs underneath her. Her ear was still burning, but she brushed her hair over it surreptitiously. She could keep it a secret, as long as Spencer did. It would be fine.

By Tuesday, she realized it was not fine.

Her ear continued to swell and throb, the skin red and stretched tight around the barbell in the cartilage. She’d had to actually style her hair every morning instead of throwing it up in a messy ponytail or bun, or asking JJ or Alex to braid it for her. It wouldn’t take long for Alex to catch if she kept this up- she was famous for rolling out of bed at the last minute, getting up early to do her hair was drastically out of character. But she wasn’t sure who to be more afraid of catching her, Hotch or Alex.

She sat down at their usual table in the dining hall and pulled her hair back behind her ear, hissing when her nails brushed the irritated skin. “Oh, fuck,” she mumbled under her breath. It wasn’t good. It really wasn’t good. 

Spencer climbed up on the chair beside her. “Are you doing okay?” he asked. 

She sighed heavily. “How bad does it look?” she asked. 

Spencer knelt on the chair so he could lean his elbows on the table. “Pretty bad,” he said. “Ew, is it oozing? I think it’s oozing.” He wrinkled his nose. “You should tell somebody.”

“Like hell I will,” she said, pulling her hair back into place. “This is a hill I will die on.” She paused. “This...this won’t kill me, will it? I won’t actually die on this hill?”

“Probably not, but infection was one of the leading causes of death during the Civil War,” he shrugged. “Try rinsing with saltwater, that might help.”

“Really?”

“Couldn’t hurt. I mean, in a manner of speaking. It’ll probably hurt a lot.”

Emily blinked. “That wasn’t reassuring, babe,” she said.

Hotch walked over to them and set his tray down. “What are you two talking about?” he asked as he sat down and cracked the top of his yellow Red Bull.

“Nothing,” Emily said quickly, dropping her fork in an effort to pick it up fast.

Alex set a glass of milk down on Spencer’s tray. “Sit on your butt or you’re going to fall on the floor again,” she said. 

Spencer tilted his head back to look up at her. “I wanted chocolate milk,” he objected. 

“Plain first, darling,” she said, bending to kiss his forehead. “Now sit down before you fall out of your chair.” Spencer obeyed, sliding down from his knees to sit down. 

Emily poked her fork around in her scrambled eggs. They were way too yellow and a little watery around the edges, and her stomach turned. “Emily, are you okay?” Hotch asked. 

“Yeah, fine, why do you ask?”

He gestured towards her tray with his Red Bull can. “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything since you came back from the party on Friday night,” he said. “Are you still sulking because I told you not to pierce your ear?”

“I don’t sulk,” Emily scoffed.

“Yes, you do,” Hotch said. “You’re pissed because you know I’m right, and it would be a terrible idea to get an industrial. Especially since you don’t have a guardian over eighteen to sign off on it, so it’d be illegal.”

Emily stabbed her fork into the eggs. “I’m fine and I’m not sulking,” she said. “But you’re wrong. I’ll be fine if I get my ear pierced.”

She met Spencer’s gaze. His hazel eyes were wide, glancing over first at Hotch and then at Alex, but he kept his mouth shut. Her ear throbbed, but she wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they were right. 

By Friday, she knew they were right, and she hated it, but damn, her ear hurt. 

She huddled in the corner of the library sofa, her history textbook open on her lap but long forgotten. Her ear was an ever-present pain now, too sensitive to touch, and oozing something disgusting. 

The library was quiet and peaceful, rain tapping steadily on the window. James was sorting through his anatomy flashcards while Dave pretended to write a paper while he was really working on the novel he claimed he wasn’t writing. Spencer was lying on his tummy on the floor, absorbed in a book far above his grade level. The rest of the kids were at clubs or practices, and Alex passed by in her own paths as she shelved books and answered questions.

She glanced up to see Spencer watching her poke at her ear; she dropped her hand and glared at him. “Don’t say anything,” she said to him sharply in Russian. “Remember the Millennium Falcon.”

He sighed heavily. “Your ear looks really bad,” he said. His Russian wasn’t as strong as his Italian, and his accent was terrible, but at least James and Dave wouldn’t understand them.

“Not a word!” she said.

Alex plunked down on the opposite side of the couch, jostling Emily and making her scowl. “I’m taking a break,” she sighed. “The sophomores are working on their poetry projects and I don’t want to discuss Ezra Pound anymore.”

Spencer pushed himself up from the floor. “Alex?” he said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, dearest,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “What’s up?”

“If I told you I wanted to do something and you said no, and I did it anyway, would you be mad at me?” he asked.

Emily shot him a dirty look, but he ignored her. “Well, I might be a bit disappointed, but I don’t think I’d be mad,” Alex said, squeezing his hands. 

“If I did the thing anyway, and I ended up getting hurt, would you be mad at me?” he asked. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” Alex said, drawing him onto her lap.

“And you wouldn’t tell me you told me so? And you’d help me?” he continued. 

She frowned, clearly concerned over this line of conversation, and hugged him. “Of course I’d help you, baby,” she said. She stroked his hair away from his forehead. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Spencer leaned around Alex’s shoulder to make direct eye contact with Emily. She sighed heavily. “So...you know how I wanted to get an industrial piercing, and you and Hotch said it would be a bad idea?” she said hesitantly.

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she said. “Why?” Emily tucked her hair slowly behind her ear. “Emily, holy shit!”

“It’s pretty bad, huh?” Emily said glumly.

Alex moved Spencer hastily off her lap and leaned over Emily to take a better look at her ear. “Oh my god,” she said. “James, can you come take a look at this?”

James pulled his headphones off. “Hm?” he said. “Oh shit! Emily, what did you do?”

She submitted reluctantly to his poking and prodding. “So a girl at the party last week offered to pierce my ear,” she said. “And it...kind of went wrong.”

“That looks like it hurts,” Alex said, smoothing her hair. “It looks super infected.”

“Yeah, that’s the medical term for it,” James said. “Holy shit, Prentiss, I can’t believe you pulled a Parent Trap.”

“A Parent Trap?”

“Yeah, when Hallie pierces Annie’s ear with a sewing needle, an apple, and...you know what, never mind.”

Emily winced as the earring shifted. “Can you just...make Hotch promise that he won’t say I told you so?” she said. 

“I think he’ll agree that you’ve suffered enough,” Alex reassured her. 

Spencer hovered at her elbow. “I would have said something sooner, but Emily said she’d buy me the Millennium Falcon set,” he said.

“Please don’t scold me for bribing the baby, either,” Emily said. 

“Okay, I might scold you about that one.”

[warsofasoiaf]

Its been awhile since you've done any character analysis on Fallout New Vegas, but would you be willing to go into one for some of the minor characters? I'm actually curios of your opinion on Silus the captured centurion and his motivations.

I’m more than happy to, although this won’t be about Silus so much as it will be about the quest Silus Treatment. It’s one of my favorite quests in the game, since it does a great deal just with dialogue and some creative use with the engine to create an engaging quest that showcases some of the failures of the NCR and the Legion. Given that the central theme is about picking a faction, warts and all, having a quest that puts the two main faction of New Vegas on full display is an absolutely good idea. The game is too old for spoilers, but it’s a long analysis so I’ll put a cut in.

Silus Treatment starts off simple enough, going to Camp McCarran, in the old McCarran International Airport, now the regional command post of Colonel Hsu. McCarran is not in a great spot when you first get there; there are periodic Fiend attacks, tensions in Freeside are causing havoc for NCR civilians, the overstretched NCR supply lines are making it difficult even for their central point of operations, and there’s a strong possibility that they’ve been infiltrated. It’s all Colonel Hsu can do to keep order and function in the base. Perfect protagonist fodder, in other words, for a nice quest hub.

It’s a tough needle to thread in any RPG to build a quest hub where there’s stuff for a character to do. If everyone is incapable of solving even the most basic of problems, it gives a great deal of quests for the player to do but it makes the quest-givers look incompetent, especially if the quest-givers are supposed to be capable figures in their own right. Conversely, if the NPC’s are competent, then the quests would be solved and that would close out on content for the player. There’s plenty of ways to settle this, and the devs do an adequate job here. The war effort means prioritization, and Hsu is dealing with being torn from both angles. He can’t just hunt down the Fiends, because he needs to organize patrols and deal with NCR settlers in the area. He can’t just pacify Freeside because it will engender hostility with House and so he’s delaying the order from his butcher superiors like Moore to go in with fire and sword. He doesn’t have a solution to the Kings but he’s trying to find one, which as far as writing goes is a good solution. Hsu is a decent man but overworked. He’s hoping that he can develop a solution in time before Cassandra Moore decides to pull rank and go on the warpath against all who oppose the NCR, which leaves a convenient spot for the player.

It’s this person that gives us our introduction to the Silus Treatment questline. Hsu has a valuable prize: Silus, a captured Legion centurion! Typically centurions always commit suicide rather than be captured to deny any useful intelligence to the enemy, so to capture a centurion alive should be quite a find. But it’s not going so well. Lt Carrie Boyd, in charge of base security, can’t get Silus to talk. Again, perfect quest writing to get the PC involved in the plot. Normally such a sensitive operation would never be given to an unknown civilian contractor, even for a bureaucratic mess like the NCR. Frontier desperation, hitting a wall via official channels, and the fact that the character is the protagonist in a sprawling open world help it pass ludonarrative muster.

Boyd is a real piece of work, she’s openly sadistic hiding beneath of veneer of civility. She considers the humane treatment of POW’s as an impediment, and so looks for ways around it. Notably, while she wants information from Silus to deliver to her superiors, she’ll settle for just having Silus beaten so bloody that he can’t speak anymore, calling it “entertainment.” This is a person who simply should not be in charge of interrogating a prisoner, she is neither humane nor effective at her job, but here she is by virtue simply of being the chief MP on base.

Not that Silus, the prisoner and the other side of this duo, is better. He openly revels in the barbaric practices of the Legion’s slavery system, even trying to ensure that the slaves can never achieve some level of comfort by tightening the collars and making it difficult for them to feel at ease while eating or drinking. Even if Silus is mostly saying those things simply to get a rise out of Lieutenant Boyd, he knows what the Legion is up to and enjoys it. Silus is arrogant to an extreme degree, he is filled with confidence that he can outlast any interrogation by the feeble NCR without giving up any intelligence, that he could easily escape NCR confinement and that he is so valuable to the Legion that following Caesar’s order would be a waste. Good fodder then, for the protagonist to bring him down to size.

Silus Treatment as a quest is relatively simple. Boyd signs off on the Courier beating the ever-living tar out of Silus and then steps out for a smoke, letting the player do whatever he or she wants to the prisoner. Silus, sneering, dismisses the Courier as just another piece of NCR trash, and it’s up to the player with how to succeed. Violence is always an option, you can beat Silus, and eventually gets something useful, that the base itself will be the target of Legion destruction. Silus admits that his fantasy of escape was always a fantasy, he was dead to Caesar just as surely as he as if he had committed suicide before capture. 

Yet if the Courier has points in Speech or Intelligence, he can completely upend Boyd’s methods and actually deliver a worthwhile interrogation. The first technique, with speech, uses an interrogation technique known as Pride-and-ego-down, where the interrogator routinely belittles and demeans the prisoner, usually their technical competence or soldierly qualities, in an attempt to get the prisoner to “redeem” themselves by explaining a piece of useful intelligence that would explain the deficiency as opposed to it just being a terrible personal quality. The Courier mocks Silus as a coward (bravery being a key soldierly virtue) and he defends himself by stating his bravery and that suicide is a poor death for a soldier of his intelligence and caliber, then saying how good a soldier he is for a “self-appointed megalomaniacal dictator.” Silus then spills that Caesar held his unit for three days because of “headaches,” in actuality, it’s Caesar’s brain tumor. The technique works to an exceptionally high degree, not only does Silus divulge that McCarran has been infiltrated as in the violence ending, but also that the Legion is suffering a crisis of command due to Caesar’s illness. The Courier gets a lot of useful intelligence out of Silus and doesn’t compromise the humane treatment of prisoners in the process. If it actually caused some self-reflection in Boyd, that’d be a complete win, but I suppose we can’t have everything.

My favorite option is the intelligence option, because the Courier goes full-on PSYOPS, posing as a Legion assassin sent to kill Silus for his failure to commit suicide on Caesar’s order. Silus denies it at first, but as the Courier continues to sell the performance, Silus begins to express real terror at the thought that the Courier is actually a frumentarius sent to kill Silus before he divulges anything to the NCR. The Courier fully sells the deal using Latin phrases as the language of Caesar’s elites. The Courier can quote Cicero, “legum servi sumus” - we are all slaves to the law, in what is perhaps a perfect example of Caesar’s philosophy of totalitarian obedience. The full quote "Legum servi sumus ut liberi esse possimus” - we are slaves to the law so that we might be free, means little in Caesar’s totalitarian state where all are subject to his whims and contingency plans for Caesar’s incapacity aren’t even considered. Of course, the Roman Republic was hardly a free state, but Caesar really takes the cake with his dictatorship. If Caesar’s dictum holds true: “Corruptio optimi pessima” - the corruption of the greatest is the worst outcome. how much worse is it when Caesar himself is corrupted? But totalitarians rarely raise the possibility that they themselves are corrupt, because the good of the dictator is the good of the state. After all, L'etat c'est moi is the dictum of any dictator, not just a Sun King.

Of course, fitting New Vegas, you can side with Silus, and facilitate his escape. There, you feign beating him to unconsciousness and slip him a silenced pistol, then Silus makes good his escape, killing the guard sent to bring him back to his cell and sneaking out. Of all the endings, this one isn’t as satisfying. Some of it, of course, is that you never interact or see Silus again, so there’s never any reward to the quest except for the knowledge that the base is infiltrated, which in the pro-Legion side of the quest I Put a Spell on You allows you to complete Curtis’s sabotage operation (and a far better Legion quest, in my opinion, with the NCR quest side being even better given the multiple outcomes), but also it’s not referenced again with Caesar. What would Caesar’s reaction be to the Courier springing Silus? He is quite fond of reciting a litany of the Courier’s accomplishments in Act 2 at Fortification Hill.

If I could improve Silus Treatment, I think I would have made it so the violent path wouldn’t have produced enough valuable intel, and the player needs to do some more detective work to actually get to I Put a Spell on You, or even being mislead by Curtis and becoming the unwitting patsy of the Legion. But overall, I think it was an incredible quest and a testament to the writing in the game.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[gongju-juice]

1. Once Upon A Southern Night

Not So Bad After All

Warnings: None that I can think of

“You look lovely, Y/N, why don’t you try to be more optimistic?”

You looked up at your mother’s hopeful features. Carmine Robynson was an exceptional surgeon with national and international awards in her field. She was also the most beautiful woman you’d ever see. Her skin was a glittering porcelain white, and she had pale pink lips and caramel colored eyes that seemed to change color every now and again. Today, her long blonde hair was pinned up in a bun—perfect for a long day at her new job at the hospital.

“I’m trying to be, mom,” you whined as she ran her fingers through your hair, bringing your curls to life. “But I’m so worried. I’ve barely ventured outside the state of Alabama, how am I supposed to fit in with people from Washington State?”

Carmine rolled her eyes. “How do you think I felt when I traveled all the way from England to the States? It was terrifying, dear. Much more terrifying than you moving to a new state. I promise, you’ll be fine.”

You grabbed her things, and she locked down the house. The new house was Victorian style, like one of the houses you see in the movies. You and your mom spent months picking out the perfect furniture and decor to make your new residence come to life. It was one of the positives about the move.

In the driveway, the car hummed quietly. It was a sleek silver Mercedes, perks of a surgeon salary. You climbed in and slumped in the seat.

The drive to the school was fairly pleasant. The long, winding road was flanked on either side by towering jade green trees that cast blue shadows on the ground. The sky, as it had always been since your arrival, was gray and overcast. It was quite a difference from your sunny home back south. 

The school was small, just about the size of your old school. Except this time, it was even. . .less diverse than back home. At your old school, you were normally the only black girl in most of your classes. However, there were still others in your school that made you feel less isolated. But here, everybody was white as a wedding gown, and it made you nervous. Growing up with a white mother, you’d think you wouldn’t have that issue. But if anything, your experience as an adopted black kid made it quite clear what it was like to feel different from everyone—from black and white kids alike.

“Love you. Have a good day,” she said with a kiss to your forehead.

You climbed out of the car, and immediately shivered from the morning air. It was September, and already it felt like winter. Sixty degrees back at home was December weather.

Your first class was homeroom. The teacher, Mrs, Bobbins, made you introduce yourself to the class. Everyone was very interested in the new girl on campus—the new girl who also happened to be the only black girl in class. This interaction did lessen your nerves some, but you were still anxious to get the day over with.

Second period was Advanced Chemistry. Honestly speaking, you hated the first Chemistry. But as a part of your advanced trek, you had no choice but to take the class. It wasn’t that difficult—not when you had a full on surgeon to help you out living in the house—but still, it was not your favorite subject by a long shot.

The space between the second and third period was strange. The school was allowed to have “break”—a period of time where the staff and students alike could chill for fifteen minutes and do whatever they wanted. 

Not knowing where to go or who to talk to, you stumbled to the canopied walkway on the side of the building. Here, there were fewer students. However, at the end of the walkway by the blue double doors, a group of gorgeous looking teenagers stood conversing quietly amongst themselves.

“Hello, Y/N, isn’t it?” called a voice beside you. It was a curly-head ginger girl with the prettiest ice blue eyes and freckled skin. She was very tall, and wore athletic tights and a long volleyball shirt with the school’s Spartan mascot.

“Oh, yes. It’s me,” you said, pushing up your thin-rimmed glasses. “I’m sorry, but what’s your name?”

“Amelia Bloom. You probably didn’t notice me, but I’m in your homeroom. You’re a new student, aren’t you? Your mom is Dr. Robynson that was just hired at the hospital?”

You were impressed by how much she knew. It always took time for people to figure out that Camille was your mother. And you thought Satsuma, the town you came from, was small. But Forks hit a whole new level of “everyone knows one another.”

“Yeah, we just moved here. Sorry if I seem a little antsy or what have you. I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.” You offered your hand. “I hope we can be friends, though.”

You swore you saw the blond hair boy of the group flinch. But just as quickly as she glanced at him, you saw he had never even moved. Great. Now your mind was playing tricks on you.

“Those are the Cullens,” Amelia explained, judging you wanted an answer by the spooked expression on your face. “The most coveted teens in all of Forks. They were adopted by Dr. Carlisle and his wife Esme, who are both pretty young themselves. Don’t try to make friends with them though, they’re pretty stuck up.”

You couldn’t help but feel disappointed by that, though it was quickly replaced with a wave of optimism. 

