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nicad13 · 2 years ago

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Iron and Kyber

Chapter 1: Settling In

Summary: A Mandalorian, a Jedi, and a baby take on the galaxy that would see them all destroyed.

Din and his enemy-sorcerer family settle into a new life on a sanctuary world kept hidden from the rest of the galaxy. Old traumas are hard to shake, and all three of them need some time to heal.

Love is a complicated thing for orphans. Full of contingencies and uncertainty and a history of pain and abandonment. For a family made up entirely of orphans, love is an especially cherished item, precisely because of their prior experiences of uncertainty and pain. Each wants the other to know that their love is unconditional, certain, eternal, and tender.

Mother, father, child. Orphans, each of them.

Notes: After almost three years, I finally pulled the trigger on the sequel to Crossroads! You’ll want to read that before digging into this, if you haven’t yet. I’ve sprinkled enough reminders for those who have, so a re-read shouldn’t be necessary.

Canon-compliant through Season 1. Link to AO3 in Source at the bottom.

Warnings: Developmental delays, PTSD, jealousy, nightmares, flashbacks, self-harm

---

The worst is over now and we can breathe again I want to hold you high, and steal my pain away There's so much left to learn, and no one left to fight I want to hold you high and steal your pain… 'Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome And I don't feel right when you're gone away

Seether, Broken

---

A Mandalorian in full beskar, heavy-set and powerful, adorned in blue armor like the belly of angry thunderheads about to unleash a hellfire of lightning and hail.

A Mandalorian in full beskar, lean and nimble, clad in red armor like dried blood spilled from an enemy, faces off against the first.

The second Mandalorian, her Mandalorian, pulls the hilt of a lightsaber from his belt. He activates it.

The blade is black, flat-edged, and curved at the tip.

The image blurs and shifts.

She sits upon a mountaintop, her son in her lap, rain pounding down upon them, until an Imperial Star Destroyer eclipses the clouds. They Reach up through the Force, to the crewmembers aboard.

On the slopes below, her Mandalorian lassoes a Stormtrooper around the neck with his whipcord and severs his spine as he yanks the body up into the sky, then proceeds to slaughter the remains of the platoon.

The image blurs and shifts again.

A purple Twi’lek, arms bound to a pole behind her, teeth sharpened to points as she smiles. “He was mine first,” she says, voice dripping poison. “I made him come long before you did.” She closes her eyes and moans the next words. “He made me come long before he ever laid eyes on you.” She opens her eyes. “He always called me mesh’la. Has he ever called you that? Do you even know what it means? He will always think of me before he thinks of you. And when he kills you, remember this.

“He killed me first, too.”

---

Rayne wakes up screaming.

“Hey…” Din is next to her, arm around her shoulders, the shadows and planes of his face clear in the moonlight of their bedroom. “Hey… it’s alright. You’re ok. I’ve got you…”

She forces her breaths to slow, sinking back into him. “Sorry… I’m good…” She tucks her head under his chin as his arms fall around her, one hand moving up and down her back in a slow slide.

“Same as last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He kisses the top of her head in the dim light and breathes her in, the vague, sweet-pineapple scent of bacta still clinging to her, two weeks after getting pulled from the tank. He’s grown used to it, has come to associate it with the facts that she is alive, and his, and they have both been allowed to stay on Genesaria with their son and be a family.

But the nightmares worry him. Their son had used the Force to bring her back from the dead, and may well have caused a disturbance in the Force as a result. An imbalance. Retracting a life that death had rightfully claimed, unknowingly making his mother a prime target for the Dark Side.

Nightmares are the first symptom.

The thing is, nightmares are a part of normal life for Rayne anyway. They have been together for just over two months, so Din only has a vague idea of what her baseline for this kind of thing is to begin with. And it’s not like he’s free from this affliction, himself. Droids gunning him down as a child, giants crushing his skull as an adult, bounties breaking free of carbonite to exact revenge on him in the dead of night on the ass-end of the galaxy. His rate nearly matches hers.

He supposes if they’re trying to separate the effects of Sith influence from the effects of PTSD, he can, at the very least, serve as the PTSD-only comparison.

For now, the best he can do is to take her hand in his and place it against his chest, palm flat, over his heart. His lips form the words “I love you” against the top of her head, less than half of a whisper. Even a week after having first spoken the words, he still has difficulty repeating them.

It’s not that they’re not genuine. It’s not that he’s afraid to say them.

It’s what the words do to him.

They make his heart pound and his mouth run dry and his eyes run wet.

Because they’re so very, painfully, undeniably true.

Din loves Rayne with everything he has, and it nearly guts him every time he thinks about it. The words cannot be said lightly. The only other people he had ever said them to, his parents, lay dead for more than three decades. The words weigh so much that he can barely force them out.

But he makes himself do it at least once a day. Hoping that, like any other weight, the more often he lifts it, the easier it will become to carry. Wanting her to have zero doubts about his loyalty.

Even without the words, she feels all of this, his mind flooding hers with it without meaning to, and it nearly melts her down to her bones every time. That this man can, despite everything he’s been through, despite all the damage done to him, reciprocate her feelings for him, is nothing short of marvelous. She presses her hand into him and his heart hammers away from the other side of his sternum with steady thumps. In return, she takes his hand and presses it to her chest, so he can feel the same. Head still tucked under his chin, her lips form the words over his skin in a quiet whisper. “I love you, too.”

Nor is the weight light for her to carry, either. Words spoken to vanishingly few others. Once to a man who could not reciprocate them. The most common recipient, a man who could, a man who had given her all the love she could have ever needed, until the day he sacrificed his life to save hers and two dozen others. Dead for just over half a decade, somewhere in the cold depths of outer space.

Mother, father, child. Orphans, each of them.

A bond of loss that links them together eternally.

And yet…

Mesh’la. The Mandalorian word for beautiful.

She knows what it means.

He has never said it to her.

---

Din shaves in the morning. His stubble is getting prickly under the helmet, and Rayne had teased him about the lengthening gray patches at the back of his jaws.

She gets dressed as she hears him tap his razor against the sink. The sound is comforting; the sound of a man going about his normal routine in close quarters, something she associates with companionship and shared living. She remembers how silent her quarters on the Alliance carrier had become after Hayes died, remembers how she missed the sound of him shaving in the morning. One more experience she had been robbed of added to a long list of newly-absent things. Hearing Din shave for the first time at her home at the hangar two months ago had brought it all back, nearly making her burst into tears at the sound of it. The realization that, for the moment, she was no longer alone. The understanding that, at the time, she would likely lose it all over again.

But now… she’s hearing the tap of his razor in their own home for the first time. Their home. A sound that she can look forward to indefinitely. And for the first time, she will actually see the results of Din Djarin’s shaving. She generally prefers the clean-shaven look on men and is eager to see how it sits with him.

Din steps out of the fresher wearing only a towel wrapped around his hips and the ever-present beskar casing at his throat, hanging on a short leather string, matching the one she wears around her own, identical in everything except their contents – each holding a lock of the other’s hair.

Rayne sees him clean-shaven for the first time.

Hrm.

Din sees what he interprets as a look of disappointment on her face. “What?”

“That’s… um… you look a lot… different than what I expected…”

He drops his gaze to the floor, crestfallen.