“Well, I don’t like to judge people before I meet them, but I won’t bother them then, if that’s the case.”

The bell rang loudly just then, and Amelia showed you to your next class.

Interestingly enough, your next class was history, and in it was three of the Cullen siblings. You wanted to sit near the front of the class like you always did (on the account of your poor vision), but lamented to find that the seats were assigned. Confused and anxious to blend in, you turned to the teacher for help.

“Ah, Ms. Robynson. Lovely of you to join us today,” said the man, who informed his name was Mr. Howard. “You can take the empty seat by Jasper. Jasper, please raise your hand.”

To your surprise, the blond Cullen boy lifted his hand in the air. Just then, all of the confidence left your body. You were intimidated by utterly attractive he looked—like a daffodil in a field of weeds.

You slowly walked to your seat, which he had already pulled out. Oh God, you thought. You would have to sit by him. You would be within a foot of his presence, and you’d have to act like everything was fine.

You brushed your skirt down as you took your seat and pulled out your notebook. Already, the lavender covered book had been used. However, you loved history and couldn’t bear to throw away your pretty notes from the beginning of your old class.

The first page you turned to was marked in postage stamps from the antebellum period. You had a picture of the Oakleigh Plantation Mansion from Mobile, one of your favorite southern pieces of history.

“Okay class, it’s going to be a sensitive unit, but we are moving on to the Pre-Civil era, also known as the Antebellum Era. It’s important to know the important parts President Andrew Jackson and James Buchanan played in shaping the tensions and economic standings that inevitably led to the Civil War. So for your bellringer, you’re going to be listing some factors that led to these said tensions. You have five minutes. Begin.”

You turned to a fresh sheet of paper and took out your calligraphy pens. 

Factors that led to Pre-Civil War Tensions:

Jackson left the country in an economic depression by his withdrawal of federal funds from the National Bank in 1832, thus causing the Panic of 1837 which heavily impacted cotton exports and revenue for the Southern economy.

The expansion West caused an imbalance of power between states which made Southern states feel they had no authority in the federal government. It was an intense competition between slave states and free states.

Events such as Bleeding Kansas, Harper’s Ferry, and the Dredd-Scott Supreme Court ruling caused many across the nation to become angered.

“Does anybody have any ideas?” Mr. Howard asked.

The class was silent, and you realized it was much different from what you were used to. Where you were from, everybody knew about the Civil War—no matter how skewed or racist their beliefs were.

Beside you, Jasper raised his hand. 

“Yes, Mr. Hale.”

“James Buchanan did virtually nothing to stop the wave of seceding Southern states, and although he believed secession was wrong, he didn’t believe he had the Constitutional power to stop them. Had he quelled the fears of the slave states, the war could have been prolonged another few years.”

“Right, as always, Mr. Hale. Would anyone else like to attempt?”

“May I?” 

Mr. Howard looked at you excitedly. “Of course. Have a go, Ms. Robynson.”

“The Southern states believed that they had done nothing Constitutionally wrong. According to them, they’d only joined the Union in the first place due to the Fugitive Clause added to the Constitution for the sake of the Southern states voting on the new Constitution after the Articles of Confederation. Because Northern states violated this clause, they felt that they were breaking the so-called “contract”, and that only they, as independent states, had the power to decide if their end of the bargain was being upheld. Even though the Fugitive Clause was not a part of the immediate Pre-Civil War Era, I feel it’s the most important aspect to mention when evaluating the factors that led to the war.”

Mr. Howard clapped loudly, waking up the rest of the class. “An amazing answer. I couldn’t have said it better myself. Now, without further ado, let us begin today’s lesson.”

Beside you, the Cullen boy shifted. “Not bad,” he murmured before gazing back forward.

Your heart leapt within you.

That night, your mom arrived home at seven. You had already eaten, knowing your mom only ate late at night. She was a strict dieter and pretty much only drank the tea concoctions from her thermal cup. But you were an avid omnivore and didn’t mind eating without her.

“How was your first day at school?” she asked, setting her things down on the couch.

“It was better than I honestly expected. I even met a new friend. Her name is Amelia, and she’s the captain of the varsity volleyball team and even plays softball and golf.”

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “See, I told you everything would be fine. How’s history?”

“Mr. Howard seems to know what he’s talking about. Not nearly as biased as Mr. Davis was, but very sympathetic to the North.”

“I guess now that you’re up here, you won’t have to worry about an abundant amount of hot-head racists. But if something does happen—”

“I know, Mom. I know.”

You dressed in your silk nightgown and headed for bed. On the middle shelf of your bookcase was a model of the Oakleigh Mansion. You didn’t know what it was about it, but the antebellum era intrigued you. And this house in particular. . .

You turned on the lights inside the little house and turned off the lamp. Now it was dark in your room except for the tiny chandelier lights glittering inside the white home. 

Sighing, you turned on your side. The curtains fluttered in the light breeze from your slightly open window. This gorgeous house, and quaint little town was your home. You’d have to come to accept the changes—which were not all bad. You miss your friends, you missed the warmth and sunshine, but the world was not over.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d have the opportunity to see Jasper Hale more often.

I hate the fact I can write faster for my fanfics than my actual real-life projects but you can thank sTePhEnIe MeYeR for that.

Part Two    Part Three   Part Four

[ddp456]

My retirement

Hey, all.

Boy, um, I’m sure that title is kind of a shocker, so I’ll do my best to explain myself.  And stop me if you’ve heard this story before (or should I say, these stories before).

I created a surplus of materials and examples to go by when making a Gravity Falls/Wendy and Dipper story in the same fashion that I do.  But in my heart of hearts, I can tell you all that the souls of these stories, the thing that everyone seems to tell me makes them so real, are based upon three real people.

I grew up a lot like Dipper did.  I was a smart kid, but not that smart.  I was the one everyone pointed at as a freak.  The weirdo of the class.  The smelly kid.  I had friends; not a lot of them, but in most cases, time and distance separated us, or I drove them away of my own accord.  I won’t excuse it by saying I was different; a lot of my pain I caused myself.  I would be lying if I said I had proper guidance as well.  I couldn’t tell you how many regrets I have.

But as I got older, I met someone special; someone different.  They didn’t treat me the same as everyone else.  I couldn’t tell you if it was out of pity, or perhaps, they were able to see something that other people couldn’t.  And I appreciated it.  To be honest, I loved them for that.

“Love,” I know, is a really strong word.  It’s probably the most overused and misused word presented by most of civilization, and the majority of mass media.  To me, love means to cherish, to want to protect, to wish no harm upon, and if possible, take the blunt of any blow wishing to do so.

I like a lot of people.  I love a whole lot less, if that makes sense.

Even as I write this, I do not claim for this to be the correct way of looking at things; I can only tell you the way I saw things at the time.

Such is why I chose to hide my true feelings for the longest time.  For all of the healing and solace this person gave to me, the very last thing I wanted for them was to be the monster’s mate.  Unfortunately, my private life wasn’t too much better.  It was like there was no safe haven I could provide.

Above all things, I didn’t want them to hate me for that.

Then, as always, fate played its hand.  The good spark in my life was whisked away and I was forced to deal the rest of the world.  But after the lot of a new series of battles and worries, something amazing happened.  That little spark was reintroduced into my life.

But I was still afraid; afraid of the new monsters that would use this person to try to hurt me; afraid of a home life that wouldn’t accept them with open arms.  I wanted to get closer so very much, but kept them at a safe distance.

That is, until fate struck again.

Pinned up against the wall, at the very last moment I’d believed I’d have with said person, I confessed everything.

Kinda makes you think of a certain two dorks locked in an underground bunker, doesn’t it?

They say with age, comes wisdom, and upon looking back, I understand my youthful folly.  I shouldn’t have lied everything at their feet and expect a positive response.  They were shocked by my admission, as they had their own feelings and hopes and dreams and heart’s desires.

I believed, because of my fear, I was too late.  If I were honest from the beginning, maybe, it might have made a difference.

Despite of the distance and my own hardships, I tried my best to stay in touch with my friend.  A lot of times, it was for the better.  And a ton of times, it made things a jillion times worse.  And I’ll admit; it was my fault.  I let my own loneliness get the best of me.  The very last thing I ever wanted to do was to creep someone out.  Maybe that’s why it bugs me so much when someone jokingly says that about poor Dipper.

In the future, I would apologize for reaching out, only to have a welcome hand on my shoulder in return.  “I’m really glad you did.”

As time passed, we did grow closer; not always in the ways I hoped, but I’d be fibbing if I said I didn’t enjoy it.  We were constant valentines.  They were my first real date; my first real kiss. I’d have calls waiting for me instead of me doing the chasing.  For the first time in a very long time, I thought things were getting better.

But once again, fate would have its way...

Even after all these years, I question: how is it that upon telling a loved one that you must part ways (again), they become so upset that they strike you and demand why things are the way they are, if they do not care?

(For the record, kids.  You should NEVER let a S.O. hit you no matter what.  After all, don’t want to leave a bad example on the way out)

Part of me will always wonder if this is what made things sour between us; that eventually, I became another person that would always let them down, regardless if it were my fault or not.

Little did I know that behind their mild exterior, lived a wild heart that craved adventure and excitement.  A group of rowdy and unpredictable friends were more than eager to help scratch that itch.  I would be told incredible tales of mischief and wonder and mayhem.  And if I were honest, I would say part of me was jealous.  I wished it was just us having the adventures. I wish we could have spend the day together at an arcade.  Or a carnival.

I’ll say something else I never admitted before.  This person has told me countless times in our lives that I was their hero.  The truth is that there were several times in my life were I considered them my hero.  They were brave and independent and smart-on-their-feet and pretty much everything I wasn’t but wanted to be.

And beneath all that, there was a person who was embarrassed to be sensitive and “weak” and wanted to cry.  At that time, I cherished that person more than anything in this world.

Then, I heard about the other stories: the “close-calls.”  And that led me to believe that there would come a time where my loved one would go off on one of these wild adventures and never come back.

I wasn’t too far off.  I’ll spare you all the rest of the details.

As I said earlier, I like a lot of people, but I love even fewer.  So, it was a really long time before I could feel the same way about someone as I did before.  In the middle of all of this, I accidentally stumbled upon a show on cable called Gravity Falls, and found a kindred spirit with the male lead, Dipper Pines.

Even more so, I saw parallel lines between my personal plight and that involving Dipper and his crush, Wendy.  And while Wendy shares the same adventurous appetite as my loved one, that’s pretty much where their similarities end.

And poor Dipper, man.  Oh, the internet was just brutal to that kid.  “Robbie is the victim?”  Get outta here with that garbage.  It was the same crap I’ve heard half my life.

As I explored the GF fandom, I noticed a lot of the best Wendy/Dipper works came from fanfiction. (Thanks google!)  And I found my inspiration for stories of my own.  I was able to relate my hopes, my dreams, my fears, my doubts; bits and pieces of my real life, even if they are grossly exaggerated.  (so, no fighting ghosts, haunted mansions, or cursed arcades for me, I’m afraid)

To my surprise, the first batch of stories received a ton of feedback.  Lots of people cheered my interpretation of Wendy and Dipper, and what I hoped they’d evolve into.  (I’d give myself a 70% on that estimate)

Did all of these viewers, reviewers, and rebloggers share the same view of the world; about love as I did?

About two years in, little did I know I would get another surprise.  I would get a Dipper of my very own.

I wasn’t looking for love. Honest.  But upon new experiences and meeting new people, I discovered someone - a special speck of wonder - that became enamored with me.  I didn’t notice it at first.  I still find it odd that someone can look or think of me in such a way.

But I remember what happened the last time I hesitated.  I always said that in the slim chance I would ever get a second chance, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes twice.

I kept my word and enjoyed the best years of my life.

I made up a lot of lost time with an adorable hipster with a similar spirit to Wendy.  An old soul, they loved retro culture as a whole: the movies, the music, even the video games.  Their literary tastes were also very similar to mine.  I couldn’t tell you the last time I had a conversation with someone about books outside of a school setting.

But at the same time, you could see Dipper’s innocence there as well.  A tough attitude hid a fragile heart. A hidden brilliance was often overshadowed by a lack of courage and self-esteem.

It was around this time that I noticed new comments on my latest stories.  People were saying that I was (inadvertently) writing a stronger and more detailed Wendy.  At first, I didn’t understand what they meant.  Then, after thinking about it, I finally got what others were noticing.

My Wendy had changed because I had changed.  Somehow, I gained a deeper insight on her character and the way she would view certain aspects of her life, I was now a Wendy myself, with a little Dipper that thought the world of me, and for this, I tried my best to make sure they would never feel the growing pains that Dipper (or a younger me, for that matter) would usually face alone.  I was their cheering section, their coach, their backup, and I encorporated all of these things into our favorite redhead.

I found it funny that the show would (periodically) use that same angle.  I only wish they would have done it as much as I did.

But as with all great things in my life, I royally screwed everything up.  And during a time of distress and turmoil, my little Dipper found something better and hitched their wagon elsewhere.

So, by now, you have to be asking, “Why are you telling us bits and pieces of your life?”  I do this because I want people to understand why I can’t do this anymore.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love writing the stories.  I also love the fact that there’s so many people that look forward to each tale, as if it was made by the real Gravity Falls team.  To me, that’s a great honor that very little can ever replace.

But at the same time, the series (and especially Wendy and Dipper) is so close to my heart, and in some cases, so indistinguishable from certain aspects of my personal life that it actually hurts.  For the record, I haven’t sat down and watched an episode of Gravity Falls since the Blu Ray box set came out, in which I listened to the commentary for a project for Wendip-Week.

Maybe it’s because I know what happens to Dipper and Wendy at the end of the series.  Maybe it’s because their fate reminds me so much of my own.  It’s a “Chicken or the Egg” question for sure.

This is why DBR3 and Serendipity took so long to finish.  At times, I had to force myself on the computer to write 1,000 words at a time.  It takes me months to do what I used to do in mere days or at most, a week.  I don’t have the strength or the enthusiasm to do it at the same pace.  And you all deserve better than that.

I need a break, guys and gals.  I need to clear my mind and find out what’s going on inside here.  For the first time in years, I have accomplished all of my Gravity Falls related goals.  Just to go down the line:

-Published a new chapter every weekday for a month straight in honor of the GF Season 2 Premiere.

-Created a few GF stories based in the first-person perspective.  One of them is one of my most popular stories.

-Delivered a DBR2 and DBR3 due to high demand.

-Shaped a two-part Wendy/Dipper story based in the same nature and context of the classic graphic novel, Scott Pilgrim.

-Wrote several extensions to Gravity Falls episodes that I had uneasy feelings about.

-Helped a fellow Tumblr user create a Wendy/Dipper themed full sized Christmas poem in less than 24 hours.

-Tried my hand at a Wendy and Mabel story just to try something different and to see if I could do it.

-Wrote and outlined a 50-page Gravity Falls comic after 3+ years of trying to get it off the ground.

That’s not really a bad resume, not counting all the contributor’s work I’ve done for other Wendip artists/writers or the essays, guides, and projects I helped Wendip-Week design.  Even if I still had the energy to keep going, what unexplored territory is there for me to explore?

So what does this mean?

Well, that’s up to you lot, isn’t it?

I would love it if the same fans that enjoyed my stories took up the reigns and show us in the Wendip/GF communities what they could do.  Lead the way with new Wendy and Dipper tales!  Make it about the past, present, or future!  Give us a new way to look at them, or present them in an undiscovered light.

And it doesn’t have to be writing, either.  Make a comic.  Draw a picture.  Heck, do a radio broadcast for all I care.  Express your minds, hearts, and soul and create with them just as I have.

(and as a side note; I hope my Deviantart friends take this to heart.  The last time I was on the site, the cute/adorable pic/X-rated pic ratio was greatly, greatly one-sided in a bad way)

A lot of people might be asking, “Well, you’re calling it quits. Why shouldn’t we?” 

Because if you believe in the messages I put into the stories or the effort we put into Wendip-Week, then aren’t those messages worth spreading?  Just because my personal life went to crap in a handbasket, it doesn’t mean the same would happen to anyone else.

A harsh lesson I learned with age is that you can do everything perfectly, or to the best of your abilities, and still fail.  The Gravity Falls team loved to instill this over Dipper time and time again.

I want to believe in something better.  Don’t you?

And who says I’m gone for good?  Maybe I’ll find a new form of inspiration and come up with an unique idea that I just can’t keep to myself,  Perhaps Gravity Falls will come back in some form and ignite enough of a fire in me to pull a comeback.

But, until then, I plan on taking a long, well-deserved break.  After all, I have a ton of missed Wendip Week submissions to catch up on.  I promised myself I wouldn’t check them out until my final story is completed.  It looks like that day is finally here.

However, it is the holiday season, and for this, I wish to leave you all with three different sources of inspiration.  Maybe it’ll help; maybe it won’t.

1.  An inspirational letter from none other than my namesake.

2.  A key word of advice from one of the only series that could stand up to Gravity Falls’ legacy.  It is a message I wish I could have learned sooner.

3.  And simply because we NEED more sources of strong females (and something I wish I would have found in time for the Spider-Man essay), here is a tumblr blog dedicated to my favorite Marvel female, who IMHO is as close to an adult Wendy as we’ll get,

I wish you all a happy holiday, and hope that my announcement hasn’t dashed your holiday spirit.  I am forever honored by all those I have worked with and by those who took my nonsensical musings and elevated them to something more.

As one of my favorite bands like to close their shows with:

“It's never goodbye, It's just 'till next time."

-ddp456

[relanah-qahs]

PANIC! AT THE DISCO

Whumptober 2020 no. 18 (posted on day 8) Title: Panic Fandom: Final Fantasy VII Prompt: Panic Attacks | Phobias| Rating: T, Characters: Vincent Valentine, Words: 1341

Tags: panic attacks, paranoia, character backstory

AO3 Link   Summary: Ever since he was a child, Vincent has always been sensitive to the energy of death. His father promised him he would always be there for him. But who could save him now that he was a Turk?

εγλ 1974 May 18. 22:14. Junon.

Why did it have to be a morgue? Vincent shivered as he took in his surroundings; the revolting smell of decay mixed with embalming fluid and the frigid air made his skin crawl. He had to focus, this was an easy, yet still important assignment. Just find the target’s autopsy report, replace it with the forged copy, and get the hell out of here. This should have been an easy mission for a member of the Turks, so why couldn’t he just get it over with?

Vincent had always been sensitive to the energy of death, the invisible force of the lifestream that surrounded decomposing corpses, giving him extreme anxiety and terror. It made his job a lot harder; being a part of the professional mercenary organization meant sometimes needing to assassinate a target. It was always excruciating to carry out those sentences, the overwhelming feel of the lifestream’s pull on the dead in sick harmony with the guilt of ending a life--as if he needed to be punished further.