Whoops.

“No, that’s not…” she stammers, taken by surprise on multiple counts. He truly does look different without the stubble. Something about the odd combination of his round face and square jaw needs the scruff to ease the transition between the two, and without it, he looks… mismatched, somehow. He’s gone from smoldering-hot to peculiar-adorable-baby-face with the swipe of a razor, and there is no diplomatic way of telling a middle-aged battle-hardened Mandalorian warrior that he has a peculiar, adorable, baby-face.

She also isn’t prepared for his apparent sensitivity about it, and she is horrified at the bluntness of her own response. He’s been out of the helmet at home for barely a week, still trying to get used to eating in front of his family, still occasionally waking with a start in the daylight next to her, realizing first that he isn’t wearing it, realizing second that he isn’t wearing it on purpose.

She should’ve been ready. She should’ve been more kind. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…”

He shakes his head, bringing his gaze back up to meet hers, a smile ghosting his face. “I forgot.”

She can only answer with a look of confusion.

“I forgot I still have the chubby cheeks.” Alaria had teased him about it when they were teenagers, asking if he’d grown out of them yet, asking if she was boning a guy who had only grown up from the jaw down, knowing damn well he still had them from touch alone, the creases from his nose to the corners of his mouth evident to anyone with so much as half a nerve-ending in their fingertips. What if you are? he’d asked. What if you are boning a guy with a babyface? Would it make a difference? She’d run a hand along the length of him that had very much grown up, canting her helmet at an angle just so, as if to say, No. It would make no difference at all.

Rayne smiles, head canting at exactly the same angle, fingers lingering on his hip. “Maybe just trim it next time?” She decides she can let go of the sound of a razor tapping against the sink if it means she can trade baby-face-Din to get smoldering-hot-Din back.

Warmth returns to those big, brown eyes. “Sure.” Those creases had remained even when he’d fallen on hard times, at the brink of starvation, at his most gaunt. When he could count his ribs in the dark and see the hollows under his cheekbones in the mirror, the lines between his nose and mouth always betrayed the ghost of his youth.

Is that a dimple on the right side of his face? Gods above, she hasn’t noticed it until now.

Yadier chooses just this moment to waddle into their room. He takes one look at his father, lays his ears back, scrunches his face into the most intricate topography of wrinkles either parent has ever seen, narrows his eyes, lets out a prolonged “Eeeewww,” turns around, and waddles back out.

Din sighs. “I guess I’m outvoted.”

---

The clan of Rollins-Djarin makes their two-week check-in with Dr. Sedlack, the same doctor who had tended to them upon their arrival at Genesaria.

She starts with Din, conducting a more thorough exam on him this time in the same manner she had examined Yadier and Cara the first time around. He has to take the cloak off and unseal the helmet, but she’s able to work her fingers down inside his cowl to access his neck and assess him with the Force from there. She pauses for a few moments, eyes closed, Din sitting with as much calm as he can manage for being touched so intimately by someone who is not a family member. When she finishes, she pulls away and enters a few notes on a datapad. “Your blood pressure is much better, Mando. We can take you off the meds, but keep going with the diet plan. Continue to lay off the salty stuff and I think you’ll be fine.”

He nods his understanding, glad that things are responding to his efforts.

“Anything about your previous injuries bothering you?”

“No.” His answer is neither rushed nor delayed. His back hurts a little in the mornings but it loosens up within an hour, so he chalks it up as an age-appropriate ache. He feels pretty reasonable, all things considered.

Rayne is next up and gets much the same treatment, though with a few more questions thrown in. “How have the nightmares been?”

“About the same.”

“Master Jenkins reports that your Force resistance training is going well. How’s that going for you physically?”

“It wiped me out at first, but not as much, anymore.”

“Any physical pain? Headaches? Heart palpitations?”

“No.”

Sedlack writes another note and moves on to Yadier.

He’s more amenable to the examination this time around, with both parents present, accounted for, and in proper working order. He burbles and purrs as he sits on the table, Sedlack cradling him with one hand to keep him in place and sliding the other around his head and chest, returning the baby’s smiles with her own.

When she’s finished, she pauses to write down a few more notes as Din gathers his son in his arms. The doctor looks up to meet the gazes of the parents. “Yadier is happy and healthy. His calcium, iron, and protein levels are a tad low this time around. I know you’re able to cook more regularly for him now, but go ahead and let him eat bones and raw meat, too. He can still have the vegetables and fruit you’re giving him, and I know this sounds weird, but let him eat all the bugs and critters he can catch.”

“He was eating a lot of live frogs before we got here,” Din says. “That’s actually okay?”

Sedlak smiles. “For his kind, yes. He won’t choke on anything. Anything raw is fine – his gut microbes can handle it, and he needs the uncooked proteins. Hunting insects and small animals provides important stimuli for him. Just don’t let him get into anything rotten.”

Yadier turns to his parents with eyes that say I told you so.

“What about the venomous stuff?” Rayne asks. “He got a bee sting last week but it didn’t seem to faze him too much.”

“He’ll feel stings and bites and they’ll hurt, but he produces natural anti-venom to everything that we know about. He should be able to figure out how to neutralize his prey before it tags him too hard in another year or two.”

Another raspberry from the adorable hunter-sorcerer baby.

“I’ve looked over the records that Master Ona sent from school. He socializes well – he’s making friends and plays well with everyone.”

Din runs a loving finger along his son’s ear, smiling behind the mask. He doesn’t need a doctor’s exam to know his kid is a charmer.

“He’s reasonably well-behaved for a fifty-one-year-old of his kind.”

“Fifty-one?” Din interrupts. He realizes it has been just about a year since he’d taken that fateful bounty. “I don’t… I was never told his birthday…”

Dr. Sedlack flips through the datapad and finds the date. It had been a few months earlier, sometime between their run-in with Ran and returning to Nevarro. Din can’t place the date exactly, can’t remember what they’d been up to that day, and knowing that he’s missed his son’s first birthday while in his care makes his heart break, a little. Rayne’s hand cups his elbow, sensing his dismay. “We’ll catch it next year. It’ll be more fun now that he’ll have friends to celebrate it with.”

True. An observance over thawed-out frogs and ration bars on the Razor Crest would’ve been lame, anyway.

“He does have some developmental delays, though,” Sedlack says. “He’s quite far behind on his language, cognitive, and growth milestones.”

Din’s heart sinks. Too many lean nights when he’d let Yadier eat all he dared to budget and the child was still hungry. Too many exhausted nights when he’d nodded off before getting the chance to read to him. Too many violent nights when he’d held his son with one hand and murdered dozens of people with the other. He had given everything for his son, but hadn’t been enough.

“Mando,” Sedlack starts, feeling the guilt roll off him. “It’s not your fault. Remember that he was missing for four decades. The damage was done long before you found him.”

Rayne takes a breath. “I tried having him remember his past, once. We didn’t get very far. I think he was injured when he was taken from his birth parents.”

Sedlack nods. “I sense the same thing, but I think that played less of a role than the environment he was in thereafter. He was a prisoner for longer than I’ve even been alive.”

Now it’s Rayne’s turn to feel overwhelmed. Forty years of isolation. No one to play with. No one to talk to. No one to hold him or love him. “Can he recover?” she asks. “Can we help him make up for lost time?”

Sedlack almost shrugs. “We’ve not seen any other cases like his, so I can’t say for sure. A ten-year delay doesn’t mean much in the long run for a kind that lives nine centuries, but I can’t guarantee that window won’t widen as he gets older. Either way, he couldn’t ask for better care than what you’re giving him. You know what to let him eat now, he gets plenty of attention, exercise, and sleep. He’s clearly happy. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“What are the delays, specifically?” Rayne asks. “We don’t know what’s age-appropriate for him.”

The doctor nods. “He’s about ten years behind with his verbal communication. He should be speaking simple sentences by now. He still misinterprets others’ emotions, sometimes – he’s a little too quick to think that someone means him harm when they don’t, but that makes sense, given his situation for most of his life. His play is still simplistic – he’ll push toys around, but not do much with their moving pieces. He’s about five years behind in his physical growth.” She sees the dismay on Rayne’s face and the slope of Din’s shoulders. “I want to stress that he is healthy. He’s just behind schedule.”

“What happens if…” Din swallows, his voice catching in his throat. “What happens if he doesn’t catch up? Or if he falls further behind?”

Sedlack raises an eyebrow. “Mando. Your son is one of the most powerful Force users the galaxy has ever seen. What he lacks in language, cognitive, and physical function he makes up for a hundred-fold in Force abilities. He’ll be fine.”

He forces himself to take a breath to calm down, but finds his hands tightened into fists on the table, all the same. “I don’t understand what that means. I don’t understand how that happens.”

“It’s… difficult to explain,” Sedlack says. “The best I can really tell you is that you’ll understand more as you spend more time here and get to know your son better.”

“One more question,” Rayne asks. “Do you know what his midi-chlorian count is?”

“Well, yes and no…” Sedlack flips through her notes to confirm the unusual result. “Here it is. Our instruments are only gauged to detect up to 20,000. Yadier surpasses that, so we’re not exactly sure where he is.”

Rayne’s eyes widen.

“For reference, Master Yoda was around 17,000.”

Rayne blows out a sigh. She knows her son is powerful, but she’s had no idea…

Seeing how overwhelmed her patient is, Sedlack tries to distract her. “We measured yours when you first came in, if you’d like to hear it.”

Rayne shrugs. “Sure.”

“Hm… 10,100. Just about average for a Jedi Knight.”

“Midi-chlorians?” Din asks, his tone laced with trepidation.

“Sentient microscopic life forms,” Sedlack answers. “They form a symbiotic relationship with us and allow us to use the Force.”

Din draws back as if in disgust, just a tiny bit before he can catch himself. “You carry sentient microbes?” His voice betrays the tiniest bit of a tremor.

Rayne does her best to keep from laughing, but can’t help the broad smile on her face. “You have them, too. Every living thing does. Force-sensitives just have more.”

He pulls his shoulders in, squeamish, even if he’s not sure why. He knows, on an intellectual level, that he’s a host to any number of bacteria at any given time, some symbiotic, some not. But they’re not intelligent… they’re not sentient, and he realizes that’s what gets him. The idea that he’s lived four and a half decades with other organisms that have minds of their own under his skin, under his armor, sharing his blood, without having the slightest idea they were there…

He’s unable to suppress a shiver.

“Would you like to know your count?” Sedlack asks. “It’s a simple blood test. The results are immediate.”

Din considers for a moment. Is there any harm in knowing? He’s not Force-sensitive, so there can’t be that many of the bugs floating around in him. Maybe the count will even be low and he’ll feel better about the whole thing. “Sure,” he says.

He removes the vambrace from his left arm and pulls his sleeve up. Sedlack draws the sample, pulls the tube off the syringe, plugs it into a hand-held meter, and shakes it up.

“Huh…”

“What?”

“The average for non-sensitives is about fifteen hundred and the minimum for Jedi training is seven thousand. You’re at five thousand.”

“What?”

Rayne snorts. “You’re almost an enemy sorcerer.”

“I am not,” he growls, yanking his sleeve down and re-fastening the vambrace as Yadier giggles and claps his hands.

Sedlack tilts her head, considering. “Given the Force-opacity of beskar, you simply might not have noticed. People with this level of concentration do tend to have better reflexes and physical stamina. Things like that.”

Din forces himself to calm down. That… does track, actually. He’s not the biggest guy. Not the strongest. But he knows he’s quick. He can take a beating and wear out his opponents. He’s just always attributed it to his Mandalorian training.

He sighs. It’s bad enough that his Creed has crumbled and sifted through his fingers. He’s no longer sure he can rightfully call himself a Mandalorian. The idea of being a watered-down Force-sensitive on top of that is… too much.

His son lifts his arms in his direction, so he gathers him up as the little boy purrs and snuggles into his shoulder. “Can we go now?”

---

Din carries Yadier as he and Rayne walk him to school at the Jedi Temple. They normally allow their son to lead the way at his own pace, a mix of waddling, hopping, and skipping. But the results of the exam seem to have knocked something out from under Din, and he wants to hold his son close, wants to protect him from some unseen cruelty lurking in the back of his head.

It all washes over Rayne’s mind as she walks next to them. He prefers her at his left side, leaving his right hand free to pull his sidearm blaster. Not that he ever expects trouble here, on Genesaria, but warrior habits die hard, and he has no intention of losing his edge. So it is that when she brushes his hip with the back of her hand, she manages to not bump into his sidearm, but she is careful to avoid the thermal detonators he still carries on his belt. “He’ll be fine, Din.”

“… I know.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“… I’m not.”

Yadier snuggles into the cowl at Din’s neck, fully aware of his father’s distress on his behalf, ears flat against his shoulders, a sad mewl buzzing out of him.

Rayne’s thoughts stew in her head, not entirely sure how to give voice to it all in a way that won’t sound defensive. As they walk, she spies one of the many tiny parks scattered throughout the city, this one with a bench in the shade under a tree with huge red flowers in its canopy and small purple flowers scattered throughout the grass. She taps Din’s hip to get his attention. “Can we stop here for a moment?”

He hesitates, not wanting to be late for their Force-resistance session, but figures if it’s important enough for Rayne to want to stop and process something, it’s worth it. “Okay.”

He follows her to the bench, placing Yadier in the grass so he can roll around and smell the flowers. “Watch out for the bees, ad’ika. Don’t get stung again.”

“Batu,” is the only response the baby offers as he plants his nose in a flower, closes his eyes, and inhales.

Rayne’s gaze is downcast as Din sits back. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her legs are stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He rests his left arm along the top of the bench behind her shoulders, knees bent, feet apart. He takes up a lot of space, an unconscious habit in the defense of territory, exacerbated by the acquisition of a family. But for as much space as Din takes up, he does not encroach into Rayne’s. Rather, he angles around her, a protective curve of beskar, a shield at the ready. He gazes out over the park, watching their son enjoy the flowers, watching the city stroll by, trying to tamp his anxiety down.

“You don’t want him to be at a disadvantage,” Rayne says after a few moments.

“No parent wants their kid at a disadvantage.”

“Especially a Mandalorian parent.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone takes a hard edge.

“I imagine the Fighting Corps was an unforgiving environment to grow up in.”