Perhaps it had stemmed from an incident in his childhood. His father was an archeologist, and the Valentine family lived in a small flat above the laboratory which often held artifacts or exhumed skeletons of ancient humans. One evening, when he was about five or six years old, his mother told him to the library to remind his father to finish his work and eat dinner with them. So he playfully skipped downstairs, proud that he could go all by himself this time. The door was unlocked so he let himself into the dark room in which his father was nowhere to be seen. On the examining table in the center of the room were a dozen or so human skulls of some ancient civilization. Vincent called out for his father, his voice shook with fright. The closer he stepped toward them, the more intense was the sensation of death’s energy piercing through his soul.

There came a point where it felt like something was squeezing his chest, knocking out the air in his lungs and making his heart feel like it was about to be crushed. He was cold, his hands shook, and he started screaming and didn’t stop. Vincent didn’t remember what happened after that, his father told him years later. Grimoire had been with his colleagues in his office when he heard the young boy’s screams of terror. He rushed to him, fell to his knees as he tried to get his attention but to no avail. His mother heard it from upstairs and ran as fast as she could to save him. The young Vincent kept screaming and screaming despite his parents’ desperate attempts to calm him down.

His mother yelled at his father demanding to know what happened to which he vehemently insisted he didn’t know. Grimoire carried him upstairs to their room where his mother held him tightly as he continued to shriek in terror. One of the other researchers from the lab phoned a doctor who came to their home and sedated the boy after he had been screaming incessantly for over an hour. The doctor examined him once he fell asleep, but couldn’t find any evidence of physical injury. When Grimoire recounted this to Vincent years later, he said that somehow that was more terrifying to him. At least an injury was an explanation, but his distraught parents were denied one of any kind.

After that, his mother stayed by him nearly every waking moment, never allowing her eyes off him for even a minute. His father refrained from his work for a few days to care for them. Vincent never spoke those days. She cried every night after the boy had fallen asleep, confiding in her husband that she worried their son would never speak again and never understand why this had happened. Grimoire assured her that even if Vincent did lose his ability to speak, they would adjust to it and love him all the same. It was weeks later when the boy could say anything. It was the middle of the night, after his mother had fallen asleep but his father remained studying at his desk. Vincent quietly slipped out of the bed, careful not to wake his mother next to him and went to his father.

“Dad,” he said in almost a whisper. Grimoire was startled but his expression quickly became one of joy when he realized the voice he heard was his son’s.

“Vincent, it’s nice to hear you again.”

“Dad, I wanna be a monster.”

This sudden confession perplexed his father, and Vincent was never really sure why he said such a thing whenever he recollected this conversation. Grimoire hid his worry and confusion of why this would be the first thing the boy would say. “Oh? What kind of monster do you want to be?” he said as he lifted the child onto his lap

“A big scary one. With fur and horns. Big teeth and claws, and maybe a tail too.”

“And why do you want to be such a scary monster?”

“Because monsters don’t have to be afraid of anything if everything else is afraid of them.”

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you that even monsters are afraid sometimes. They have to fear bigger monsters and humans with guns. All creatures on this planet feel fear, and that’s not a bad thing, Vincent. Fear is our mind’s way of keeping us safe, so we know to stay away from danger.”

“If I’m not afraid, I’ll end up like the skeletons in your lab.”

Grimoire was completely taken aback. He paused, carefully considering his words. “Did seeing those skeletons make you feel afraid?” Vincent nodded. “So that’s what happened. I’m so sorry you had to see that and that it scared you so much. But you’re alright now because I am here, and I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Mom is here too. We are always here for you, Vincent. Always.

That was a lie. Anger always consumed him when Vincent replayed that conversation from his memory. His parents couldn’t protect him; his mother had been dead for over a decade and he was estranged from his father who had chosen his research over helping his son.

His only family now were the Turks--the mercenaries who had taken him in and made him a professional criminal. They took him in as a lonely and frightened teenager and trained him to kill and torture without any hint of emotion. They convinced him to trade his soul in exchange for praise and a place to stay--a twisted, psychotic chosen family. Maybe he didn’t need fur and claws after all. He was a monster in human skin.

But the horror of death’s presence never eased its assault on Vincent’s soul. No matter how many corpses he found himself around, he could never ignore the energy of death--a twisted gift from the lifestream. He couldn’t ignore it, but he could force himself to push through it.

Now his hands were shaking. He fought through the panic in his chest as he read and re-read the charts on the doors of the morgue. The pain intensified with each second spent in this place, spreading from his heart and traveling up his spine to his head--throbbing in his temple. Taking a breath was a fight in itself. Finally, he found the poor sap’s autopsy report. His fingers fumbled as he took the paper and replaced it with the forged copy. But it was finished. Time to get the hell out of here.

Vincent hurried out of the room, but taking caution to stay quiet in case some hospital employee was nearby. Fortunately this ward was empty after hours, and his partner Veld was manipulating the security footage now. Every step away from the horrid place, a breath of air refreshed him. The pain in his chest and head faded replacing it with an acute sense of light-headedness.

Vincent wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

[gabriel4sam]

Reluctant wedding bells, a Obi-Wan/Satine story

When Duchesse Satine learned that the Senate would force the Jedi to marry, she immediatly sent a proposal for General Kenobi's hand, fearing every world would try to snatch him. Asking Obi-Wan before would have been a nice idea, perhaps... Now, two people who thought they would only have their duty until the end of their lives must learn to navigate married life. And that's without the proud Mandalorian tradition to try to murder their leader!

The story under the cut . 

It was with swearing that Obi-Wan learned of his nuptials to be. Swearing so colourful, so original, that Anakin covered Ahsoka’s head with his hands, protesting:

“Master!”

“That’s not where my ear canals start, Master,” Ahsoka informed him helpfully.

“No, really?” Anakin asked, distracted for a second.

“Also, when I will be fully formed, the part of the montrals where you have your hands will become an erogenous zone.” Anakin took his hands back with a horrified squeak and Ahsoka giggled.

“Snips! Is this…are you pranking me? Please tell me you’re pranking me.”

“Really, Anakin, do you need to go back to interspecies sensitivity training?” Obi-Wan quipped and Anakin suddenly remembered how it had started.

“Don’t swear around my Padawan!”

“Your Padawan have been on battlefield. And in the Senate. I’m sure she had heard worst.”

“Master!”

“But I will make an effort to express myself with the proper decorum of a Jedi Master.”

With a sigh, he seated down heavily next to Anakin. His former Padawan nudged him with his shoulder.

“Would it be so horrible? To be married with Satine? You are very close. And as the Jedi expert on marriage –“

“Because you’re the only married Jedi. Because you wed in secret against the old rules without even inviting your poor Master.” Obi-Wan snapped in answer.

“- yes, that, well, I’m still the only married Jedi you know. And I can affirm married life is awesome. Especially since you won’t have to hide and lie like Padme and I had in our first years.”

“Once again, because you wed in secrets breaking your vows and didn’t even tell me!”

“Do I sense a little rest of animosity about that? Snips, stop giggling right now or you’ll do laps around the Temple with me chasing you with a training saber.”

“It’s been long since you stopped being capable of running faster than me, Master mine.”, the Tortuga answered immediately.

“I get no respect, why, but why, you used to be such a nice Padawan,” Anakin tipped his face up, studying the high ceiling of the room of the Thousand Fountains and the sky outside like it would answer his question.

Obi-Wan grinned, all saccharine sweetness.

“I feel avenged,” he remarked and Ahsoka had another fit of giggle and leaned down over Anakin, offering a high five that Obi-Wan took, with a glee totally unsuitable for a serious and stern Council Member, in Anakin’s opinion.

Peace had been good for them, Anakin thought. For the entire Jedi Order, in fact, and laughs were now a common sound in the Temple. “It’s like dodging a bullet,” Captain Rex had remarked, “you can be angry people shoot at you, or happy they missed. And all of you are happy you’ve not been brutally murdered by brainwashed violations of your slavery laws.”

At that time, there were a few grimaces, but Captain Rex had no intention to relent or to care about other people feelings until his brothers had full sentient rights. Something that shouldn’t be too long: in a week the new Chancellor would be sworn in and he was a smart man, understanding they would all have been doomed without Fives.

The new Chancellor still couldn’t work miracle and he had a choice to make: push for the clones’ right or derail the idiotic laws some dumbass Senators had passed during the chaos after Sidious’ death, a law that called for Jedi’ s marriages, as a way to integrate them better into society.

With a sigh, Anakin let his head against the trunk of the tree behind him, his thoughts running in his head. A moment later, Ahsoka remembered her remedial courses in Galactic history and flew to her classroom in a hurry, with a choice of words that made Anakin cringe.

Against him, he felt Obi-Wan’s warmth and in the Force, he felt the inner peace of this former Master struggling against the news of his impending marriage.

“There are exceptions in that law,” he said to cheer him up.

“Yes, but it would be disrespectful to pretend I’m something I’m not. I’m not going to tell the commission I can’t marry because I’m asexual, or aromantic, or anything in those lines, when it would be a lie. And I hope the Senate will relent a little if a Council member is married. Let the other Jedi have more time…or even let them alone.”

“But you aren’t obligated to be the one taking the fall”, a new voice intervened and Mace Windu came to sit near them.

“Master Windu,” Anakin said with a nod, when the “Mace!” of Obi-Wan was much warmer.

The Korrun Master searched for his words for a moment then he pointed out: “Just because Mandalore offered a…” He seemed lost already and Anakin completed:

“A dowry, like it’s the dark time of bought and paid for brides? Not that Obi-Wan wouldn’t be delightful in white satin.”

“I think I would be much more a lace man,” quipped the red head.

“You two are a menace. But yes. Just because Duchesse Satine seemed determined to not let another planet snatch you, you’re under no obligation to answer it. We have other allies who would offer their hands to a Jedi in some sort of white marriage to protect us from rulers trying to snatch themselves a Jedi as if we are some sort of pet. Let one of us handle it.”

“But,” Obi-Wan observed, red rising on his face, “ Satine… I love Satine.”

It was the first time Anakin heard him speak the words and it was still a shock. Mace himself didn’t seem surprised and only touched Obi-Wan’s shoulder in support.

“I know. But wouldn’t it better if you were to wed, to go to that point on your own? To not be strong-armed into it. I fear what it would do to your relationship.”

It was a good thing Anakin was already seated, he would have fallen on his butt listening to Master Windu. Not for the first time, he asked himself how much the Sith had tainted his vision of the other Jedi.

Obi-Wan smiled, and even in this circumstances, there was real happiness in his eyes.

“I will contact Mandalore myself to accept. I will become Satine’s husband.”

 *****

Obi-Wan had meet a lot of officials in his life, so much that they had a tendency to blur into each other. He was still pretty sure he would have remembered the obnoxious Umbaran, an envoy from the Republic Senate, which was currently having an aneurysm at the idea that the wedding of the first Jedi could be something other than a lavish affair, complete with ambassadors from three thousand words, fireworks and more protocols than a coronation.

On the other side of the table, Satine smiled to him. They hadn’t succeed in meeting without half her court since the two days Obi-Wan had arrived and conversation in public were stilled and awkward, empty of their usual banter. It was more difficult that he thought and his meditations had become a struggle, only helped by Mace’s presence, the older Master playing the role of a calming anchor in their joined meditation. Something Anakin, dear Anakin, could never do, no matter his desire to help. Meditating with him was like trying to swim in a flooding river.

Obi-Wan touched his beard to hide his smile, the Umbaran’s words more a background than anything. He was blessed, he thought. Blessed by friendship. So many Jedi had been lost and he had grieved for friends, but he still had Mace, who was playing statue on his right, the perfect picture of a Jedi Master, and Anakin, who wasn’t even trying to muffle his yawns on his left and had insisted to come, even if Luke and Leia were only two months old.

Whatever would happen, his friends would stand with him.

He had the Force and his friends…and soon, soon, perhaps Satine? He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. If he could only have two minutes alone with her, a real discussion…

Satine suddenly stood.

“This is ridiculous. Ambassador Deechi,- and Obi-Wan wanted to face palm because of course that was the Umbaran name, he had met him a few times already and once Ahsoka had earned herself lapses around the Temple by falling asleep during a meeting with him- “Ambassador Deechi, Master Kenobi and I will be married at the new moon-”

“In two weeks, really, your Majesty…”

“-And if the ceremony is not ready to the Republic’ specifications, I will kidnap him and marry him with Mandalore’s old laws, in the mountains, with only my sister and a wise man, as it was done in the time.”

The sister in question, who had seemed as bored as Anakin, punched the air with a cry of triumph. The officials, Mandalore and Republic alike, had paled, and were still spluttering when Satine walked around the table and offered her hand to Obi-Wan who raised from his chair to take it obediently.

The fire in this woman….He was smiling like an idiot, he was sure of it.

“Come,” she said and he followed unquestioningly, his hand in hers.

Bo-Katan Kryze turned to the Republic officials and smiled, with too much teeth for her specie.

“So, with the happy couple out of the way, if we talked about details? Like money?”

More spluttering from the officials but she found an unlikely ally in the quiet strength of Master Windu.

“After all, it would be against all civilized behaviour to exile Master Kenobi here, far away from his way of life. A Jedi contingent would be logical and since the Senate quite insisted about Jedi marrying, it wouldn’t be fair if Mandalore payed for said contingent.” He explained.

Mace Windu wasn’t the sort of man who took pleasure in making people pay for his frustration and anger, even in something as temporary as money. But the Jedi were his to protect and the Senators would have happily thrown them to the Rancors. And Obi-Wan had learned more about the diplomatic game from him than from Qui-Gon. The dear man had been has discreet as a Bantha in a state dinner, trampling around on people’s pride in the name of the will of the Force. Mace was much more discreet in negotiations than poor Jinn had ever been. And much more lethal.

“Her excellency Kryze is well within her rights,” he continued, very matter of facts.

“Oh please,” smiled Satine’ sister, “call me Bo-Katan.”

And together, they extracted every cent they could from the Republic, Anakin watching and cheering them on.

During that time, Satine had taken Obi-Wan into her apartment, deep into the palace, into her quiet rooms arranged around a small garden.

“Satine?”

“I wanted you to see them. I…You need to decide if you want to share them with me.”

“Aren’t married people traditionally living together?”

She touched his cheek and he closed his eyes in the caress.

“When I heard about the law…the idea that they could ship you to a foreign world like a prize made me so furious…”

“So, you offered for me.”

“I jumped into decision guided by my anger, without asking you. And I never, ever, would force your hand. You’re not a prisoner. If you want to never see me again after, never think I would impose myself.” Her sharp blue eyes were scrutinising him so fiercely that for a second he asked himself which one of them was really into the mind reading business.  

“You could never.”

Feeling bold, he took the small hand on his face, kissed her wrist. Were they not engaged? He shuddered at the idea that old rules didn’t apply anymore and kissed her wrist again, eyes closed too tight. She smelled of some flowers he couldn’t identify.

“Obi-Wan, look at me.”

He obeyed. She was so close, alive and breathing and smelling so good.

“May I kiss you?” she asked, breathless, and he nodded and closed his eyes again when he felt her mouth on his. Something painful, so usual that he didn’t note it anymore, loosened up in his chest. The second their lips touched, a good part of his worries vanished. With Satine, there was nothing he couldn’t face.

It was only the third time they shared a kiss, and it was so different from the first one, a terrified Padawan and the young Duchess he protected, or from the second, a Master Jedi incognito and the Duchess he had rescued from Maul. It stayed chaste and tender but it was enough to make him weak in the knees.

“I will never ask something of you that you don’t want to give”, Satine whispered against his ear and he shuddered again.

“And if I want to give you everything I am?”

“Then, I will treasure it. I can be greedy, my Obi-Wan. I will keep it and treasure it and claim to the entire world that you’re my beloved.”

Obi-Wan felt a shiver along his nerves and something must have passed in his eyes.

“I will be yours and you’ll be mine,” Satine swore and he closed his eyes, overwhelmed and so thankful.

“Kiss me again?” He asked.

Her lips crushed against his again, less chaste this time, with a hunger he didn’t totally understood. She certainly knew what she was doing and it was a relief: that one of them had more to guide them that two kisses years apart and the stories told by Quinlan!

That third kiss was followed by a fourth, and a fifth. He felt desire rise in him and immediately send it in the Force, an old habit, before remembering he could now embraces it. It was almost too much and he broke the kiss and hid his face into Satine’s neck.

“Will you marry me?” She asked and he smiled and whispered his yes.

“Were you serious about marrying me in two weeks, without all that pump?”

“Would you prefer it?”

He made a face.

“I could do without all the politicians trying to earn points by being invited,” and they were so close that he felt her laugh inside his ribcage.

They couldn’t escape the pump, of course, it would have been too nice. He suspected Bo-Katan ran as much interference as she dared, because she liked the idea of her sister stealing herself a Jedi, in the old ways, but at the end, there were politicians and holoreporters and too much people.

He knelt in front of her, dressed in a Jedi uniform in Kryze colours and felt the weight of the circle of gold she placed on his head like an oath. All his friends had come. Dex and Anakin were crying tear of joys and Bant’s colour around her gills was almost ruby, her skin tone reacting to a strong emotion. Padmé was trying to cover her yawns because the Senate was working fourth time more that it had under Palpatine. Quinlan was wearing his most formal attire, something Obi-Wan would have deemed deeply suspicious if the attire hadn’t the highest collar possible and Quinlan a tendency to like lovers who marked him….

It was a nice ceremony. It was something he never knew he would have. He swore to himself he would do his best to become a good Mandalorian’s consort and stood back, taking her hands in his, smiling so hard it almost hurt.

He was her husband.

And then the problems started.

When you marry a ruler of Mandalore, the problem is that with the marital life came a full planet of Mandalorian….

*******

  Bo-Katan had been happier that she could have imagined at her sister wedding, despite the years of bad blood and silence between them. She was quite proud of them, mending their relationship like that, working together to make their planet united again. She was also so proud of Satine, taking her man out of Republic’s hands and making them pay for it, too. She would have preferred an old ceremony, traditional, in the mountain with only as elder as officiant and herself to represent the clan, but perhaps for her own wedding, if she ever found a man wanting to be kidnapped by her from his clan?

The Jedi thing was clearly unfortunate, really couldn’t Satine have chosen someone a little less controversial with the Jedi-Mandalore history, but nobody was perfect. Most of the Jedi contingent which had accompanied him seemed bearable. She could come to like Kenobi, if he made Satine happy. She had been less convinced at the beginning by the addition of the clones of Jango Fett, but it was evident that even heavy artillery wouldn’t separate them from their former General.