“The galaxy is an unforgiving place.”

“I was a late bloomer, too.” She turns her head away from him, looking at nothing in particular.

He sighs, understanding her meaning. She had told him how, despite the early manifestation of her abilities as an infant, she’d stalled out as a kid, getting held back in her Force-related classes even as she had excelled in science and math. But in the end, when Order 66 came down, she was the only youngling, maybe even the only Jedi at all, to make it out of the temple on Coruscant alive.

The rest is history.

He curls his hand around her shoulder. “I get it.” His tone is soft, now. Relaxed without being resigned.

They continue on their way.

---

Master Jenkins concentrates on the family before her.

Three orphans. A Mandalorian. Two Jedi. A baby. Two parents.

One who understands the dangers of possessive attachment. Two who do not.

Master Jenkins has asked the three of them to meditate, to concentrate on what it means to be a family. What it means to love. Din and Yadier’s experiences are more similar to each other than to Rayne’s.

Din’s mind is awash in the memory of his parents, helpless to defend themselves, able only to hide their beloved son and hope to draw the battledroids’ attention away from the bunker as they flee. He reaches up for them, wanting them to come down and hide with him, his cry frozen in his throat, silenced in terror. The deafening explosion that had his ears ringing for days after bounces the blast doors on their hinges. He is pulled to the surface, and the crater next to the bunker is full of nothing but smoke and ash. He knows there is nothing left of them, nothing left of his life on Aq Vetina.

He remembers living with six different families in the mines of Concordia. A few weeks each. His inability to speak to any of them, limited to nodding his head, shaking his head, and shrugging his shoulders until they’d each given up in turn. They’d finally deposited him in the Fighting Corps, where the only responses expected of him were to learn the finer points of warfare and self-defense.

He remembers Alaria’s parents, their pride in her successes, their warmth through her occasional failures, their acceptance of him as her Sol’yc, as someone who made her happy and satisfied her needs. He remembers wishing he had the same for himself, knowing why he didn’t, knowing his own shortcomings had led to his failure at adoption.

He remembers being unsuitable for a family.

He remembers the five women who asked of his seed to regenerate the Mandalorian ranks, to merge his blood with theirs, never to be seen or heard from again. He remembers the one woman who, if Gideon was to be believed, took without asking.

He remembers finding the tiny green alien who would become his baby.

He remembers selling his baby.

He remembers stealing his baby back.

He remembers the long, tortured process of coming to accept the baby as his son, acknowledging his willingness to tear the galaxy down for him, to murder whoever he must to protect him. His failed attempt to leave him with a loving family, with Omera and Winta. His failed attempts to recruit long-term help, first with Kuiil, then with Cara, their instincts to be their own people forestalling anything greater than mission-specific aid.

He remembers his baby saving his life. Twice. From the mudhorn. From the fire.

He remembers stumbling upon a mechanic, a hard woman with a soft spot for his son, a woman who he soon discovered connected with his son in ways no one else could, a woman who shared his son’s powers. A woman who could keep them both safe. A woman who proved herself again and again, saved them again and again, who healed his wounds, who helped his son grow strong, who gave up a life of tranquility to defeat their enemy and get them to safety. A woman who he had, despite his best efforts, fallen in love with. A woman who his son had chosen for his mother, who had spoken the gai bal manda, the Mandalorian adoption vow, to his son, binding them together as a family.

He remembers his struggle to define what she was to him. His lover? His son’s mother? He remembers settling on his Jedi.

He remembers how they had nearly lost her, when she had given her life for them. He remembers the hole that had torn open in the remains of his soul, spilling out all the experiences he had shared with her, leaving him empty and abandoned. He remembers his relief when she had recovered, when he had gotten her back, only to fall once more to anguish at the promise she had forced him to make – to end her life if she fell to the Dark Side.

He remembers the day he shed his helmet before his son and his Jedi, the day he had chosen them over his broken Creed. The day he had confessed his love to his Jedi, and his relief when she had confessed her love to him. He remembers the following day, being granted Genesarian citizenship, and with it, the permission to stay with his family.

His family.

His.

His to keep.

His son. His Jedi. Soon to be his wife. He can’t bring himself to think of what would happen if he ever lost either of them. They make his life complete. They make his life worthwhile. Before them, he was little more than a machine, an animated sack of meat with armor for skin, capturing and killing other sacks of meat to earn coin to support the terrorists who had murdered his parents and stolen him away, fueling the very monsters who had made his life a living hell. Now, he lives for his enemy sorcerers. He lives to watch his son grow and thrive on a world that is safe and kind to him. He lives to watch his Jedi heal on a world that lets her be herself. He lives to watch the bond between his Jedi and son grow strong as they regain what they had lost, as they learn to become Jedi once again, as they learn how to share and magnify their powers together. He lives to build a world where their kind can coexist with his, where Jedi and Mandalorians can combine the best of each other and defend the galaxy against an Empire that refuses to die, to defeat an enemy that brings nothing but sorrow and destruction to anyone who won’t bow before it to serve its purposes.

With them, he is everything.

Without them, he is nothing.

They mean more to him than anyone else will ever know.

Yadier’s thoughts are of a similar theme, even if the details are wildly different. His immersion varies, sometimes looking back through the past, sometimes re-living it as if it is happening now. His memories of his birth parents are vague, buried under four decades of trauma and deliberate repression. The memories he does have are fond. He remembers being held, being warm, being cuddled. He remembers tasty food, his belly always round and full. He remembers bathing in the waters of the Force, his parents’ meditations buoying him up, showing him the inner workings of the very galaxy itself, the life it supported, the love that flowed through it. How, someday, he could connect to it and draw forth from it to do great things. He remembers their love and hopes for him.

Until the day it had all gone to hell.

He doesn’t really remember that day. Does his best not to. Fire and heat and smoke. Terrible, unbearable pain in his head. The deep cold and utter darkness of when his parents’ lives were extinguished. The gap that ripped through the Force when they left the realm of the living.

And then, darkness.

He cut himself off from the Force, overwhelmed by the evil and greed surrounding him. Shoved in a pod and moved from place to place. Rarely spoken to. Never played with. Never held. Fed just enough to keep him alive. Bathed just enough to not offend his captors with the stench of squalor.

Four decades.

He’d become little more than a captive lizard. A life of nothing more than misery and eating and shitting. Weak with confinement.

And then one day, a Shiny Being killed his captors and stole him. The Shiny Being, after fits and starts, became his father. Together, they chanced upon the woman who became his mother.

He won’t go back. He will not go back.

He cannot stand the thought of losing a parent again.

His father… his new father, has never died before, even if not for lack of trying. He’s come close, precariously so, but Yadier was always able to intervene before things got too far. Maybe he hadn’t done a perfect job, but he’d pulled his father through just far enough until someone else could step in and finish his work. He’d done what he could. He is, after all, just a baby, and he knows it.

But his mother… his new mother…

She had died. She had died protecting him. She had died trying to channel far too much Force, the blowback of a detonating Imperial cruiser and the hundred souls aboard flickering out all at once, amplified by a canyon of kyber ore, the midi-chlorians in her blood cutting her off from her son like a blown fuse, blasting itself apart, dropping the bridge so the overwhelming power couldn’t cross the gap and kill him too.