She was whistling when she went around the corner in the familial wing of the palace, ready for bed, already in a nightshirt after a moment in the private sauna….and found a fully armoured Mandalorian wearing gold for revenge, kneeling on a ventilation shaft exit. There were only dark possibilities for that being presence there, and most of them was of the murder of Satine and/or her brand new consort sort. Yelling the Clan Kryze traditional war cry, which hadn’t been used in the palace since some good fifty years, Bo-Katan charged.

She was of the punch first, ask question later Kryze-model, like Korkie father and a long list of ancestors had been and what followed was an epic brawl. She regretted she hadn’t worn her jet pack and full weapon set to bed. The small knife strapped on her tight was clearly not enough as a Beskar'gam opener, even if she cut a tendon successfully, just at the knee, where one of the weaknesses of this type of Beskar'gam was.

A machete. If she survived that one, she would go to bed with a machete strapped to her tight and a blaster under her pillow!

Despite her disadvantage, she was winning, when in a desperate move, the other started his jetpack and thrown the two of them through a window.

That was it. She was dead. That Jedi better protect Satine and Korkie or she would haunt his Coruscanti ass. She closed her eyes against the vision of the ground coming …and opened them a few seconds later because it took too long.

Apparently, because she was floating.

Floating in direction of another window, a little to the right, which opened like it was holocommanded.

She touched the carpet and almost fall down, her knees weak, but strong arms helped her. Strong arms dressed in Jedi tunics.

Come on, a death protecting her sister, even in her nightshirt, would have been better than being saved by one of those…

“Are you alright, your Excellency? Can you stand?”

There was more real preoccupation in the words that she would have thought, and the voice was female. She looked up and her saviour was a Moon Calamari with enormous black eyes and a tattoo around one eye socket, which she was sure had been clone-designed.

Even if the Jedi was keeping Bo-Katan standing up with a strong arm around her, her other hand was extended in direction of the open window, where the would-be assassin was still suspended, too far away to grab anything, head down, trashing like a fish on a hook against the strength of the Force gripping him.

“What’s your name?” Bo-Katan asked, without moving from the Mon Calamari’s arms. The other was smelling salty and was running colder than Bo-Katan, but even then, the red head felt like she had burrowed under a warm blanket and for a second, she asked herself if the other was using the Force to comfort her after that near death experience.

“Bant Eerin, your Excellency.”

“Bant, you definitely should use my first name.”

*****

To the new lovers, intimacy had come naturally. Obi-Wan had been raised in a chaste culture but Jedi took to chastity like a way of life, not like a moral judgement. Once he knew he could look, touch, share… And with Satine? The woman he loved guiding him, he had taken to physical love in her arms like he had been clay shaped to be the perfect lover for her.

They had waited decades for that, in a way, and at the beginning, it was difficult to let go of each other.

Mandalore was too unstable for them to take a honeymoon, but Bo-Katan and the officials were supposed to take care of the planet for them for five days and they had every intention to use those five days.

So, when Satine woke up from their latest session of love making and let her gaze embrace the room, she didn’t immediately realized what had woken her up. The moon was high and letting see every details but she was pretty sure she hadn’t slept more than one hour, so why was she awake? She looked at her bedside. Her holocom was an angry red, a muffled sound coming of it. She looked at her message, then immediately woke up Obi-Wan.

“Someone tried to murder my sister,” she explained, “help me”. With awkward fingers he zipped her, tied, and buttoned, struggling against meters of taffetas and so small ties that he cheated and used the Force, his fingers too big.

“Do you really need all of that stuff?”

“She’s alive and will stay that way if she knows what is good for her. I can’t take the time to dress. I can’t appear weak, and running to her bedside without all that stuff, as you said, that would appear weakness. But I can’t appear too long after, or her own position would be weakened. I never should have given the week to all my handmaidens…Tighter, darling.”

“Tighter and you won’t breath!”

“No, but I will stand straight and proud. Not every Beskar'gam are metal, cyare.”

 *******

There was a delightful small garden, deep in the palace, which had been the late Duchesse, the mother of Satine and Bo-Katan, personal domain. Here, she had escaped the dangers of the court and most of his intrigue, which she hadn’t been really built to endure. The two sisters more precious memories of their parents and their dead brother, Korkie’s father, took place in that garden.

It had been destroyed during the civil war but when it had been possible to use credits for something other than urgent matters, Satine had it remade. That had been the first renovation work in her familial wing.

Not her apartments, not the throne room, not the gallery of old Kryze portraits and holos, that frankly she found creepy, but this garden.

And now, it was only used for family and very close friends. A place without the cutthroat politics of the palace, without the constant need for Satine to watch her tone, her words, her posture.

Satine was half sitting, half reclining in a deep ottoman, Obi-Wan sitting on the floor on a thrown pillow, his feet in the small fish pond. To her great pleasure, he had immediately loved this place and they were already in the habits to come here when they had a little free time.

Obi-Wan was leaning against his wife’s legs and had such an expression of peace on his face, he probably would have purred if he had been physiologically capable of it. He was wearing some tunics in the Jedi’s traditions, but he wore them in Kryze colours, and she loved how he marked himself as hers in this small way. They were still exploring, slowly, the wonders of their newly found intimacy. Satine was finding in herself more joy that she could have believe possible in this exploration. She loved how Obi-Wan slowly unfurled under her guidance. He had come to her curious and a little cautious, deeply unaware of the reality of a relationship.

And she had been, so, so careful, realizing more than him how he could have been hurt in his naivety, how she could have taken from him pieces he didn’t even realize he was losing before it was too late.

The reward of their relationship growing stronger every day had a sweetness that made her heart sing. Every day it deepened, brought them closer and closer. There were so many things to explore together and she wasn’t thinking of sexuality, even, if yes, that would be fun too, to offer to Obi-Wan the multiple nuances of human sexuality and to explore them with him.

They would be so happy, she was sure of it, like they couldn’t have been if he had renounced being a Jedi for her. They would be so happy, like they already were, but every day a little more.

She put down her datapad. Right now, her mind was busier with the wonders of her dear husband than it was with their social life. They needed to choose between the celebrations on Coruscant of the latest Chancellor’s elections, or the second Jedi wedding celebrated since the war, which would happen on Saleucami between a clone Commander and his Jedi. She was sure Obi-Wan would prefer the wedding and if the former would have been more politically smart, making Obi-Wan happy ranked higher than scoring political point.

Like he had heard her thoughts, Obi-Wan turned to her, kissing the hand that had been playing with his hair. Adoration was making his eyes shine. She leaned down for a kiss and perhaps she would have initiated more, cajoled him into going into their bedroom, if not for a noise on the other side of the garden.

The Darksaber had always held a special place in Mandalorian history. It had go from families to families, a symbol of power and duty. In some periods of history, it had also been seen as cursed. The Jedi who had meet their demise by it, less numerous than Mandalorian pretended of course, because trying to kill a skilled Force user with a proximity weapon was a terrible idea, those Jedi were supposed to jinx the saber and those who bear it.

It had been almost six generations since a Kryze had possessed it and Bo-Katan had taken to it with great pleasure and the over eagerness of a murderous Aak puppy.

Nevertheless, even if the Dark Saber had been possessed by the Kryze before in his history, it was certainly the first time it was used that way. To teach a Mandalorian lightsaber combat techniques.  

Bo-Katan lost her footing and she would have fallen into a bush, if Master Windu hadn’t caught her with the Force, and with half a smirk. Her opponent today was Anakin and he was without mercy in training. Around them in circle, Mace, Ahsoka, Bant, Quinlan, Aayla and Siri were commenting and offering advices. Siri was leaning on a crutch, she was just coming back from a hard mission, but the rest of them seemed more rested that they had been in years.

“For a woman who profess to despite Jedi, your sister likes to collect them,” Obi-Wan remarked to his wife, “ and I’m pretty sure your security officers will soon resign if she doesn’t stop asking the Jedi for help in testing their security measures.”

Satine had a smirk and she drawn in his head against her legs again. He had come to bed late all week, negotiating with some exiled Mandalorian structure, one of many, to reinstate them in Mandalorian society. He was a fine negotiator, he was after all THE Negotiator, but Mandalorian had hard skulls and he was pretty tired.

“Bo likes dangerous people,” Satine admitted, starting again to pet his hair,“I think it was only a question of time.”

On the other side of the garden, Bo-Katan had asked for a respite and was drinking some energy drink, as Bant fussed over some minor graze the red head had received.

Satine put her head against the back of the ottoman and closed her eyes, savouring the last rays of the sun on her face. Tonight, there was another dinner with too much small talks and too many people she despised. Tomorrow, there would be politics, internal to Mandalore and also on the galaxy scale, there would be the problems of the latest extremists and their refusal to join Mandalore again unless it burned on their terms, but in that moment, with Obi-Wan safe and happy against her, and Bo-Katan with her again, as happy as she could be, Satine could savour peace.

  A few months after Satine and Obi-Wan had tied their lives together, a bomb went off in their apartments in the middle of the night.

The bombers were good bomb makers, but terrible gossips readers. When the Duchesse’s rooms were gutted by an explosion, said Duchess and her husband were on Coruscant for the wedding of Master Ima-Gun Di and Captain Keeli, a fact that had been announced on every tabloid on Mandalore. In fact, the exact minute the bomb went off, they were cheering with the rest of the assistance as the happy couple kissed for the first time as married couple.

There wasn’t any loss to deplore and the couple found the message when they came back to their rooms in the Mandalore embassy late in the night, and immediately contacted Bo-Katan.

“Don’t change your plan,” the young woman advised, “I’m more than enough to handle that and you rushing back here would be read as you not trusting me enough to kick their asses.”

“Please, don’t maim anybody,” Satine asked, then seeing her sister’s expression, she corrected “please, don’t maim anybody too much.”

“Do you think we should still go back?” Satine asked her husband after, while he was busy with her corset. He had developed quite a talent with her complicated clothes, he would do a good handmaiden. And if sometimes, she loved to see him in said corset, it was between them.

“Let’s take a decision tomorrow,” Obi-Wan said. He kissed the newly unveiled skin of her shoulder, before adding:  “We’re tipsy and tired, it’s not the best moment for that. And Bo-Katan isn’t alone, the Jedi contingent on Mandalore will offer its help in her search of the guilty party. And…well, they will stop them if she try to execute people in a moment of anger. Perhaps there is even some she likes enough to listen to them.”

“She respects Knight Eerin,” Satine admitted.  

“Is that was the kids call it now? Respect? Because I’m pretty sure we used another word when I was a Padawan and you the newly crowned Duchess. I hope your sister is serious. Bant is a serial monogamist.”

Without answering, she turned in his arms, “Enough talk about Mandalore for tonight. Do you know it’s traditional to have sex on a wedding night?”

“It’s not even our weeding night,” Obi-Wan remarked, amused.

“Will you let that stop us?”

“Certainly not.”

When Obi-Wan and his beloved wife were on Ryloth for the weeding of Knight Secura and Commander Bly, Bo-Katan cracked open like a nut a small cell of nostalgic Mandalorians who thought Satine had nothing to do on her throne since she hadn’t killed anyone for it. Fortunately, Anakin was with her to stop the arrests of becoming illegal, which they would have become if she had bashed them on the heads enough to make them spit the names of their sponsor, as was her first idea.

“You shouldn’t do that to me,” he had half-whined to the red head after, “I can’t be the voice of reason, it’s too much pressure!”

Despite his words, he followed her everywhere in her long search. His former Master had never been happier, the shadows in his eyes had never been lighter, and if Bo-Katan needed to play nice for Satine to be happy and safe, then she would play nice, even if Anakin had to follow her everywhere like an overgrown, well-armed puppy.

It had brought about a slight problem between him and Padmé, who couldn’t understand why he couldn’t give that job to a Mandalorian officer, or to another Jedi.

How couldn’t she understand that Obi-Wan’s happiness couldn’t be in the hands of just anybody?

“Pretty sure it’s supposed to be in the hands of the Duchess,” Ahsoka remarked when they talked about it, “Or best, in the hands of Master Kenobi. Because he’s, you know, an adult and even an adultier adult than anybody else we know. Except perhaps Master Windu.”

“Adultier adult?” Anakin had asked, an eyebrow arched, “Should I send you into remedial grammar class, and she had stuck out her tongue, in a childish moment that he saw less and less frequently in her. His heart had squeezed painfully in his chest. His Padawan wasn’t anymore the young Tortuga of their beginning. She was an adult. Soon, very soon, she would be a Knight.

An awesome, awesome Knight, but it seemed to Anakin that Yoda had send her to him only days ago, and now she almost towered above Obi-Wan.

Surprising her, he kissed her brows in a paternal gesture.

“Master?”

“If anybody try to throw that stupid marriage law at you against your will after your Knighthood, we’ll run away together and become pirates,” he simply answered.

“Padmé wouldn’t like it.”

“Sad but true. Doubly sad, because she would make an awesome pirate Queen.”

Bo-Katan and Anakin were on the same opinion about one fact: the ducal couple was safer away from the planet. They insisted, very logically thank you even if later Obi-Wan would pretend they had whined, for them to continue their trip, since it’s was wedding season in the Jedi Order, and to let Anakin and Bo-Katan handle everything else.

Since Obi-Wan didn’t seem convinced, Anakin used his last card and swore he would ask for Cody’s help. The Clone Commander had refused prestigious postings to follow Obi-Wan to Mandalore and was now a member of the Ducal guard, it wouldn’t be complicated to bring him into the investigation, it would even be logical. Of course, it was also a little like offering to bring a baby-sitter with them, but he wasn’t above the slight embarrassment of it, if it kept Obi-Wan safe!

So, Cody, Anakin and Bo-Katan investigated, and Satine and her husband went from wedding to wedding, from worlds to worlds.

Some of those weddings happened between clones and Jedi, most of the time on the worlds of their first missions together, something Satine found half romantic and half creepy, since a lot of those first meetings had included explosions, battle droids and a body count. Some of those weddings happened between officials and Jedi, some in the Senate, some meet in missions, all of them people who had meet the Jedi before that infamous law, and who had saw them leave for another assignment with sadness in their hears. Now, they had a second chance and Satine was happy to see Obi-Wan’s face at every of those weddings. His quiet joy at seeing his friends and brethren found, if not the love the two of them had, but strong, good pairings, full of respect and trust. He even cried a little, when Mace Windu married Bail and Breha Organa.

They let all those celebrations of love lure them into a dangerous sentiment of safety. It was quite a shock when a Rhodian tried to stab Satine, during the ceremony of Garen Muln’s wedding.

“That’s it,” Obi-Wan snarled, his knee on the back of the would-be assassin, his lightsaber, turned off, just pressing against the Rhodian’s neck as a very successful warning to stay down, “We’re going back to Mandalore. I’m going to handle those factions myself.”

     In most people’s minds, dangerous beings are supposed to dress in black and lurk in the shadows. An exotic name/past/dead lover whose soul need revenge and / or an interesting scar help.

Obi-Wan Kenobi fit none of those criteria. Force Healing and bacta had stopped the multiple wounds of his past to scar. He was happily married, and not mourning a long dead princess/stripper with a heart of god/ childhood sweetheart for who he had sworn to clean up the world, as classical romance holodramas tropes demanded. Obi-Wan was the most common first name on Stewjon for a male human of his generation, and Kenobi the third most common last name of the archipelago in the Northern hemisphere of Stewjon where he had been born. He left the black to Anakin, preferring traditional Jedi colours, or more and more, Kryze colours, all blue and grey. His past wasn’t more exotic than any other Jedi, and for lurking in the shadows, he wasn’t a drama queen like Xanatos, may the Force have misery of his soul, had been.

So, Obi-Wan looked mild mannered most of the time, and exasperated by the world’s attics the rest of it.

He didn’t look dangerous, or perhaps just for people’s pants when he went full flirting in the name of the mission. But not dangerous, could remove limbs at the smallest provocation, dangerous.

Which definitely prove people shouldn’t be judged on their appearance, because Obi-Wan was probably the most dangerous Jedi.

Oh, he wasn’t as powerful as Anakin in sheer puissance. He wasn’t as skilled with a lightsaber as Master Windu. Not as apt to mind manipulation as Master Mundi, or as good in diplomacy as Master Gallia.

But he was good, very good at all those things, and it was because he was powerful and at the same time pretty good with a lightsaber and pretty good with mind tricks and so good in negotiations they gave his name to some new ideas in that field, that he was the most dangerous.

Also, he reached a point, sometimes, when he was out of fuck to give and just broke things in his path until he reached his goal, no matters the collateral damages.

Mace blamed Qui-Gon. The man had been a horrible influence and a young Jedi could only spent so much of his formative years using ruffians’ methods and horrifying protocol officers before bad habits took hold.

This is why Mace wasn’t surprised when, a month after his weeding, he was woken up by his private communicator. Extracting himself from his spouses’ arms was quite a challenge: Bail was quite the octopus in bed, and Breha liked to use his shoulder as a pillow. He was forced to cheat and to use the Force to be sure they continued to sleep. Ruling a planet was a challenge, when you wanted to do it well, and marrying the Master of the Jedi Order had only put more problems on the Organa’s plate: they needed all the sleep they could have.

“Skywalker?” Mace asked, once he was out of the bedroom.

“Oh, I forgot about the difference of hours with the capital of Alderann, sorry Master” Anakin said when he saw he was shirtless. Even in the blue of the holograms, Mace could see him blushing. The younger Jedi had been married for years, what did he expect exactly, Mace sleeping in full Council regalia?

“Now that I’m awake, tell me why you called.”

“I’m so sorry, Master!”

“Anakin!!”

“Hem,yeh, hem, it’s about Obi-Wan, Master.”

“Force, did something happen to him? Why didn’t you start with that?”

“No, no, he’s fine, totally, I mean physically. Not that I think he isn’t fine mentally!?”

“Skywalker! If you don’t start telling me why you called, I’m going back to bed. What happened to Obi-Wan?”

“Nothing happened to him. It’s more that he’s the one happening to people, Master.”

Mace pinched the skin between his eyes. He had a better relationship with Skywalker now, no that the bar was very high before, but that didn’t mean being waken up in the middle of the night by a hysterical Chosen One who didn’t make sense was a pleasant experience. In the Amidala-Skywalker household, the Senator was definitely his favourite.

“Start at the beginning.”

“People are trying to kill the Duchess.”

“Not to sound blasé at the idea of murder, but people have been trying to kill the Duchess for longer that you have been alive. Most of them are dead, and she’s still ruling Mandalore. And probably half the Neutral Systems underhand. And she would rule half the Republic if she didn’t fear it would annoy Obi-Wan. My money is on her.”