But it had been his fault.

He’d mis-judged. His mother had warned him about the kyber that surrounded him, warned him that it was going to amplify their power. He had gathered the Force and she had channeled it, but she’d reached her limits before they could complete their work. He’d needed just a little more from her. Just a little more capacity. Had asked his mother if she loved his father. Knowing that in love, in the recognition of that love, she could handle more.

And she had. For a few moments.

And then it had all blown to hell.

Darkness swallowed them both. His mother stepped in and absorbed the brunt of it. Shielded him. Protected him. She faded into the same abyss that had swallowed his first parents before the darkness closed on him, as well. His father brought him back, the pain and heat and life jolted into him from his father’s vambraces. His father tried the same with his mother, but she was too far gone, had been pulled too far under for his father’s machinations to reach.

And so Yadier had summoned all the power he possessed in that moment, closed his eyes and Reached, gathered everything he had, and, having taken note of how his mother had, in some latent instinctive way, used the kyber around them to focus the Force, did the same himself, lengthened his grasp, and dug deep.

Deep deep deep through death itself. He’d found his mother just as she was joining the Force, unresponsive. She’d been at peace, but he had not. He would not let her go. He had Reached and he had Grabbed and he had Yanked her away to bring her back, and in his haste, some part of her had torn open. The part of her that had already joined the Force was ripped away and left behind as he carried his mother away on his back, and she’d bled a trail that followed them all the way out.

Yadier shows all of this to Master Jenkins. Defiant. As if to dare her to tell him he was wrong to do it. As if to warn her that he’ll do it again if he must.

She sighs. “I understand, little one. It hurts to lose the ones we love. It hurts to lose the ones who have protected us.”

Does she? Does she really? Does she really understand watching his parents die and getting locked in a pod for forty years? Only to watch it happen all over again?

Master Jenkins hears the anger and grief he directs at her. “You are not alone, Yadier. You understand how much others have suffered. You understand how much your own parents have suffered, yes?”

He does. They’ve done their best to shield him from their memories, but he’s shared their nightmares all the same. The steel doors closing over his father before the missile destroys his parents. The fallen Jedi as he slaughters the Younglings before his mother’s eyes. He knows very well the horrors and loss his parents have suffered. He knows how hopeless they’d been. How powerless they’d been to do anything about it.

The difference is that he is not hopeless. He is not powerless. Why shouldn’t he make a difference if he is able to do so?

“You know why,” Master Jenkins says.

The wound his mother sustained when he tore her away from joining the Force. The wound that grows larger every day. Just a little. Nothing she or most anyone else around her can notice. But he sees it just as clearly as Master Jenkins does. He’ll learn how to fix it. He’ll learn how and then he’ll heal his mother. Make her good as new.

“That kind of power comes from a dark place, Yadier.”

Why is that, he wonders? Why should the power to rectify a death that shouldn’t have happened come only from the Dark Side? How can it possibly be a bad thing if it comes from a place of love? How can it possibly be evil if it comes from a place of justice? His mother had not deserved to die. He’d known how much more life she’d had in her. All the things she has done since only proves it. All the joy she has brought him, all the solace she has brought his father, none of it would’ve happened had he not intervened.

“And you, in your toddlerhood, are an unbiased arbiter of justice?”

He could do no worse than the cruel fates of the galaxy. He’s seen enough of it to know that.

He senses the threats that lie beyond, even as his parents try to shield him from those thoughts. Even as the broken pieces of his father heal, the cracks in his mother deepen. He doesn’t think anyone else other than Master Jenkins really notices, and it doesn't happen fast, but it does happen, and Yadier can tell the difference from week to week. She’s in no real danger yet, but someday, she will be, and he must be ready for it. Because he knows those cracks are his fault, from when he’d dragged her back from death, in his haste. He doesn’t blame himself, he knows he isn’t much more than a baby, but he must still take responsibility for it. He must master his abilities and use them to fix the damage he has caused. He remembers his father’s raging despair when his mother had died, and he does not want to see that again. His mother deserves to live a full life, his father deserves to have her at his side, and he deserves to have them both. For as long as is natural for their kind, which he knows will not be long for him, so he must appreciate what he has when he has them as much as possible.

Rayne’s thoughts, on the other hand, run along a much different theme.

She doesn’t remember her parents. Has no memory of their faces or their names. Instead, her earliest memories are of the Jedi crèche on Coruscant. Surrounded by other younglings, other Force users, so that she’d had no idea that her talents and theirs were vanishingly rare. Her memories of the crèche are dim, however, even if they are fond. A warm, soft bed at night, surrounded by other children, steeped in the flow of the Force as it surrounded them all. Lessons with the Masters during the day. Science and math and history and literature. Along with the ways of the Force. Learning how to connect with it through meditation, concentrating on how it gave her strength, how it connected her to all living things.

She’d had friends, in the way that young children do. She can’t remember their names, long buried beneath time and ash and death. She’d had instructors and caregivers, all who had radiated kindness and warmth. The one she remembers best is Master Yoda. He was both the oldest and the youngest at the same time, ancient in years and knowledge, youthful in mischief and fun. He had guided her and the other Younglings through their first steps along the path of the Force, how to Navigate, how to See, how to Listen.

She’d had Eagle. The man in white armor who’d watched over her and her friends on field trips, visored gaze turned outward, rifle in his hands, at the ready. Eagle had many brothers, all of whom looked and sounded just like him, but she could tell him apart. They were clones, identical in blood, but they were still unique in the Force, and every Jedi could tell every Clone apart. Eagle had a certain curiosity about the universe, always wondering what the purposes of things were, always wondering about his own purpose. He was not a violent person, despite his breeding. Despite his training. He didn’t particularly like the fact that he was born and bred for war. He’d thought about that more than the others did. But he liked his assignment with the Jedi kids. Getting them comfortable with a Clone. Helping to keep them safe in their field training. He’d thought they were cute. Over-powered little gremlins learning how to get themselves under control.

And so, when she had questions, she would seek him out. Find him in the dining hall. Interrogate him over meals of macaroni and cheese. He would answer to the best of his ability between forkfuls of food, dark eyes unfocused as he cast about for responses. Even if he didn’t have the answer, he was able to ease her fears. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough,” he’d say. “You’re a smart kid.”

In the end, he’d still tried to kill her, when the time had come.

Everyone she had ever known, snuffed out during the night from hell. Toddlers slaughtered before her eyes by her childhood hero. Her whole life turned upside down at the age of ten.

The next nine years are a haze of survival, starvation, and misery.

And then, a rescue of sorts. A weapons dealer, a woman who knew the harsh realities of the galaxy, had found her, recognized what she was. Offered her freedom and a path forward. The woman had fostered her to the best of her abilities, understanding the feral nature of the teenager she had taken in, giving her the space and safety she needed to become human once again.

It wasn’t love, exactly, but it was caring and concern. Genuine and heartfelt.

The woman had a son Rayne’s age. The woman’s love was reserved for him. They were the first family Rayne had ever seen up close. A mother and son. A father lost to the war, as so many were. The woman hugged her son and ruffled his hair and he hugged her back, even if he’d been a little embarrassed about it. The woman wanted him to Be Prepared for Life Out There, to be the best version of himself he could be, to do everything he could to make the galaxy a better place, and Rayne heard the echoes of her Masters’ lessons in the woman’s words and deeds.

The woman’s son had done everything he could to make his mother proud.

Rayne fell in love with the woman’s son.

With Zavin.

He was good and friendly and cute and still talked to her after she threatened him with a knife when she thought he’d stolen her lunch. She learned about Honest Mistakes and Forgiveness. After a few months, she learned about pleasure and satisfying physical desires. Zavin had been remarkably knowledgeable about such things for his age, had known Rayne had experienced little in the way of happiness for close to a decade, and had made it a personal mission to help her make up for lost time. She learned everything she could, how to make herself feel good, how to make a man feel good, how to give and take.

One catch.

She’d mistaken passion for love.

He had cared for her. He had been concerned for her. Genuine and heartfelt.

But he couldn’t love her. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, at the time.

Heartbroken, she’d withdrawn. They’d joined the Rebellion together by then, serving on the same ship. She managed to disappear from him. Avoided him at every turn. She’d let go in the worst possible way, believing that she was unworthy of any love if she was unworthy of his.

The timing could not have been worse. Her third sortie as a fighter pilot ended almost as soon as it had begun, a bout of mind-blowing claustrophobia driving her from an X-wing cockpit, shaking, sending her staggering to her berth where she curled up with a bottle of booze and drank herself into a stupor to escape the demons of failure.

Zavin felt responsible. Guilty. Hurting her was the last thing he’d wanted.

He had a friend. Some goofball of a guy who was both fearless and awkward, whose family had worked with the Jedi. Who could be trusted. The friend had listened as Zavin told him about her, nodding with understanding through all the scary bits. He was no stranger to tragedy. He was willing to meet her. Willing to give her a shot, see if she had any interest in him.

Hayes. His name had been Hayes.

He’d found her in the hangar one night, staring out into empty space. He hadn’t been much of a conversationalist, so he’d just stood there next to her, enjoying the view. Enjoying the stars. Letting his mind open up, letting her sus him out. It hadn’t taken her long to put the pieces together. Without turning to face him, she spoke her first words to him. “I’m not an easy person to be with.”

“I heard.” He continued to look out as the planet turned below them.

“Do you not have anything better to do?”

He shrugged. “I like a good challenge.”

It had turned out not to be a challenge at all. His easy acceptance of her had turned to adoration in short order. He was warm. He was brilliant. He was funny in a silly kind of way that was so rare in the galaxy. He was a little clumsy in bed to start, but had been eager to learn, eager to reciprocate the pleasures she bestowed upon him, and got up to speed soon enough. Spending time with him was easy. He delighted in the ways she was so different from most others. He brightened an existence that would otherwise be little more than drudgery and war. He offered his love. She accepted it. She reciprocated it. Five years in, he asked her to marry him. She accepted that, too. She let herself get lost in him, let herself center her world around him, let him in all the way. For ten more years, they lived together. Worked together. Loved together. Fought against the evils of the galaxy together.

And then one day he saved her life, shoving her through an airlock as the hangar vented atmosphere, and blew out into space, taking half her soul with him.

It’s amazing how much alcohol a Jedi can manage to drink without killing themselves. Even if maybe that’s exactly what they’re trying to do.

She’d never really gotten over it. But she had eventually come to a realization. Her late husband’s dying act had been to save her life. He had sacrificed himself for her. The Force had taken him and left her for a reason, and she was meant to stay alive and figure out what that reason was. She’d let go of the grief as much as she could. Moved on as well as she could.

Five years later, a Mandalorian showed up on her doorstep with a Force-sensitive baby tucked into the crook of his arm. The ghost of her childhood Master writ small in green skin and enormous ears.

This baby. This baby was the reason she had been spared while her husband had not. She had to get this baby to safety. Lucky for the Mandalorian, he had the same idea. The moment she saw this baby, she knew that her primary responsibility was to find out where he belonged and get him there.

She and the baby had figured out what they each were in short order, and they each delighted in it. For the first time in so long, they were no longer alone in the galaxy. She had never wanted to be a mother, but for this child, she would reach for motherhood as much as possible. She would teach him everything she could. She would provide all the care she could give. She would protect him with her life.

It didn’t matter that the Mandalorian belonged to a terrorist sect and had no idea. He was kind. He was lonely. She was lonely, too.

She made an offer of intimacy. He accepted. He turned out to know what he was doing. The hook was set. The next day, he asked her to come along. She accepted.

Had she manipulated him? Maybe a little. Nothing Force-wise. She hadn’t needed to. Men are prone to following where their dicks point, and the Mandalorian was no different. They were both using each other as means to an end, and they both knew it. They had the same end, a common goal – save this child. No harm, no foul. If they found a little happiness in each other along the way, so much the better.

And then…

And then the child called in the chip on her motherhood. Called her his mother in the Mandalorian’s language.

She protested. She wasn’t qualified. She had failed to protect children before, so long ago. But the Mandalorian insisted – the child knew what he wanted, and the Mandalorian trusted his judgement.

And so, she adopted the Force-sensitive child of the same kind as Master Yoda with Mandalorian vows. Together, they became parents to a being they did not fully understand but had sworn to protect with their lives. She entered parenthood shared with a man she’d only known for a few weeks, whose face she had never seen. The man then gave her a gift of himself, a lock of his own hair encased in beskar, meant to make up for the face he was unable to share with her.

A Jedi wearing beskar to commemorate parenthood of a Force-sensitive alien baby with a Mandalorian who was forbidden by the terrorist sect he was raised by to remove his helmet before others.

It was all very confusing.

Life came at them fast. The Pirate Queen poked and prodded at the vulnerable bonds between them, forcing them to acknowledge their conflicting understandings of what it meant to be a family composed in-part of Jedi. Gideon stole the Jedi of their family, and the Mandalorian rescued them. Together, they faced the remnant again, and brought it down.

She had paid for it with her life. Without reservation. Without hesitation. She had saved her son. She had saved his father.

Her only miscalculation was what her loss would do to them.

She’d woken up in a bacta tank to a Mandalorian at his wit’s end and a Jedi baby who had possibly used Dark powers to bring her back to life.

But their son was safe. Whatever had happened was worth it. The child, her son, her little green baby, was where he belonged. Whatever else she managed to keep would be bonus.

She’d been allowed to stay. The Mandalorian had been allowed to stay. The Mandalorian proposed to her, in his own roundabout way.

She had… not quite accepted. She’d needed to catch her breath. They had not known each other long, and she’d just needed to… settle in. Get used to the idea again. Get used to the idea that this was no longer about means and ends. Make peace with the idea that she was no longer just protecting her child with this man. That she would raise her child with this man. That she would let this man all the way into her life. Her soul. That she could fulfill the vows he desired. To be one when together. To be one when apart. To share everything. To raise their son as a warrior.

She’d just needed… some time.

The Mandalorian gave it to her.

And when time is up, she will likely accept.

She will wed a second husband.

She will allow him all the way in. Next to the place where Hayes had been. Not replacing him, but filling in the gaps left by his absence.