“I know, but I think Obi-Wan has reached a tipping point! He crashed a ship on a Death Watch’ stronghold on an abandoned moon. It was evacuated, but you could still see the fire from the other end of the solar system! He cut three arms this week! He made four Judicials officers and the Education Minister cry yesterday! Even Bo-Katan thinks he’s perhaps going a little strong and I spent three months stopping her from decapitating people in public as an interrogation technique! Master, I’m very bad at being the voice of reason, I don’t know how he did it all these years. And the Duchess seems to think it’s all fun and game and he’s in control, only I’m not so sure and if he kills someone accidentally, pretty sure they will get divorced and he will be infinitely sad. Please, come to Mandalore, Master Windu, you’re my only hope!”

  ****

That morning, Obi-Wan woke up way later than he had planned to. He searched, still half asleep for the chrono on the bedside table, because there was way too much light in their bedroom for really be the time before the damn thing was supposed to woke him up, and discovered it had been totally disconnected.

Surprised, he tried to roll over, but couldn’t, because someone had tied his other wrist to the head board with a long silk scarf. His first reflex was to tear the thing down, and only the colour stopped him. It was Satine’s colour, and he was in their bedroom, so the culprit was probably not another Death Watch murderer.

He half-turned and here she was, in a chair in a corner of their bedroom, in that long dress of lace almost totally transparent that had made him cross his eyes the first time he had seen her in it.

“Not very prudent tying down a Jedi during his sleep,” he remarked.

“Even if your sleep, you know I’m not a danger,” she answered and he gave her a little nod. He liked that. That despite his nightmares and the hair trigger and the PTSD, his subconscious would let her tie him down. That even that part of him knew he was hers, that everything she wanted to give her, he would take it, and that everything he was she could take and use, and he wouldn’t fear, because he was hers, hers only, and Satine always took care of what was hers.  

Satine stood up and made her way along the bed, her gaze a pleasant weight on his skin, then the lace dress was abandoned on the floor and she knelt across his legs.

“The Death Watch,” he said, because she was beautiful and he adored her, but the sun was high in the sky, and he needed to go and make sure she was safe:

“It is handled,” the Duchess, “And now, I just want to hear Yes, or Stop.”

The answer was easy and the untied hand of Obi-Wan went to join the other one obediently on the head board.

Satine said it was handled, and too contradict her wasn’t in Obi-Wan’s power, here, in the safety and warmth of their bed. Not when she was there, the light of her eyes burning every dark thought and doubt.

Satine had said it was handled, so he could let go into her arms.

“Yes,” he said, arching up against her and she smiled at him and leaned down, pressing his wrists against the mattress in an order for staying there and everything else disappeared around them.

 *****************

Let’s observe some nameless Death Watch goon. He was middle aged, with beautiful blue eyes, currently covered by his helmet. Good people don’t have the privilege of beautiful eyes, certainly a sad genetic problem in the human species.  He had been a sweet child, a faithful friend, and if his parents had been dead for years, he scrupulously visited his aging grandfather.

With different choices, he could even have been considered a good man. But the current situation was that he had made the wrong choice, and then the wrong one again and again and again. The current situation was that he imagined himself for superior, for horrible reasons that could be resumed to the fact that he considered himself entitled to more than other people, and for less efforts.

Greed was the seed of our nameless Death Watch goon’s fate.

So, as he opened the door of another Death Watch’s stronghold, not to go and do evil, but simply for a supply run, nobody in the galaxy should feel sorry for nameless Death Watch goon, as he suddenly felt against his neck the shining blade of a purple lightsaber.

“I have questions,” the man on the other end of the lightsaber said, “And you will answer them.”

“Death to the Jedi!” the nameless Death Watch goon immediately yelled, activating the self-destruct of his pack. Suicide in case of capture had never really been his plan, but to be known in the Death Watch history as the man taking down Mace Windu himself, such things could be supportable.

Sadly for the Death Watch, but to the Republic’s relief, the charge didn’t explode to kill the Master of the Order, no, the buckles on the goon’s torso opened themselves violently and the suicide bomb threw itself far enough than only a whisper of his power passed on them. Mace Windu hadn’t moved a finger, because apparently fear for their lives was a thing that happened to other people. The goon jumped two feet in the air at the voice behind him.

“Like he said, we have questions,” Anakin Skywalker smiled with too much teeth.

“And some official protestations,” a green Nautolean Jedi said behind the Chosen One.

“We heard you weren’t nice to our brother,” a human Jedi in pilots suits added.

“And since the war is done, we have more time for individual planets problems,” a smaller Moon Calamari Jedi said.

“So, we’ve come to kick your ass,” a Kiffar one finished, and he gave our nameless goon a smile even more terrifying than Skywalker.

  ****

Here they were, again,

In the Temple, in the Room of the Thousand Fountains, just the three of them sitting down at the feet of one of the biggest tree, observing people. But the atmosphere was so different from one year ago, when Obi-Wan had been lost between his love for Satine and his anger at the violence the Senate inflicted on them in forcing Jedi to marry. One year ago, they still had been reeling from the war, still hesitant in their footing in a galaxy where not everyone wanted to kill them. One year ago, Ahsoka was still unsure of her place in the Jedi Order, which she had only joined again when she had understood Palpatine had organized her fall to isolate Anakin a little more. One year ago, Anakin was still angry, lost between the reality of Palpatine’s machinations and years of habits to blame others, especially the Order, for the universe’s problems.

Today, they were in the Temple for a celebration: a little less year after her sister, Bo-Katan was marrying a Jedi too. Somewhere in the Mandalore’s necropolis the two sisters’ fierce-Jedi-hating ancestors, were probably spinning in their graves fast enough to power a small turbine….

Today, there had been no pressure, no hesitation: the law, if not repelled yet, had been buried by the new Chancellor under enough red tapes to protect the Jedi until he could definitely kill it.

No, Bo-Katan had come to the Jedi Temple only for the smile of Bant, because her Moon Calamari lover would live on Mandalore now, and the young Mandalorian had found fair to marry then in Bant’s home.

Today, Obi-Wan was wearing House Kryze’s colours, like he was doing more and more, and slightly tipsy on sparkling wine. His gaze searched regularly Satine, busy cornering a poor politician about the Force only knew what, without shame. And every time, like she knew he was looking, she let her victim a few seconds respite to turn and smile at her husband.

Anakin himself was more than slightly tipsy. Padme had left just after the ceremony for Naboo with their children, where he was supposed to join them the next day, and he had celebrated a little too much the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be a role model in that moment.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a role model to me too?” A very amused Ahsoka had asked, at the third cup of wine.

“Nah, it’s been long since I had anything left to teach you, Snips.”

Ahsoka raised up from her crouch against the tree. The flowers adorning her montrals had slipped way off their careful arrangement, giving her a strange dishevelled air, even without hair.

“Then why didn’t you present me to trial?” She protested. Between them, Obi-Wan smothered a giggle. He remembered quite well a teenage Anakin, his voice still craking down sometimes from puberty, with exactly the same question, the question outraged Padawan believing themselves ready had asked since the dawn of the Order. Obi-Wan himself hadn’t asked, but Obi-Wan had known he wasn’t ready. Despite what Qui-Gon had told the Council.

“Because then, you would go on missions alone,” Anakin protested, “And you could be hurt.”

“You threw me at a Death Watch Death Squad the other day. Threw me! Like a missile!” She retorted.

“And I knew you would kick their asses. And you did!”

“And you think I would do different if you’re not there to watch? You didn’t help! You just gave points to their efforts to escape me.”

“Well, some of them made a good effort. Even if they failed, efforts should be recognized.”

“It doesn’t-“

It was the laugh that stopped their bickering. A full-bodied, irrepressible laugh. It was simply a laugh, but it was Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan who took his boots off before climbing on an exam table when he had taken a blaster shot to the belly, Obi-Wan who never let more than a small dry laugh escape his lips, because it wouldn’t be proper, or conform to what he believed proper Jedi decorum should be. Obi-Wan was laughing, grinning like a loon, without a care in the world, shoulders shaking with the force of it.

“Master?” Anakin asked, then he squeaked when the other man pulled him closer with an arm around his shoulders, doing the same to Ahsoka with the other arm.

“Master?” the young Tortuga asked in turn.

“We made it,” Obi-Wan said, his face hidden his Anakin’s hair, “We made it.”

And there was such relief in his words. Anakin’s surprise face eased and he put an arm around Obi-Wan’s waist, another around Ashoka, who did the same. He wasn’t exactly surprised. The Death Watch and the attempts on Satine’s life had simply delay the crisis in Obi-Wan, a crisis Ahsoka herself had cried on Anakin’s shoulder and Anakin in Padmé’s arms, a crisis every other Jedi had to confront a day.

“We did it,” he confirmed, his voice comforting and easy, “We did it and you can let go, Obi-Wan. We’re safe, all of us, now.”

And, hiding their Master between them, Ahsoka and Anakin let him laugh and cry.

In a few minutes, Anakin would go fetch Satine, and she would help Obi-Wan find a path for the rest of his life, but for now.

For now, just the three of them, their lineage, their family, was enough.

[harlot-of-oblivion]

Mildly too specific question but there's a moth, about the size of a quarter, that's stuck in your OCs room and refuses to leave but when the lights come on they've disappeared. How do they react?

Aww!!! This is too cute! 🌹😍🌹

Lisandra: She’s honestly feel really bad for the poor bugger! It would be so much more happier if it was outside if only it would just go out the window. She would search every corner of her room for the moth, trying her best to find it so she can catch it and set it free. But if they doesn’t happen she’ll just try leaving her window open and hope that the trapped moth will find own way to sweet freedom. 🌹

Eleonora: She’d honestly wonder if what she saw was a moth since they tend to steer clear of her presence like so many other creatures. In fact, she might not even notice the moth until someone pointed it out. And if there so happens to be  moth, she’d wonder if it truly is just an innocent moth or a convenient spy. Either way, she simply has to exert her will a bit and frighten the poor bugger off. 🦇

Mirabella: Oh my god, that sneaky moth would drive her insane! She can’t stand any kind of bug in her room, even if it is something as harmless as a moth. And when her search for the moth proves difficult, she will straight up set up a lil bug catcher or something so she can live in peace. 🐝 

Beretta: She has had worse stuck in her room, and even then its a simple matter of taming them so you can have a civil conversation! Good thing she can see in the dark too since it disappears in the light, which Beretta totally understands being light sensitive herself. But if she can’t find the moth she’ll just leave it be since its not doing her any harm. 🤠

Peaseblossom: “Ooooh! A new friend!” they squeal in delight before zipping through the air towards the moth. It make take Lil Pea awhile to figure out that their fairy light is scaring the moth away. But once they do, they just dim their light and look around carefully for their new flying friend. After all, somebody has to help them steer clear of the spiders and rats! ✨

This was a fun prompt! Thanks for sending it in, Nonnie! 🌺😊🌺

[aswithasunbeam]

 March 1805

A quick, efficient knock on the bedroom door jolted Eliza awake. Eyes closed, she struggled, pinned down on her back, a great weight holding her paralyzed in place. Upon hearing a soft snuffle near her ear, though, she relaxed. Alexander, she recognized fondly. He must have rolled over on her in his sleep.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hamilton.” Mary had slipped into the room bearing a tray with her morning tea, coffee for Alexander, and a stack of newspapers.

Eliza fought to lift her head and wrestled her arm out from beneath the weight of her husband. “Good morning, Mary. Just set that on the side table, if you would.”

When the door had tapped closed behind the maid, Eliza rested her head back onto her pillow. Alexander was still snuffling against her neck. She debated pushing him off her back onto his side. Instead, she ran her fingers through the short, gentle curls of his rapidly greying hair and wrapped her free arm around his shoulders.

Soon enough, she felt him stirring against her. He gave a sleepy grunt, adjusted the arm slung across her, and pushed himself backwards onto the pillows that had propped him up on his side during the night. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right, dearest.”

“You could have shoved me over.”

“I didn’t want to.”

His brow raise in amusement, though his eyes were still closed. “You’d rather let me keep crushing you?”

“Yes.”

He laughed, then gave a great yawn. Snuggling down into his pillows, he said, “I’m sleepy. You kept me up too late.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last night,” she parried.

He grunted again.

A tingle washed over her at the memories of the night before. They’d always had a very physical relationship, and as Alexander had grown stronger, so too had their hope for the return of their love life. After a candid conversation with Doctor Hosack about Alexander’s desire to return to his husbandly duties, as he’d politely phrased it, they’d taken the doctor’s advice to experiment.

“It’s certainly not impossible for you to resume your usual intimacies, although you may find arousal more difficult to achieve and maintain,” Hosack had explained, his slightly pink cheeks the only hint to any discomfort with the subject matter. “But I have no medical objection. You’ll simply need to find what feels good for you, now.”

And so, last night, when she’d climbed into bed with him, a boyish grin of anticipation had lightened the deep lines of his face as he’d said, “You’ll need to be on top from now on, I suppose.”

“So, not all that different, then,” she’d teased.

He’d given an indignant squawk. “What are you saying? I’m a lazy lover?”

“Never, darling,” she’s assured him. “Quite the contrary.”

In truth, she’d been delighted at his determination to make love again. As he’d climbed out from the dark depths of illness and despair, he’d taken to exercising, a distinct, firm layer of muscle forming on his arms and torso in place of the sickly, skeletal thinness. His hair had started to grow out as well, still short, but less severe. All in all, she found him as utterly desirable as she always had.

He was particularly sensitive along his lower abdomen, just where sensation began for him, they’d found. That had seemed a promising discovery at first, but as soon as she’d lifted his shirt, he’d tensed. Craning his neck, he’d looked down at his stomach, a pinched expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t they bother you? The scars?”

A long, bright pink line wound its way down from up near his sternum, around his belly button, terminating just at his waist. Across from the line, near his hip, a pink, raise circle marked him where Burr’s bullet had entered. She traced her finger down along the line before looking up at him.

“This scar,” she said, continuing to trace the line lightly with her fingertips even as she maintained eye contact with him, “This is why you’re still with me. This scar saved your life. To me, it’s the most beautiful mark on you.”

His eyes had gone bright, and he swallowed once, fighting down emotion. “Really?”

“Really.”

He’d relaxed to her touch after that. She’d teased him with feather light touches and soft kisses across the slope of his stomach until he’d moaned with pleasure. Receptive as he was, it wasn’t translating as it usual would to visible arousal. After an hour of attempting to make love in the more traditional way, with little result, he’d grown frustrated. He had other ways to please her, and he’d employed them with great skill, but his lacking sensation remained a challenge. She’d need to give more thought to how best to return the favor, as it were.

She felt warm all over from her wandering thoughts. Chancing a glance at her husband, she saw his eyes were finally open, and he was smirking at her knowingly. With faux innocence, he asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” she said. Then she kissed him to wipe the smugness from his expression. His eyes drifted closed when she pulled away. “You know, you can go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

“I can’t.” He yawned again. “I have too much to do today.”

Her brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

He looked at her, his expression turning serious. “Well, I’m meeting with your sisters’ attorneys and the other Executors of your father’s Will this morning.”

She huffed in annoyance at the reminder. “I can’t believe Cornelia and Caty. Of all the petty things, to insist I’m not due my share of the estate because Papa helped us after your injury. And they must know he’d be so disappointed to see us squabbling.”

“Grief very often doesn’t bring out the best in people. I’ve seen it enough in my practice. No mediations are more vicious then a family attempting to divide up an estate. And, in fairness, I think it’s more Morton and Malcolm’s doing then Cornelia and Caty. They see it as an opportunity to pad their investments.”1

“That’s hardly better,” she insisted, anger roiling in her stomach. “We were always so close. After all you did supporting Cornelia and Washy, that they’d turn on you like this, it just…” Her hand waved between them as she searched for a phrase. “It...steams my gourd.”

That made him laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“Oh, hush you. Don’t laugh at me when I’m angry.”

“I can’t help it. You’re adorable when you’re angry.”

She sniffed in disbelief, which only encouraged him to lean in for another kiss. Softening, she said, “I’m sorry. All this stress, I haven’t been at my best lately.”

“I love you at your best, and at your worst, and all the times in between.”

“Charmer.”

He grinned.

“Can I come with you? Perhaps seeing each other face to face will help settle the matter.”

“They won’t be there. Just the lawyers. And I’ll be going straight on to another meeting after, anyway.”

“What else are you doing?” she asked, surprised.

“I have a settlement conference regarding an insurance claim in the afternoon.”

“What?” That was news to her. He hadn’t said anything about picking up his legal practice again. “Are you sure you’re ready for that? It’s barely been half a year since...everything.”

“I’ll be fine. It’ll hardly be taxing. I could negotiate these things in my sleep. I think I may have a few times.” She smiled at that. “It’s time I start bringing in an income again.”

“If you’re sure,” she said, worrying gnawing at her.

“I am.” He stretched and twisted around towards the tea tray, feeling for the morning papers. “Let’s see what’s going on in the world, shall we?”

He opened the New York Post first, laying the others down in the space between them. The Washington Federalist sat on the top of the pile. Her eye caught on a name in the topmost headline: Burr. The villain had given a farewell address to the Senate, apparently to great acclaim, or so the paper reported.  “The whole senate was in tears,” the article read, “so unmanned, that it was half an hour before they could recover themselves.”2

“Have you seen this?” she asked, her voice an octave higher than usual, outrage coursing through her. Barely six months earlier the man had attempted to murder the love of her life; now he was receiving accolades, and from a Federalist newspaper no less?

“Burr?” Alexander clarified, annoyingly calm. “I’ve seen it. Have you gotten to the part of the speech where he thanks God for having no memory for injuries?3 I found that particularly amusing.”

“How dare they!”

“Betsey—”

“He tried to kill you, Alexander. But for the miracle of French surgical training, you’d cold in your grave right now. I cannot even fathom what would have become of me and the children. And your own Federalists see fit to laud him for a bit of oratorical showmanship?”

“I didn’t die, as you can plainly see,” he replied patiently. “And they’ve been feeling more kindly towards him ever since the Chase trial.”

“From what I read, his treatment of Justice Chase bordered on harassment. Constant interruptions, he nearly drove the poor man to tears.”

“He gave Chase a dose of his own medicine. I can’t hold that against him. More importantly, he ran the trial with impartiality and civility, and saw it through to the right result. That Jefferson attempted to impeach a Supreme Court Justice for the crime of disagreeing with him politically, now that…what was it, steams my gourd?”4

He was trying to be cute to charm her out of her temper, she knew, but she refused to let him. “Could you be serious for one minute?”

“I am being serious.”

“You’re trying to change the subject to Jefferson.”

“He’s the one I’m worried about now. Four more years. Heaven help us.”

“Stop being so cool and logical! You must be angry with him, I know it. Why can’t you just show it for once? You’re driving me insane with your.…”

“Forgiveness?”

“Yes!”

“An odd position, for you of all people.”

“Why can’t you just hate him with me?”

He rolled closer to her, the newspapers crumpling between them. “I was angry with him, at first. I hated him, blamed him. But I was as much to blame, Betsey. More so, honestly. I had the opportunity to uphold my moral convictions, to make a stand against that barbaric custom. And I didn’t. I held my reputation too dear, I was too frightened of what others would think of me. In trying to prove myself not a coward, I made the most cowardly decision of all. I risked your happiness, your livelihood, the children’s welfare, for my selfish purposes. I can’t blame Burr for any of that. Neither can you. If you hate anyone, it should be me.”

Her throat felt tight at the guilt swimming in his eyes. So that’s why he’d been so forgiving towards Burr – he’d been using him as a proxy for his own guilt. He must have been carrying those painful thoughts for so long, all that self-blame. She inched closer to him on the pillow until they were nose to nose, her arm wrapping tight around his waist to draw him to her.

“He challenged you, sweetheart. He put you in that position.”

“I didn’t have to say yes.”

But he did, she thought to herself. Of course he’d had to say yes. There was an innate insecurity in him that made him constitutionally incapable of exposing his reputation to the charge of dishonor. The sting of childhood wounds, the fear that he wasn’t good enough, even now, after all his service to a country that delighted in abusing him. He could no more change that part of him than he could wish away his brilliant mind.

None of that would serve as an answer.

“I forgive you,” she said, simply, sincerely.

He shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I do. I forgive you, Alexander. Always.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you. And I love you, for exactly the person you are.”

He let out a ragged breath and buried his face into the pillow and her hair. He wasn’t crying, exactly, but he seemed to be fighting a great swell of emotion. She rubbed his back tenderly, letting him work through his thoughts in the quiet.

When he peeked up at her again, his eyes were a little damp.

“Feel better?”

“My angel. Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

“You don’t have to deserve me, Alexander. You just have me, forever,” she promised.

He was still struggling with emotion when she heard the door easing open. The pitter-patter of flat feet followed, and little Phil appeared, pulling himself up onto the bed. He clambered over his father, plopping down into the minuscule space in between them.

“Good morning, my little lamb,” Alexander greeted, wiping at his eyes and plastering on a smile. “What have you got there?”

Phil pressed a story book into his father’s hands.

“Want a story before we start our day?”

Phil nodded, burrowing down between them. Eliza rubbed the little boy’s back as she watched Alexander flip through the book.

“How about this one?”

Phil jabbed a chubby little finger at the blanket beneath him, ignoring his father's question. “What color’s this, Papa?”

Alexander squinted at the spot where his son's finger was pointing. “Green.”

“Good job, Papa! What’s this one?”

He was clearly trying hard to suppress a laugh. “Red.”

“Good Papa!” Phil patted at his arm, encouragingly.

“You know, my dear fellow, I think we’ve got this a little backwards. I’m meant to test you on your colors, not the other way round.”

“What's this one?” Phil asked, undeterred.

“Pink,” Alexander answered, tickling the boy and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Phil squealed with laughter, wriggling between them like a dancing worm.

Alexander glanced up at her, catching her eye, expression radiating only joy and contentment now.

She grinned back at him.

[allisondraste]

Temperance (6/?)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary:  Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:    Just a year after his mother's death, Nathaniel is not enjoying his summer very much. Liss enlists the help of her older brother to cheer him up.

First Chapter Previous Chapter [AO3 LINK]

Highever, 9:16 Dragon

It had been just over a year since Nathaniel’s mother had passed.  It was the worst year of his life, and he hated everything. Everything.  It was only fair, since everything hated him, too. Without Mother’s calming influence, Father had become even more critical and dismissive, but that was only when he was present.  Much of the time, he left children in the care of servants and tutors claiming to have no patience for their misbehavior. Honestly, Nathaniel preferred it that way. At least with Adria and the others, he was free to act like a child. He was free to play and cry and he didn’t have to worry of father would be disappointed because he never saw it happen.

He’d also been relieved to learn he would be spending the summer in Highever again.  The Cousland family was kind and —more importantly — whole. They talked to him with soft voices, and made their home feel like his own, only better.  He wasn’t sure that he deserved them, or anything for that matter. He was a poor example of a Ferelden boy, sensitive, moody and unable to control it most of the time.  He must have seemed like the most ungrateful guest in the world, but he just wanted to be alone. The more they tried to include him, to reach out, the more angry he became that his own family couldn’t be the same way. It felt so broken all the time.

He just wished Liss would leave him alone.  It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. In fact, he liked her a lot.  Warm, caring, and incessantly friendly, the girl had become a friend to him, one of the only he could ever remember having.  He’d actually become closer to her than he had to Fergus, despite what father intended, and he was glad to know her. But she wouldn’t let him be miserable in peace.

It was difficult to tell what time it was without any windows in his room. It could have been early morning or the middle of the night and he would not have been able to tell the difference; however, from the bustle of footsteps and echoes of conversation in the hallway, he figured it was mid-morning.  He knew he should be up. He should be out practicing archery, or attending lessons, but he just felt like lying there, coverlet pulled up over his head.

A light succession of knocks against his door meant that lying there for the entire day wasn’t an option.  He slid out of bed, bare feet touching the cold stone floor, and stomped clumsily to the door, pulling it open abruptly, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Liss, I told you I don’t feel like-,” he began, but as his eyes adjusted to the new light, he looked up to see Fergus towering above him, rather than Liss.  He wore an amused grin and Nathaniel’s face burned hot. “Sorry, it’s usually Liss knocking.”

“Not today,” Fergus said with a shrug, “She’s in big trouble.”

“What’d she do this time?” Nathaniel had learned not to be alarmed by “big trouble” in the Cousland household, as it meant something entirely different than “big trouble” at home.  Liss was probably somewhere cleaning up a mess she made, or completing an extra hour of lessons. Fair consequences for misbehavior, which the girl seemed to do a lot of.

“Let one of the Mabari into the larder.  The way Nan looked at her… she got such a scolding.” Fergus laughed jovially at his sister’s misfortune.  “You’re lucky it was me and not her, the way you answered that door. She’s small, but she hits like some twice her size. Look.” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a circular bruise on his arm.  

“Liss did that?”

“She did.”

“Why?” Nathaniel tore his eyes from the dark patch of skin and turned them back to the the other boy’s face.

Fergus chuckled and tugged his sleeve back down.  “Well, when she got in trouble, she made me promise to come check on you for her.  So I told her I’d make sure her boyfriend was all right. Don’t think she liked that very much.”

Heat rushed to his face again, despite how he tried to remain unfazed.  It wasn’t true of course, but to deny it aggressively in that moment would only imply that it was—and it wasn’t. “Your nine-year-old sister hit you hard enough to bruise?”

“Two things you need to know about my sister, Nate,” Fergus said, holding up two fingers, “One, she can kick your arse. Two, she will.  So don’t mess with her if you’re not prepared.” He walked into Nathaniel’s room and sat down in the chair by the desk, long legs outstretched as if it were his own room.

“Why would I want to mess with her?”

“It’s fun,” he remarked cheerfully, “Don’t you ever tease Delilah?”

“No, and it’s not fun.  It’s mean.” Nathaniel recalled the time when he took Delilah’s favorite doll, ripped the arms off, and hid them around their home so she couldn’t find them.  In his mind, she had earned it. After all, she put beetles in his bed. Still, the girl had cried for hours and hours. It was not exactly his definition of fun.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Fergus leaned back so that the chair was on its hind two legs, precariously close to tipping over.  Father would have scolded Nathaniel for doing something like that.

“Guess not,” Nathaniel replied with a huff, watching as the other boy nearly fell backward in the chair.  He waved his arms desperately before grabbing the desk in front of him to stabilize himself. “Anyway, you’ve checked on me.  You can tell Liss I’m okay.”

Fergus shook his head vigorously. “You can’t just stay up here all summer.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“Maybe not, but I’m twice as big as you, and will carry you outside to get some air if I have to.” He raises his eyebrows.  Even sitting down. He was intimidating with his large hands and voice that was starting to deepen.

Nathaniel sighed and relented. “Fine.”

“Thought you’d come around,” Fergus said, standing up and tousling  his hair before ushering him out of the room with a firm grip on his shoulder.  Nathaniel was suddenly grateful to be the oldest of his siblings. To say this kind of thing was annoying would have been an understatement.  

The two boys walked through the hallway, down a flight of stairs, and outside to the courtyard.  It was a sunny day, and warm, even for the middle of summer. Nathaniel hated to admit it, but he already felt lighter.  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the scent of blooming flowers and wet grass filling his nose.

A shriek rang out from behind him, and he tensed, opened his eyes, and glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a mass of curly blond hair in a dress hurtling toward him at full speed.  Liss crashed into him, throwing her arms around his neck. Try as he might to remain standing, the shock of the impact knocked him off balance, sending them both hurtling to the ground. Nathaniel could hear Fergus’ delighted laughter in the background.

“Liss, I thought you were in trouble,” he grunted as he rose up on his elbows.  She lay on his back, arms still tightly clasped around him.

“I was,” she mumbled into his back, “But I snuck away when I saw you walking with Fergus.”

“Won’t you just get in more trouble later?”

“Nan’ll have to find me first,” she said with a giggle, and then nuzzled her face into his back again, “I’m so happy to see you outside, Nate.”

Nathaniel felt his face get hot yet again, as he recalled Fergus’ presence. He’d never live this one down.  Not only had he been tackled by the small, impish little girl, but she was also being affectionate in a way that would warrant later teasing.  

“Um,” he said, trying his very best not to be mean to his friend, “Could you get off of me, please?”

“Oh, right. Sorry,” she answered, sounding a bit embarrassed herself as she hopped to her feet. Nathaniel pushed himself up and stood to face her and her brother.  She had several bits of grass in her hair and the brightest smile on her face.

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes darting to Fergus, whose grin revealed the dimples in his cheeks. Nathaniel wanted to punch him.

“Well, sis, now that I got him outside for you, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.” Fergus tousled her hair and she scowled at him, jutting an elbow up into his side causing him to yelp. “Ow! You’re mean, you know that? See if I ever help you again.”  He threw up his hands and walked away.

Nathaniel kicked at the grass under his feet, ruminating on the ground as Fergus walked away.  It was dumb to be so embarrassed by the other boy’s antics, and yet he still was.

“Fergus thinks he’s so big because he’s got a deep voice now,” Liss fussed crossing her arms, “He doesn’t scare me.”

“No, you’re definitely the scary one.” Nathaniel laughed nervously.

Liss flashed another mischievous grin. “Papa thinks so too.  Says I get it after Mama.”

“Your mother’s scary?”

“She used to be a pirate!”

“Woah.”

“Mhm.”

Liss closed the distance between them and reached up grab his face in her hands, squishing his cheeks together so that his mouth puckered. “I’m happy you came outside, grumpy.”

“You said that already,” Nathaniel mumbled, struggling to speak through the pressure against his jaws, “And I’m not grumpy.”

“Are so,” Liss said removing her hands from his face and sticking out her tongue. “Unless this,” she furrowed her brows, scrunched her nose, and pouted, “Means you’re happy.”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t feel like playing.”

A warm pressure surrounded his hand, and he looked down to see her tiny fingers wrapped around his.  He looked back up to meet her gaze, and she offered him a soft smile.

“It’s not that,” she assured him, “It just makes me sad when you’re sad, Nate. That’s all.”

He squeezed her hand in return, an acknowledgment of the sentiment that he couldn’t figure out how to respond to in words, and the stood there in silence for several moments before Liss tugged at his hand. “C’mon, I want to show you something.”

Nathaniel followed her, hand-in-hand to the edge of the courtyard where he sometimes practiced with a bow.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed, and he did so.  She released his hand and there was a shuffling and clacking sound, followed by footsteps as she returned. “Okay, open them.”

He blinked a few times, looking first at her face and then down to her hands.  In one hand, she held a dark wooden bow carved with the Couslands’ laurel branches.  In the other, was a matching quiver of arrows with an “N” carved onto the front.

“Papa and Mama wanted you to have your own to use here,” Liss explained, “I did, too.  We thought it might make you feel better, at least just a little.”

Nathaniel found himself fighting to hold back tears as he took the bow and quiver from her and examined them carefully.  It was the nicest gift he could ever remember receiving, and it was for no reason at all, no special occasion that involved gift giving.  The Couslands had just done this for him because they cared, and he was overwhelmed with so many feelings he couldn’t even process them all.

“I… thank you,” he stammered, “This is, just, thank you so much.”  

“So you like them?” Liss asked, hands behind her back, eyes glittering with excitement.

“I love them,” he replied with a nod.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted as the shrill voice of an elderly woman called out from the opposite side of the courtyard near the door to the main hall.  

“Elissa Odette!” Nan stood at the top of the steps, hands cupped around her mouth so that her voice carried.  It wasn’t really necessary, though, her voice was loud enough as it was.

Liss’ eyes widened and she grabbed Nathaniel’s wrist.  “We have to go,” she whispered as she pulled him along behind her and into a cluster of bushes that lined that courtyard wall.  Twigs and leaves scratched at his face as he fell through them, his hip colliding roughly with the ground. He looked over at Liss, who giggled silently, her hand over her mouth.

“Lissy, I know you’re out here,” the woman scolded, sounding as if she had gotten closer, “Fergus just told me you were out here talking to that Howe boy.  Maker help me, when I find you, you’ll be scrubbing pots for days. Your father has already agreed to it.”

There was a rustle in the bushes, and a ray of sunlight peeked through, shining directly onto the two of them.  Nathaniel looked up to see Nan hovering over them, scowl etched into the lines on her face. She glanced between him and Liss before taking them both by the arm and pulling them up out of the brush.  She was stronger than he would have expected.

“What am I going to do with you,” she spat as she fussed over Liss’ hair, “First you let that bloody mongrel into my larder and then you run away before you finished cleaning up the mess.  This is no way for a young lady to behave.”

“And Nathaniel, dear,” she said more softly as she turned to face him.  He tensed and prepared for a tongue-lashing of his own. “This girl is a bad influence.  She is a naughty, ill-behaved child, and will do nothing but get you into trouble.” He nodded but darted his eyes to Liss who could barely contain her laughter.

“I’m sorry Nan,” she said sweetly, “Nate hasn’t been feeling well and I just wanted to make sure he was okay.  I’ll wash as many pots as you want me to.” Liss batted her eyelashes at the woman, who scoffed in return.

“You bet you will,” she retorted as she took Liss by the arm, just above the elbow, and turned to escort her back to the castle.  

“See you later, Nate,” she shouted as they walked away, turning over her shoulder to wave at him. “Feel better!”

He chuckled softly and waved back to her, before returning to the bow and arrows that dropped to the ground in the rush to hide.  He picked them up to examine them more closely, tracing the engravings with the tip of his index finger. His chest swelled and the tears he held back before fell freely now.  He really did love them - the gifts and the family who gave them to him.

Fixing his stance, he nocked an arrow, took aim, pulled back the string and released.

It was a bullseye.

[aces-to-apples]

May The Fourth Be With You (And Also With You)

I don’t have anything ready to post for May the Fourth this year, boo!, but instead I’ll steal Dharma’s idea of posting a snippet of all my applicable WIPs, yay!

“Sugar and Spice” aka The Nika Fic aka genderbent AU crosses over with canon-verse a la Universe Collisions by Sroloc_Elbisivni

The Jedi took a couple more shuddering breaths. “Anyone else need a top-up?” she asked, voice steady but gaze fixed on the dank rock wall.

Rex exchanged looks with Kix, who straightened and surveyed his patients, clearly weighing who among them could use the help. The men themselves—Onyx, left hand useless from taking a swing at a clanker when his power-pack ran out; Honeycutt, nursing a couple cracked, possibly broken, ribs; Fives, unable to stand on his right leg—shared a non-verbal conversation of their own.

“Onyx can't shoot and Fives can't walk.” Honeycutt gave up the names with vicious pragmatism, ignoring both men as they silently threatened to space him once they were back on the Vigilance.

The Jedi looked between them with a small smile—at Fives who was stubbornly trying to get to his feet in protest, at Onyx who gripped his deece in his non-dominant hand like he was contemplating bludgeoning Honeycutt with it, and at Honeycutt himself with his arms crossed over his chest, one hand subtly nursing the injured ribs. “What about you, tough guy? Need a hand?”

“I can walk and I can fight,” Honeycutt said defiantly. He jerked a thumb at the other two. “That's more than these idiots can claim, and you're the one who asked.”

“True enough,” was her easy reply, but her eyes held a challenge. “How well can you breathe, though?”

He bared his teeth at her. “Well enough to argue with you… sir.”

Rex was prepared to step between them, to apologize for Honeycutt’s disrespectful attitude, but held back another beat. As half of him suspected she would, the Jedi threw her head back and cackled.

“Oh, I like you,” she announced with a grin, the color swiftly returning to her cheeks and her eyes sparkling. “You got a name, tough guy?”

“… Honeycutt,” he replied, looking from her to Rex and back. Rex couldn't do more than shrug, because he didn't know either. “Corporal Honeycutt.”

“Pleased to meet you, Honeycutt. I'm Nika.” She held out a hand to him, palm up, and watched his eye it distrustfully, shell-pink lips curved to one side. After a second, he took it and she hauled him to his feet. “Now, let’s see what we can do about those ribs, shall we?”

(Working title:) “Friends, Foes, and Telling the Difference” aka part three of “A Non-Comprehensive Guide To Force-Sensitivity”

The boy watched their interaction with the same lackadaisical interest the young Zabrak had demonstrated during their journey. “What does the Force feel like to you?” he finally said, blinking owlishly as Dooku refused to choke on his Tarine tea and delicately cleared his throat. “When Ben talks about it, it’s all very mystical-sounding. Cool winds and noiseless whispers, like a friendly ghost or a helpful spirit. Feelings and stuff. But when Maul talks about the Force, it’s more like instincts and heightened senses. It’s more physical than, I dunno, spiritual. So I wanted to know what it’s like for you.”

“That,” Dooku replied, placing his teacup on the table just so, “is a very personal question, young Skywalker.”

Anakin tilted his head innocently and said, “Oh, is it?” but his even his shields—well-made and well-maintained both from within and without—do poorly to contain the bright, bubbling amusement he was polite enough to hold back. Clearly, he knew very well what he was doing, and Dooku had to admire the tenacity of a such a young boy teasing a Jedi Master whilst genuinely seeking information.

He hummed pointedly and stared the unrepentant boy down, but considered the question in earnest. Knowledge for the sake of knowledge was a worthy pursuit. “Your brothers,” Dooku said the word carefully, weighing its meaning as he met the boy’s eyes, “were both correct. The Force can manifest in various ways, and it’s likely different for every being who experiences it. For many, whether they purposefully follow the ways of the Force or not, it acts in a more passive manner: a feeling of wrongness when danger is near, a keen sense of distrust when one is being deceived, or even just a quiet knowledge of where to go or what to say at a certain moment.”