Her son. Her Mandalorian. Soon to be husband. She’s given everything she has to save them once already. She would not hesitate to do it again. She understands the distinct possibility that she could lose her husband once again. She understands the violent galaxy they live in. She understands the violent life he lives. She is not at peace with it, not exactly, but she’s been through it once already. She’d rather not go through it again, but she knows she can survive it. The idea of losing her son… she does not allow the thought much space in her mind. Avoids it whenever possible. She knows the proper Jedi way of handling it would be to mourn for however long would be necessary, and then let go and move on. Continue with the bidding of the Force. She knows the way she would actually handle it would be more self-destructive. Then maybe more other-destructive of whatever it had been that had taken her son’s life. She knows the careful line she would need to walk there, that murder in her son’s name would be a sure harbinger of the Dark Side. Maybe she’d manage to stop short of full-on murder. Maybe she’d manage to keep it within justice in her son’s name. The same holds for what may eventually take her husband from her. She figures the odds are even on which one of them will go first. If it is to be him, she will hold it together the best she can. Continue on the best she can. Bring justice to his death the best she can.

Master Jenkins sees all of this before her.

She still has much work to do with the family of orphans in her care.

---

By the time they make it home, Yadier is getting cranky, whining about the walk, low grumbles grating from his tiny throat, a sure sign that he is ready for his pre-dinner nap. Coming through the door to their flat, Rayne casts a glance in Din’s direction, a silent question about what he’s up for. Depending on the day, they either head to the balcony to relax or head to their bedroom for other ways to unwind. Today, he lifts his chin in the direction of the balcony. “I’ll meet you out there in a moment.”

“Okay.”

Rayne steps outside, into the shaded breeze of the balcony, thirty-one floors up. The hustle and bustle from the street is muted up here, just enough background noise to know interesting things are going on, but not loud enough to be intrusive. The space is large enough for a round table and four chairs, with more room for Yadier to run around. The four-foot high iron lattice-work rails offer a mix of privacy and sufficient holes for the toddler to peek through and see the world below. The view of the city over the rails is ample, encompassing other high-rises and surrounding low-rises, with a sliver of a river a mile off in the distance.

She lays Yadier in the crate they keep out here for his naps. He enjoys being outside as much as his parents, awake or asleep. A large wind chime in the corner rings with low, quiet tones in the breeze that lull the child under in short order. She turns a couple of chairs to face each other and, settling her weight into one, she props her bare feet up on the other, leaning back and closing her eyes. Din comes out a few minutes later, shed of the armor and helmet, wearing only a black T-shirt and black shorts, two bottles of beer in one hand. He places one on the table next to Rayne and eases his weight into the other chair next to her feet, leaning back and hanging his right foot on the rung of her chair, spreading his left under the table. She cracks an eye open, lifts the offered bottle, clinks it against his in an unspoken toast, and takes a swallow as he does the same.

He heaves a sigh and closes his eyes.

Sitting out here without the helmet has become a kind of practice for him. The balcony is deep enough so that some part of it is always shaded, so any view of it from the buildings on the other side of the street is obscured and distanced. Those across the way may get a vague glimpse, and he’s getting himself into the mindset of not caring. To what end, he’s not entirely sure yet, but it feels important, somehow, so he does it.

Rayne is pleased to see a five-o-clock shadow already coming in on his jaw and upper lip. She knows it comes in fast by touch already, but seeing it happen for the first time holds its own wonder. She takes the moment to study his face, still not over the novelty of seeing him, still unable to take the shape of his features for granted.

He looks exhausted.

She feels exhausted.

She takes another swallow of her beer. “Remember back when one of us had to shed blood or shed someone else’s for us to call it a rough day?”

“Hmm.” A hint of a smile quirks at the corner of his mouth and he drops a hand to her leg, just above her ankle. “Today was a different kind of rough.”

“Fair point.”

A calm quiet settles over them for a while. They relax into each other, listening to the wind chime ringing over the street activity below, feeling the warm breeze against their skin. They enjoy the companionable silence together, something that has come naturally to them from the start. Their son burbles in his sleep and Din draws a long sigh, almost as if in response. Rayne cracks an eye open once more, and sees that he has his head turned, looking in their son’s direction.

Once again, she is captivated by his profile. The hard angles of his eyebrow. The sharp line of his nose. The jut of his chin. The square of his jaw. All of it offset by the soft way his hair curls over his forehead, his ears, and the back of his neck. The soft set of his lips and the kindness in his eye.

She hasn’t noticed him looking at her the way she looks at him. To be fair, looking at him is still a new thing. Had he ever looked at her this way? When they first met and his face was shrouded in beskar and mystery?

She will never know.

Her eye slides shut just as he turns back to face her. She hopes he didn’t catch her in the act. Instead, he leans forward and takes one of her hands in his, and she opens her eyes in response. He first meets her gaze with his own, then brings her hand to the scars just above his right knee. The six evenly-spaced lines carved into the skin that she had first noticed on Methuselah and he had refused to explain. Their newer twins, six lines below the knee, were carved more recently on Coruscant, in the drunken rage he’d fallen into after learning the true circumstances of his childhood kidnapping by the Mandalorians.

She pulls her feet off his chair and leans forward so she can trace the old scars now that he has granted his tacit permission. She looks up to meet his gaze, asking the tacit question.

He breaks her gaze, looking back down at her hand, and takes it once more in his own. “I failed my first set of trials when I was fifteen.” He pauses for a while, not sure what else to say. The rest seems obvious.

“You didn’t take it well,” she says.

“No.”

“What happened?”

“I went up again a month later and passed.”

“How often did that happen with the others?”

“About half the time.”

“So, failure the first time around was common.”

“Yes,” he admits.

“Did you know that at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you so hard on yourself?”

He’s quiet for a long time, remembering the shame, remembering how much it hurt, remembering locking himself in his room, turning his helmet’s modulator off, and screaming into it until his throat had gone raw. He’d wanted to lock himself in there forever, the thought of facing Alaria as a failure gutting him and driving him to his knees. He remembers thinking she deserved better than him, deserved better than the disappointment he had become. The pain in his soul had simply been too much. Too overwhelming. He’d only been taught to handle anger in ways that didn’t involve hurting others, ways that were physically distracting, sublimating it into going for a run or target practice or beating the stuffing out of a punching bag. But he hadn’t dared to leave his room. Physical pain was easier to handle. He’d been taught how to shift his focus away from that. To breathe through it.

So he’d shed everything but his helmet and shorts, pulled his knife, and drew the blade through his own skin. Six lines. One for every act of the Resol'nare. One for each family that had failed to adopt him.

He remembers it all while holding her hand, their agreed-upon signal inviting her to examine whatever came out of his head as closely as she wanted. Even so, he responds to her question with actual words. “It’s just how I was.”

She slides her other hand further down his leg to the newer scars. “It’s how you still are.”

He shrugs a shoulder and sighs.

She takes both of his hands in both of hers now, and holds them tight. “You being you is one thing. You setting an example for our son is another. I don’t want him carving himself up ten years from now if things don’t go according to schedule and he thinks this is the appropriate response because this is how Dad does it.”

Din returns the strength of her grip and nods his head. The thought of their son harming himself in the same way that Din had breaks his heart. He knows he has to do better, if not for himself, then for Yadier.

And then, he talks.