Young Skywalker nodded thoughtfully, his eyes far away. “That’s very interesting, sir,” he said after a moment. “I think Ben will like you, if you ever meet. You both talk the same way, like you’ll get a prize at the end of the day for how many questions you can avoid answering. That, or he’ll hate your guts. It’s hard to say with Ben.”

Queen Amidala smothered a giggle.

“Well,” Dooku drawled, picking his tea back up, “Maul seems determined to dislike myself and my companion, so I think not.”

The boy shrugged and gulped down the rest of his milk with a grin. “Maybe, maybe not,” he cheerfully declared. “Those two disagree so much, I think it’s on purpose. Mom says they were like two tomcats until I was born, always arguing and hissing at each other, so Ben might decide he likes you just to be contrary.”

“An interesting way to raise a child,” Dooku noted, dry as the desert air outside. “If they disagree so often, you must have quite a bit of conflicting information on a great many topics.”

“Dab’ika Vaar’kara” aka the Camp Half-Blood AU an anon accidentally requested when they combined “summer camp” and “magical accidents” during a trope mash-up ask meme

“Now, as new arrivals, you're given a certain amount of leeway when it comes to the rules, regulations, and realities of living in the Godsworld.” Rex fixed the little ones—nearly fourteen and just barely scraping in under the wire in regards to the required claiming age—with a hard stare. “After orientation, you will be expected to either figure out what you don't know yourself or keep your trap shut. Understood, cadets?”

It was a blatant lie, of course; Cody could already see Kix’s bunk littered with sheets of flimsi covered in drawings, diagrams, and written explanations. Still, it was the spirit of the thing, yeah? A’sev had scared them witless when they’d first arrived at camp, and now that he was off doing Paladin shit, it fell to them to keep the tradition alive. It was a beautiful cycle, really, and watching the tiny shinies straighten up and shout “sir, yes, sir” like Rex was a fucking drill sergeant was hilarious.

“First off,” Rex continued, beginning to pace rather impressively in front of the duo. Cody had a hard time not joining the boys in their next snickerfit. “Congratulations on surviving your first monster encounter—besting an abaia while it’s got a home-field advantage is no easy feat. You did yourselves, and all your brothers, proud.”

The rookies straightened up that much more under the praise and Cody felt his need to smirk warring with the impulse to coo. “Whose idea was it to get it to charge into the rocks?” he asked curiously. They'd taken bets, watching from the shore.

“Mine, sir,” the one with the crew-cut said, taking a small step forward. A ripple spread through the cabin as they all noticed he'd subtly placed himself between his twin and Rex. That kind of body-language, combined with the late claiming, didn't bode well.

“Well done,” Rex acknowledged with a nod. “It was reckless, but well-executed. Just the kind of thinking we need in Mandalore Cabin. You got a name, shiny?”

“Ferdinand, sir,” the kid said without any hint of irony. They all winced in sympathy, because yeesh. “This is Emrys.”

Seeing that Rex didn't quite know how to phrase it, Cody asked, “You boys got nicknames?”

Their reaction was… worrying.

“Sir, no, sir,” Ferdinand—poor fucking kid—immediately denied, panic well-hidden to anyone not used to reading every variation of the face the Mand’alor’s poor decisions had stuck them all with. “We’re proud to carry these names and would never—”

“Anyone here calls me Emrys, I’ll break their fucking nose,” the long-haired twin cut in, stepping forward so that they stood shoulder to shoulder. “Got it?”

“Blood On The Ice” aka the Skyrim AU that I’ve world-built wayyyy more than I’ve actually written

The first glimpse of Coruscant—snow-dusted, crumbled stone reeking of despair—holds true as Ahsoka enters the city proper. Barrels of supplies do little to mask its deepening poverty when the cobblestones themselves shift beneath her feet.

A little Human girl, clad only in a threadbare red dress, entreats her to buy a wildflower and Ahsoka’s heart breaks at the girl’s gratitude when she agrees. She’d heard of Skyrim’s civil war back home, but had thought the children would be spared from adult pettiness. In Valenwood, the Green cares for younglings nearly as much as their parents; in the home and hold of the Storm-Hand, it seems, children shiver and starve. Not yet an hour in his hold, Ahsoka finds herself unimpressed with the rebellious Human king.

Unsure which path to take from her ingress, she chooses randomly and goes right.

Lined with homes and shops in various states of disrepair, Ahsoka regrets her choice until she spots an older gentleman lingering in a doorway. Her shoulders slump with relief to see one of her Twi’lek cousins, even bundled in the furs and leathers needed in the harsh Skyrim climate, rather than colorful Morrowind silks.

“Greetings, nerra,” she says warmly, stepping closer and holding out a hand.

The man appears nonplussed for a moment but replies with an affable, “Welcome, numa,” and clasps her forearm. “Are you new to Coruscant, gida?” he asks, nodding at her bow and daggers. “Most elves know better than to appear before the Stormhands so armed.”

untitled time-travel fic currently referred to in-house as “first battle of geonosis time-travel fic” aka this fic

And on it goes, a litany of ghosts and brothers lost to the stars. He matches numbers to names as they speak through the darkness: Fives and Echo, Jesse, Hardcase, and Kix, Onyx and Honeycutt, Razzy, Ringo, Tup—even Dogma, quietest and most hesitant of all. The barest bones of Torrent Company; eleven dead men walking, and Rex makes a full squad.

Numbers are and ever will be your greatest strength, your keenest advantage, he recalls the woman saying at one point, somewhere between his failed intruder alert and the imperious wave of her hand that sent him to his knees, heaving.

“Where the frip’s my bucket,” a voice gripes—Ringo, by the sound of it. The only reply he receives beyond repetitions of the same question, “Prob’ly right where you left it,” comes from Razzy, no question. It's both a relief and a punch to the gut to hear Ringo gripe, “Umbara, then, with the rest of me.”

“Oh, hey, mine too,” Hardcase pipes up, saying it like a joke, like it was funny. “Anyone else kick it on that sith-hole?”

“Yeah, Krell,” Five answers into the uncomfortable silence. It sounds like he’s smiling; the smile doesn’t sound very nice.

“Ori’haat?” Hardcase says, intrigued and vaguely impressed. “You do the honors?”

And finally, “chasing a dream” aka the summary and first couple sentences of the Treasure Planet AU that I absolutely forgot I was going to write at some point

Her name isn’t Hawkins. The cyborg isn’t silver. And the closest thing she has to a father isn’t a caninoid species. They’ve got the makings of greatness in them all the same.

-

Ahsoka is six years old when she meets her very best friend in the whole wide galaxy. He's a Guardian—only a little one, though, like she's only a little Jedi—and he's got the same warm brown skin and golden-brown eyes that his brothers do, but he's also got a bunch of bright yellow hair.

[mtraki]

(Warning: Little bit of [terrible] smut in this one...  Also I don't have any personal grievance with the Catholic church, nor is my intention to offend!) 

 Storms had been building on the horizon for weeks.

They rolled through slow and continuous, one after another, and the thunder growled out across the dry lands, even though above the desert basin the sky remained bright blue and virtually cloudless.

 At night, Catherine watched the lightning flicker.  Sometimes the girls would join her-- usually Tilly or Jenny.  Sean would join them if Karen was there, and they’d share drinks and jokes.  Arthur and Charles would smoke in deep contemplation, eyes fixed on the flashing horizon, but only long enough for one cigarette.

 “You’d best get some sleep,” Arthur warned her, flicking the butt of his into the dirt before scuffing it out with his boot, “Hosea’s got us ridin’ into Tumbleweed to check in on his ‘friend’, Mister Graff.”

 Hosea often had them riding out to follow up on his leads.   Catherine was there as her ‘father’s’ representative, and Arthur was Hosea’s favorite choice for her guardian as he was more obviously physically capable at first glance than either John or Javier, and Dutch had Charles running another job.  Catherine suspected the old man was stirring up trouble after their talk about how he thought Arthur was in love with her. If Mister Morgan suspected anything, he didn’t share his thoughts with her.  Altogether, he was behaving much more aloof, and Catherine was certain Dutch’s recent behavior had much to do with it.  If not everything.

 “I remember.  I’ll be ready.”

 “Maybe bring a change of clothes this time?” He teased, corner of his mouth twisting ruefully, “Don’ want t’be delayed on account of rain.”

 “I suppose that would be best for both of us, then.  Goodnight, Mister Morgan.” She smiled back warmly.

 He avoided looking her in the face and instead turned away, heading for his tent, “‘Night, Miss Schofield.”

 It twisted in her guts like a sharp piece of metal, and she wasn’t sure exactly why.  At least this new arrangement suited Dutch’s sensitive pride better, it seemed, and so Catherine took it upon herself to bear it with quiet dignity.  As well as treat Dutch with the same cool aloofness.  She spent her nights with the other women, and did not entertain any of the outlaw’s flattery.

Lenny was having better luck.  He’d convinced Miss Kirk to ride out with him to try and shake out a lead somewhere.  Catherine found it decidedly encouraging that they were not back yet.  If any man in this world could treat Jenny right, it was surely Mister Summers.  His youth and inexperience were strengths in this regard, because he was open to education, which Jenny could surely provide if she only gave him the chance…

 With a sigh, Miss Schofield turned to retreat to her spot, settled between Tilly and Mary-Beth under the canvas, the lightning still flickering on the horizon behind her.

 They left early in the morning, and ate a light breakfast in the saddle.  Arthur was particularly withdrawn and taciturn, and the lady suspected he hadn’t rested well.  Or maybe Dutch had made a point to chap his hide over their being alone together?  She didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.

 Likely, the outlaw was determined to make it a long, quiet ride.  She let him, for about an hour and a half, but then her patience was exhausted and she began to make conversation, refusing to become discouraged by his resistance.  In the end, he was helpless before her. She was too well-trained in the arts of social discourse, and he was not nearly skilled or stubborn enough to resist her efforts.

 He’d spent twenty years learning all the best ways to rob, threaten, and kill people.  She’d spent nearly that long perfecting how to charm them.

 Arthur soon warmed to the conversation, and with Dutch and the rest of the camp so far behind them, relaxed into their former camaraderie.  As ever, it took a bit of work and encouragement to turn his thoughts and words from the immediate and practical, towards something they could both muse over.  Presently, they’d stumbled into a discussion about justice and capital punishment.

 “You know I don’ flinch away from killin’ at all, Miss Schofield.  Folks that need killin’ should be killed.”

 “So you are for judicial, summary execution, as it stands now?”

 “Well…” He laughed a bit, his humor dark-- as it often was, “I much prefer dispensation with a bullet instead of a rope.”

 “‘Dispensation’ is a good word, I approve.” She grinned at him, “But you must accept that a rope is altogether more economical.”

 “What are you talking about-- bullets come mighty cheap--”

 “--Bullets, sure, but to keep a gun in killing condition, for the number of executions a sheriff or other authority might need to dispense… These costs rack up swiftly as opposed to acquiring a rope which can be reused…”

 Arthur shrugged, “Sure, but you was talkin’ justice, not economics.  You want death on the cheap, jus’ cut out the throat or drown’ ‘em in a trough, or hell, just beat 'em t’death…”

 Making a thoughtful sound, brow furrowing, Catherine said, “So you contend that shooting a man is more just than hanging him?”

 “You been to many hangin’s, Miss?”

 “No.  I never understood the entertainment in watching someone die-- deserved or otherwise.”

 “--That’s a different discussion altogether, but I’ve seen a good number of hangings.  Civil and… outside the law proper.  Ain’t none of ‘em just from where I was standin’.  It’s a bad death, even if the end of the rope kills quick-- an’ it don’t always.”

 “... From my… limited study… the mode of execution is the severing of the spine-- the force breaks the victim’s neck.  I’ve heard that sometimes this doesn’t happen and the victim strangles to death.”

 “Your limited study bein’ readin’ about it?”

 “Mostly, though some of my peers back home have a grotesque fascination with the subject of execution and attend them as frequently as garden parties.”

 “Your books and rich, fancy gawkers ever talk about what it’s like to watch a man kick his legs while he spins helpless at the end of a rope, jerking up and down, before he starts seizing up?  Or how he looses his bowels in front of the crowd jeering for his blood before he blacks out?”

 Catherine looked at him to find he was looking at her.  Though his mouth was in a firm line, none of his displeasure was directed at her-- he didn’t blame her for her ignorance on the matter, he was simply trying to teach her, and express his point of view.  He wanted her to understand.

 If only Dutch talked to her this way… things could be so different.  So much better…

 “Alright, Arthur,” She said with a nod, “you’ve made your case against the noose.  Now explain how a bullet is better.  Death by firing squad was conceived very specifically in the military to diffuse the blood guilt.  So now we’d need five guns and bullets and men of courage with steady aim…?”

 The outlaw snorted, “Or just one.”

 “Not many men in this world can carry the burden of a hundred or more deaths, Arthur.”          “No,” He agreed, “Fortunately sheriffs are elected in an’ out, ain’t they?  After their term of service, they can retire quiet-like someplace.”

 “Even besides the shooter, there’s the crowd to think of.  You mentioned the indignity of a victim loosing their bowels, what about the horror of flesh and bone being ripped apart by a gunshot?”

 “I thought the point was to make an example…” He raised both eyebrows at her, as if surprised she didn’t understand this basic premise.

 Scoffing, Catherine shook her head, “If it is, then we aren’t talking about justice at all, and I stand even more firmly in my position against the supposed moral and legal superiority of capital punishment.”

 “So no hangin’s or shootin’s?  Whatchu gonna do with rotten folk like us, then?  Lock us up?” Arthur laughed.

 “Educate you.” She said frankly, looking him dead in the face so that he sobered and knit his brow together.

 “Educate us…?  You want to educate the killers and thieves and rapers?”

 “That should be the burden of the government, should it not?  Look at yourself, and most folks in the gang!  It’s a question of why you’re killers and thieves!  Surely if you had been taught necessary skills with which to integrate into society you wouldn’t feel like you’d been rejected by it like so much refuse--”

 “--You know, I don’ much follow news like this,” Arthur interjected suddenly, “but I heard tell the government is doin’ something like that very thing with the native peoples they’d rounded up.  The tribes.  Takin’ their kids an’ puttin’ them in these schools to teach ‘em how to be ‘American’ an’ ‘acceptable-like’…”

 Under his clever, pointed look, Catherine blushed, torn between embarrassment at her dangerous ignorance, genuine pleasure that he’d challenged her, and a small sense of pride in knowing it was her influence that had engendered this willingness to engage in a tête-à-tête at all.

 “...There’s a marked difference between educating and equipping the poor in one’s own culture… and destroying the culture of another people.  I’m not suggesting education can cure all the sins of man’s collective black heart, Mister Morgan, but I am suggesting that it’s clear that the current system only benefits the select few-- the rich.  For it is the poor who are turning to crime to satisfy their needs, and the poor who are summarily executed for it.  Yet we call it  justice and tell ourselves we’re doing very well.”

 Arthur shook his head, “Some folks are jus’ evil, Miss Catherine.”

 “Yes, but unless everyone has their needs fulfilled, we’ll never be able to tell the evil from the simply desperate.  The way they tell it, only God Himself has that power.”

 “I suppose the Reverend might agree we ought to leave justice in the hands of the Almighty…” remarked the outlaw dryly, “but I expect not much’ll get done either way…”

 This led to a discussion about the failings of the good Reverend as an individual, and the Catholic Church as an institution.  This more serious conversation quickly devolved into the trading of off-color jokes and humorous stories. Arthur’s humor was dry and dark as the tomb, but it was his sense of      timing     that threatened some inelegant, unladylike laughter out of Catherine.  Though she had little talent in entertainment, for her part, the lady had a small but efficient repertoire at her disposal, and soon discovered how much she liked hearing Arthur laugh unrestrained until he wheezed for breath.  She determined then and there to acquire greater skill in humor.

 It was then the arroyo opened around them, and Tumbleweed greeted them, starting with the chapel to their right, which caused them to shoot each other half-guilty, half-smirking looks.  But it was the tree standing in the graveyard that drew Catherine’s attention and held it.

 The thing was dead, as it had been the last time she’d seen it some weeks ago, but now half was torn away, broken off and lying at an awkward angle on the ground amidst shattered bits of branches.

 “What in the world..?” She murmured stunned and intrigued.  Never in her life had she seen anything like it.

 Arthur had, it seemed, for his tone, though interested, lacked the note of naked shock hers held, “Lightning.”

 “Really!”

 Smiling at her, he nodded, “Yes’m.  That’s lightning for sure.”

 Dismounting, Catherine could hardly stop herself from approaching the ruined tree, unconcerned with how Woden snorted and trotted toward the water trough in front of the saloon where he would be certain to drench the entire length of his reins getting a drink.   Chuckling quietly-- either at the horse, his rider, or both together-- the big outlaw dismounted as well, though his steed was well-behaved enough to stay where he’d been left on the side of the road.  All of it barely registered, the lady was fixated by the appearance of the tree and entirely engrossed in trying to piece together exactly how the lightning had done this.

 “... I’m certain we haven’t seen any storms this close…” She murmured.

 “Mhm…” Was Arthur’s quiet acknowledgement over the scratching of his pencil on paper.  He was in his journal-- sketching the image in front of them, she was sure of it. He’d never shared his drawings with her, and she’d never been so bold as to pry-- not with how quick he was to tuck away the journal any time her eyes rested on it longer than a moment.

 Her curiosity gave her an infamous reputation in many respects among those in the camp.

 “Does lightning really travel that far from its source?” She wondered aloud, instead, “...And isn’t it supposed to strike the tallest structure-- that church steeple is much taller!  Besides, I don’t see any scorch marks, do you?”

 Arthur was chuckling again, low in his broad chest, “Miss Schofield, if you don’ believe me it was lightnin’, you can come out an’ say so, plain…”

 “It’s not that,” Was her quick amendment, “You’ve seen it before, so I must acknowledge your greater experience in the matter… it’s just… the evidence here seems to contradict so many things I understood about the nature of lightning!”

 Snapping closed his journal, Arthur’s eyes were on Catherine’s face-- she could feel the weight of his gaze-- and his smile was warm, but there was teasing in his eyes when she turned her head to meet his look, “‘Things’?  Like thunderbolts bein’ thrown down from Olympus by Zeus?”

 “That would be a myth, Arthur, not a theory backed by scientific data documented in books,” She rolled her eyes, and he laughed.

 “What about ‘lightning don’ strike the same place twice’?”

 Blinking at him, she frowned, “You mean that’s not true?  The odds seem mathematically very slim.”

 “I dunno about mathematics, an’ I’m pretty good with odds, but--” He stopped suddenly, a strange expression crossing his face.   Catherine didn’t bother asking, she sensed it too, just for a moment: a strange smell in the air-- sharp and acrid on the tongue, and a queer sensation over her skin that raised the hair at the nape of her neck and tickled at the thin hairs on her arms.

 It lasted only a moment-- in the same moment she saw Arthur lunge for her-- and then everything exploded in white hot light flanked in boiling red, and they were thrown to their knees, shouting their shared alarm.  Slim gave a piercing whinny, the stout warhorse was unmoved by most threats, but this terrible      explosion     frightened him all the same.  The air around them seemed to tremble with the echo of a terrible, earth-shaking roar, and the lady wondered if she’d ever hear again as it reverberated in her ears and through every bone in her head enough to send her entire body trembling.

 She was not alone.  Once her vision bled back from the blinding flare of light, she saw Arthur, hatless, on his hands and knees nearby, shaking as well.  She could not hear him yet, but his mouth shaped words she knew to be vehement curses before his eyes turned toward her, worry chasing shock over his features.

 But her eyes went to the tree, where flames licked the sky.

 “Je-- Go--...  Shit…” Arthur whispered, and Catherine started to laugh, knowing what he’d started to say and why he hadn’t said it.

 Arthur Morgan, infamous outlaw, thief, and killer, was afraid to blaspheme the Name of the Lord here in front of the church and this tree that had been-- against all odds-- struck by lightning twice.  For all his teasing of her just a moment ago, Arthur apparently believed-- at least in this moment, at least a little-- the God of Abraham might strike down sinners with lightning from Heaven, should they incite his anger.

 Stranger still, she could think of no reason, in this moment, to contradict him.  Her laughter softened, but turned all the more hysterical as she felt his trembling hands take her shoulders.

 “... Catherine…?”

 She couldn’t stop laughing long enough to assure him she was unhurt, despite the quaking of her bones, and when she met his look, she understood that where the white-hot light had seared through her with terrible shock and amazement, it had set him ablaze on the inside.

 He was concerned for her, certainly, but just behind that concern--chasing like a hound on the heels of a hare--was something hot and desperate.  She reasoned she understood: though he was a man who’d faced death countless times, it was rare indeed to face death ordained by the Heavens themselves-- and see it thwarted somehow.

 Insane odds and a more pressingly desperate, mortal, desire to survive had reshifted priorities in Arthur Morgan’s mind, perhaps?  He wanted her-- had  wanted her for a long time.  Until now, he’d been willing to deny himself for the hundreds of reasons piled up inside and around him, perhaps forever.

 But now… now after facing the wrath and judgement of the Almighty...

 Perhaps not so long, after all?  Time was short.  Life was brutal and fleeting.

 Still gripped by the mad giddiness that caused laughter to spill from her lips, Catherine brought up her hands and traced both sides of his unshaven jawline with trembling fingertips, and watched as something dark and hungry framed the heat in his eyes at her touch.  In a rush, one of his hands moved from her shoulder to the side of her head, fingers threading into her dark hair, half-undone from its chignon, and dragged her in to meet his rushed, exhilarated kiss.

 Shock chased up her spine immediately.  Not because he’d kissed her, but for fear that someone might see them.  Tumbleweed was a small town, and the lightning and fire would certainly draw a crowd at any moment.  How long would it take for their lack of restraint, and disregard for modesty and propriety, to enter the usual rounds of gossip?

 How long before someone back at camp heard about it?  Until Dutch heard?

 Pressing her thumbs lightly against his chin, on each side of the cleft there, Catherine eased her face from Arthur’s.  Though he leaned eagerly after her, pressing against her fingers, he did not use his hands to drag her back or force another kiss upon her.  No matter the violence of his thundering desperation for her, he wasn’t going to force her.

 It was… surprising, given her experiences, and she found it-- like so many things on the growing list she kept in her head for Arthur Morgan-- terribly endearing.

 “...I…”

 “Wait,” She whispered, “... Not here.  Somewhere quiet.”

 He released her, to cover her hands with his, nodding, more to himself than anything.  Then he climbed to his feet and pulled her up after him.

 The burning tree was forgotten.  The horses forgotten.  His hat, there on the dusty ground, forgotten.  The job forgotten.  He pulled her after him direct to the gunsmith.  He wasn’t thinking, Catherine supposed, only doing-- driven by instinct or need, or both.  Her own thoughts were whirling in disorder so quickly she could hardly piece them together.   She’d always been aware that at any moment he might desire for her to make good on all her flirtations-- like every man before him-- but after Dutch’s threats…

 After Hosea’s accusations…

 The timing was certainly poor, but she wasn’t really concerned about it, now.  This was…

 … this was familiar territory.  She knew what to do.  She knew what was expected.  She could go through all the motions with hardly a second thought.  It was something of a relief, really, because she’d need her thoughts to decide just how to arrange things afterwards to prevent a disaster…

 She was too distracted by her thoughts to catch whatever Arthur had said to the proprietor-- maybe he hadn’t really said anything at all-- nor did she notice precisely how much money he set down on the counter-- though it looked like a rather large sum.  But then the man handed Arthur a key.  In a rush they were back outside and circling the building and climbing the stairs in the back.

 Arthur’s hands still trembled a bit, and he cursed them under his breath as he struggled with the key in the lock.  Catherine couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up-- he was still minding his oaths so as to perhaps not offend the Almighty-- but she bit her lips to hold it in.

 She couldn’t help the way her heart raced when the door opened and he pulled her inside the dimness after him.  Or the stuttering it made as the flat of his hand closed the door behind her again. This was familiar territory, certainly, but she had not done so well for herself by becoming complacent.  Every man was at his worst behind closed doors, when the lights went down.  It would be beyond foolish to not meet Arthur Morgan at his worst  with a touch of apprehension.

 But those large, calloused hands, shaped and scarred by a lifetime of violence, were gentle as they cupped her face like it was the finest china.  Even though there was a rampaging storm of urgency and desperation in his heated gaze, he did nothing more.  Not until she looped her arms over his broad shoulders and around his neck, tilting her face up toward him in invitation.  Then he met her like the breaking of a wave against the cliffs on the coast of the northeast, with a similar heavy sigh, and a great deal more care.

 He had no time or room for self-doubt now, and though sorely out of practice, Catherine could tell he knew how to conduct himself so as to please a lady while kissing her.  She wondered whether Dutch had taught him, or Hosea, or his previous lover-- Mary, wasn’t it?  Perhaps all three had their share in his education.  Maybe unknown others.  It didn’t really matter; she was quietly pleased that he was aware of how best to make use of his generous mouth.  Few men bothered to learn, and even fewer bothered to make use of the knowledge, in her unfortunately broad experience.  

 It was one of the things that had drawn her to Mister van Der Linde, initially.  For all his faults, the man knew how to use his mouth well.

 When she felt the outlaw’s fingertips brush down the smooth skin of her throat, she moved her hands as well, sliding over his shoulders and down the broad planes of his chest, quickly working open buttons as she went.  At the same time, she stepped into him, urging him backwards.  Bothering only to make a vaguely inquisitive sound in his throat while he kissed her, Arthur moved as she directed, until the back of his knees hit the bed frame.  By then, she’d gotten his shirt open-- perhaps far more swiftly than he’d expected-- and he’d torn his mouth from hers for want of air, gasping for breath.

 Apparently his education hadn’t included remembering to breathe through his nose whilst his mouth was occupied, or perhaps he was too wound up to remember.  He’d forgotten a great deal else outside, after all...

 He said nothing, just gazed at her like she was the only cup of water left in the desert, and he was already a man on fire, his fingers toying with the pearl button at the throat of her shirtwaist as if he was afraid any further efforts might break it.  Or break her.

 Or this-- that she might, in the end, reject him despite coming this far…

 Under her hands, and his heated skin beneath them, his heart galloped wildly in his chest.  He was shivering all over like a fly-stung colt, quaking as her fingers slid down his body toward his belt without her eyes ever leaving the storm in his.  There was something to be said about the satisfaction of having such a physically imposing man so wholly in her power.

 “Lie down.” She commanded in a soft voice, uncinching his gunbelt with both hands in two smooth motions.  He stooped slowly, the bed too short and too low for him to sit with any kind of real grace, considering his size, and especially with his focus elsewhere.  He stumbled, mumbling a soft curse as his legs and balance forsook him, but the lady used his momentum to push him to the side, so he might fall the length of the bed instead of the width of it to hit his head on the wall.  He flipped to his back in time to reach for her waist with both hands as she climbed after him, parting her riding skirt so her legs wouldn’t bind up together as she moved.

 The bed groaned beneath their shared weight.  Catherine wondered if the shopkeep downstairs could hear.  She wondered if he were listening on purpose.  It was still better than the middle of the street in front of the church and cemetery.  At least here they had plausible deniability for whatever accusations might be thrown…

 The pressure of the outlaw’s fingers kneading into the stiff bones of her corset at her waist sharpened her attention back on him and the task at hand-- he needed something to do with those hands, she supposed.  For whatever reason, he couldn’t find a proper task for them himself. With one of her own hands and a practiced twist of fingers, Catherine popped the pearl button at her throat open, noting how Arthur’s eyes followed their motion.  How the apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.  Her other hand guided one of his to her throat, willing to suffer his fumbling-- willing to sew buttons back on her own clothing for a change, if necessary-- to see this done, “Here.”

 While he worked the buttons open so slowly, one at a time, her hands found the buttons of his suspenders, and then the fasten of his pants.

 She only paused when she heard his voice, “Wh…?!”

 Her shirtwaist was only half open, and under it, he was pawing the material of her corset cover, confused by the additional row of buttons as an obstacle to get to her.  It was at this precise moment Catherine realized that whatever he might have done, or planned to do with his fancy ‘Miss Mary’, he’d never actually taken her to his bed, or even seen her under-dressed.

 Further, any women he might have taken his pleasure with were either not women of means and fashion, or he’d encountered them already undressed.

 She wondered if this were also the reason Dutch never bothered attempting to undress her: he didn’t want to risk looking a fool.

 Laughing again, Catherine leaned down to smother his frustrated incredulity with a kiss-- which he gladly, hungrily answered-- and opened his pants, sliding her fingers inside.  Moaning into her mouth, the outlaw’s hands clenched hard around the silk-wrapped bones circling and cinching her ribs and waist while his own contracted in a seemingly unconscious manner, rolling his hips to meet her hand.  She found him already hard and slid him free, throbbing heat.  The curious, whirring, analytical part of her mind noted that while his cock-- like the man himself-- was above average in size, it was his girth that made her insides clench and turn icy.  Even as… well used… as she might be, she could not help but feel apprehensive dread at how he might tear through her with his size and strength.

 But it wouldn’t do for her hesitation to show.  What a mess it would be if he were to question her willingness…

 Fondling the length of his shaft with light brushes of her fingertips, Catherine used her free hand to coax one of his to the laces for the waist of her skirt-- with a normal skirt, the hem could be pulled up around her hips to accommodate the joining of bodies, but that which made this garment more decent and ladylike for riding astride a horse made more difficult the riding astride of a man.  She felt his fingers clench suddenly into a fist around the laces and fabric when the second stroke of her hand around his member wrapped her fingers more firmly around him.  His mouth tore from hers again, his face sliding into the hollow of her shoulder while his hips bucked in frantic jerks.  He muffled his wordless shout of surprise, ecstasy, and shamed frustration into her body.

 Equally surprised, Catherine froze as hot ejaculate spattered against the inside of her forearm before dribbling heavily onto her wrist and into her hand.  They sat there a moment, trying to steady their breathing and thoughts.  Her shock wore off quickly.  He was far from the first man to reach completion early--always much to his embarrassment-- and in a way she was relieved.  If this was all it might take to satisfy him, then--

 But Arthur was moving.  Gripping her arms, he pushed her to the side, over his legs, and out of his way as he climbed unsteadily--but determined-- to his feet, hands busying themselves to put himself back in order.

 Thinking him shamed by his lack of performance, Catherine said, “There’s no reason for embarrassment, Arthur.  It’s a perfectly natural--”

 Her words stuttered, snapping into shards in her throat when she caught a glimpse of his expression, however.  He didn’t look embarrassed.  He looked angry.

Quite angry.

 Standing in the middle of the small room, his back to her, the outlaw started for the door, and Catherine was suddenly mortified that he might leave her here like this.  But he stopped halfway, then doubled-back across the room to the washbasin on top of the dresser in the corner, near the foot of the bed, with heavy footfalls that betrayed his emotion.  He took the drying cloth from where it was folded next to the basin and tossed it to her.  Watching the ragged cloth hit the equally ragged bedspread nearby, the lady blinked, mortification still brewing inside.

 This… this had never happened before.  She’d never lain with a man and had him angry-- or even displeased-- by the end.  Never once!  Opening her mouth to ask after him, he instead spoke, cutting her off with his low, disgusted voice.

 “This… this ain’t right…”  He shook his head, still refusing to look at her, presenting her only with his broad back.

 Mortification swelled, and it took only moments for it to give way to anger of her own.  Her tone turned icy, “... You must forgive me, sir, I was not aware my attentions were so displeasing--”

 “Woman, hush.” His scolding came in a sharp, but resigned tone.  “You ain’t stupid.  You know precisely what I’m on about.  You… you’re Dutch’s woman, dammit!  How can I…  I can’t…  This…  This ain’t right!”

 Anger bubbled inside, boiling thick and heavy like a pot of coffee, “Yes.  Dutch’s woman.  As much a possession-- an  object-- for his display to prop up his vanity and pride as all his others.  A pretty and gaudy trapping to use or set aside as he pleases! Is that ‘right’, Arthur?”

 He didn’t answer her.

 Her emotions strangled her, forcing her voice out so hushed it was almost a hiss, “He doesn’t love me.  He hardly cares for me.  He just wants to keep me.  Like… like a jewel.  But I’m not a jewel, I’m a woman with my own mind!  So don’t… don’t you dare try and shame me for this, Arthur!”

 Saying nothing in reply, Arthur turned for the door, still refusing to look at her.  She knew he was going for certain this time, and Catherine desperately tried to find words and voice-- something to say that might stop him.  Of his own accord, he paused in the doorway.

 “I’ll get the horses.  Clean yerself up an’ meet me in front.” His voice was the opposite of hers-- calm, quiet, dispassionate.  Businesslike.

 Mortification and anger fled in the wake of humiliation, and Catherine suddenly had nothing more to say.  How shameful that in this moment, Arthur Morgan be more composed than she.

 She did not watch him leave, instead turning her attention to the cloth and wiping his seed from her hand and arm.  The sound of the door closing behind him and his heavy, booted steps back down the stairs hammered against her turned back, and try as she might, the lady could not help but feel as if she was being isolated from the rest of the world.  Again.

 Determining the best and only way forward was to make the best of the terrible situation, Catherine endeavored to be nothing but sweet and agreeable, despite the pit of aching, gnawing emotion between her ribs.

 She waved and smiled at the gunsmith through the window, and he smiled and raised his hand in acknowledgement before she turned to meet Arthur and the horses.  The outlaw’s expression was a mask of granite, and his eyes rested on her only the moment it took to verify she could mount the tall thoroughbred well enough on her own.

 “I see you found your hat,” The lady observed cheerfully, “Thats a bit of good luck.”

 “C’mon,” Was his quiet reply, turning the solid Ardennes with a push of his knee,  “we still need t’find Mister Graff.”

 Hosea would be expecting a good report.  Stifling a sigh, Catherine followed the iron grey warhorse and his rider, smoothing her mount’s mane idly as her eyes turned back toward the tree in the graveyard.  Blackened by the fire, parts of it were still smoldering, though the flames had gone out.

[statusquoergo]

so i work for a Big Corporate Corporation™ and the other day, logging onto my computer, i was met on the homepage with (surprise surprise) a bunch of pride-themed posts and notifications. the usual ‘our national headquarters will be displaying a rainbow flag over the main entrance all month!’ ‘put a rainbow ribbon on your purse!’ etc. etc. etc. bullshit, you know how it is. (how much trouble do you think i would get in for posting ‘donate $500k to the ali forney center’ on the ‘what can our company do to make a difference’ forum? somehow i think they’re aiming for things more along the lines of ‘have a civil conversation with a relative who doesn’t share your views on homosexuality,’ because of course that famously always goes well.)

anyway there were also a couple of employee blog posts spotlighted, and one of them was some woman’s story of her teenage son’s coming out to her. having some time to kill and a skeptical sort of curiosity, i clicked on the link, and it was a sweet touching heartwarming utterly unsurprising little narrative about her son taking a deep breath and telling her he’s gay, her being proud of him for telling her, and her urging him to tell his father (even though he doesn’t want to; his immediate response is actually ‘no way’). spoiler alert, they tell the father together and it’s a total non-issue, he’s fine with it and also very supportive.

now, please don’t get me wrong, this is a sweet touching heartwarming story and i’m definitely glad this woman was so receptive to her poor kid’s struggles. (apparently he knew for a few years before he told her, thought the story doesn’t get into why he waited.) but the part that really makes this diary stick in my head is that after she gives that background information, she goes on for a couple more paragraphs about how she and her husband are suddenly much more accepting of the lgbt community, their son is letting them know when they’re being offensive and they’re trying to be more sensitive, she’s such a proud ally, she’s so glad her son is living his truth, all that good stuff. and again, you know, good for her, i’m glad she’s not being an asshole about all this.

but like...what was stopping her from being accepting of lgbt people before she knew her kid was one? what was stopping her from being an ally to the lgbt community? did she not know any lgbtqia+ people before this? statistically, i bet she did, so what was stopping them from coming out to her? (aside from it being their own decision, of course; this is assuming they were out to other people in their lives.) or if she did know, why didn’t she change her behavior then? is she only making an effort now because the person she knows is her own child and she feels like she has an obligation? did she seriously not know she was being insensitive? or was it okay before and now suddenly it’s not because it hits too close to home?

i mean, i get not dedicating your life to fighting als until you lose someone to the disease, but not being a casual homophobe seems a little... i don’t know, easier? more required of fundamental human decency? it’s not like resources are hard to find; read david carter’s stonewall or lillian faderman’s the gay revolution, watch love, simon or will & grace, lurk on an lgbtqia+ informational message board, go to an actual lgbt center.

and i know plenty of people live in areas where this kind of stuff can get you beaten up, or disowned, or killed. i know not everyone lives in a town or a city or a country where this behavior, doing this kind of research, is acceptable. (i also know this is a very america-centric post.) but the fact that this woman and her husband were so totally cool with their kid being gay, that she is so proud to tell this story (on the internet, using her real name), and they’re only now figuring out that they were being habitually insensitive to this massive population that exists all over the world, and they only realize it because their son came out to them...

i dunno. i guess i just wanted to get this off my chest. um... happy pride!