“His lifespan is so long. It’s bad enough that the best-case scenario is that we’ll die when he’s still young. A week ago I wondered if I was ever going to have a conversation with him about growing up. What he wants to be. What kind of mark he wants to leave on the galaxy. Dating.” He shakes his head. “All the conversations I never got to have with my parents.” He pauses, swallowing. “Now I don’t know if I’ll ever have any kind of conversation with him. Even if it’s about toys or frogs or…” he pauses again, voice cracking. “Or other kids at the playground. I don’t have the same kind of link you have with him. I can’t tell if he understands what I say. Sometimes it seems like he gets it. Other times he just looks at me and belches.”

For a man who has spoken so little to anyone over the course of his life, his sudden preoccupation with what he will or will not be able to speak about with his son is overwhelming.

Rayne drags her chair closer so their knees now touch and she brings her forehead to his, relieved as he sinks into the contact. “He understands most of what you say. When he doesn’t quite get the words, he gets the meaning.” She presses a hand to his heart, and he understands. “Aaaannnd sometimes he’s just gassy and you’re not supposed to take it personally.”

Din huffs through his not-quite-laugh.

She pulls away so she can look him in the eye. “If you want to know what’s going on in his head, you can do that, but you’ll have to open up and let him in a little.” She drops her hand back down to his knee. “Without showing him this stuff.”

Din nods his understanding.

“Is that something you can do?”

He thinks about it for a moment, meeting her gaze. Those blue eyes. The same blue as polished beskar. A hint of the resolve of the woman he will soon marry. The woman who will soon be his riduur. She’s so much stronger than he is and most of the time it seems like she doesn’t even realize it, and that does things to him. This casual power she walks around with. Proposing that he crack open the shell that used to house his soul and let his sorcerer son sing into it. Sure, what could go wrong with that? Letting your magical baby into your head couldn’t possibly have repercussions, right? Gods, it drives him nuts. It makes him want to scream at her and kiss her at the same time. What are you thinking? Are you out of your mind? Will you please help me do something about this boner you just gave me?

In the end, he settles for another sigh. “I’ll think about it.”

She kisses him, lips soft against his, warm and pliant. She slides her hands from his knees up his thighs, and he can’t hold back the quiet moan when she reaches the object of his silent complaint. “Still want me to do something about this?” she murmurs.

“Yes.”

---

Din stands at the end of the Razor Crest’s rear ramp, Yadier tucked into the crook of his left arm, right hand held in Rayne’s grasp.

“Be careful out there.”

“We will. It’s just a milk run.”

There are, quite literally, several thousand gallons of milk loaded into the gunship’s cargo hold. All packed up in several refrigeration units buzzing away as they keep it at just a few degrees above freezing. Of all the ironies, Rayne had to take the time to develop a custom heat-sink for the compressors, lest the pilot and passenger get cooked alive while sealed up with the refrigeration units. Din wonders at the ridiculousness of the whole thing – green milk from the Lata goat is apparently a luxury good in the Core worlds, and it turns out this breed of goat thrives on Genesaria under the care of Force-sensitive farmers on the rolling grasslands far to the southeast of the city.

The farming family had been less than happy when they’d arrived this morning to learn that a different hauler would take the fruits of their hard labor to Jedha, where, like one-tenth of the trade goods from Genesaria, it would be offloaded, re-labeled as Jedha-origin goods, and exported to Coruscant. The other nine-tenths undergo similar treatment on nine other worlds. Each port has a friendly face in a Genesarian ex-patriot, ensuring the secrecy of their homeworld by facilitating what is, in reality, galactic smuggling. The handoffs are typically smooth, aided by the fact that haulers and dock handlers know each other, so a new face, to say nothing of a new face hidden by a helmet, rattled the farmers. For that reason, one of the Genesarian Trade Magistrate’s general managers had been there to introduce them to Din and assure them that the handler on Jedha knew that a new guy in an old ship would be running the haul. Still, they had protested, returning on-and-off throughout the day to complain to whatever manager had the shift at the time, hoping for a different ruling, failing each time. It wasn’t until Rayne had arrived with Yadier that evening that they realized they were dealing with the Lost Son and his family, at which point they apologized profusely and accepted the terms. When they expressed their wonder at Din’s apparent new occupation, he’d breathed his trademark sigh. “Gotta feed that kid somehow.”

Provide for your clan. One of the six tenets of the Resol’nare.

And so he stands at the back end of his ship, a few million credits worth of milk cooling in the hold. He is of the understanding that he’ll come back with a few million credits worth of high-end foods that are not easily produced on Genesaria. He is a little chagrined at the fact that his ship is now registered as a perishable goods cargo hauler, a goddamned grocery getter, but he knows that if this run goes well, and the next several after it, he’ll be vetted for progressively more… sensitive… cargo as befitting a Mandalorian warrior. As it stands, this run will net him a few thousand credits after fuel, docking fees, and maintenance supplies. Not bad for what should be a few days of easy work.

“I’ll miss you,” Rayne says, running her hand over the fuzz on top of Yadier’s head.

This will be their first separation since Din arrived at her hangar. Since the beginning of the whole thing.

“We’ll be back in a couple days,” he responds. A day and a half, actually, but with the loading, unloading, and flight time, it all adds up to three full days of work. Three days a week for hauling cargo with two days off. Alternating with three days for military and assorted sorcery training, two days off. Rinse and repeat.

It almost sounds like a normal life.

Yadier takes one of Rayne’s fingers in his hand before she’s out of range, his huge eyes taking her in for as long as he can before they leave. Din adjusts him in the crook of his elbow. “You and me, buddy. Just like old times.”

The baby grunts.

Rayne runs her thumb over a stubby claw. “Without all the getting chased by bad guys and with plenty of food in the galley.” She’d re-activated their fob-scramblers, one in Din’s helmet, the other in Yadier’s mythosaur pendant, and the Razor Crest’s unit the night before. “I’ll be right here when you get back. Then next time you get to stay here with me when Buir goes. And we’ll both be here when he gets back.”

The baby grunts again. He’s not entirely pleased with the situation, but he senses the beginning of a new routine. These separations will be short and temporary, concluding with happy reunions. He senses his father’s need to be on the move, his need to provide for his family. He senses how his father is used to long trips away from a home that never really welcomed him back, how much easier this will be in comparison. A shorter, safer trip, an actual dwelling to return to, an actual family to reunite with. He gives his mother’s finger one last squeeze before releasing her, blinking, and tucking his head against the armor over his father’s chest.

Din presses his forehead to Rayne’s for one last moment, and the helmet is cool against her skin. “Time to go,” he whispers, pressing his free hand into her sternum.

She returns the gesture, hand flat over the kar’ta beskar diamond carved into his armor. “Good luck.”

He pulls away and steps back, and Yadi returns her wave goodbye before Din turns to walk up the ramp. She walks around to the front of the ship to avoid the thruster wash as Din fires the engines. The exhaust ripples in the warm evening air, and the orange blaze of sunset glints off the fuselage as Din lifts the ship from the ground, spins a quarter turn, and eases forward out over the hangar and up into the spaceport departure flight pattern. She watches the sublight engines burn, two points of fire growing smaller in the distance over the plains as they gain altitude before they shrink into a single point of light and then wink out altogether.

Rayne closes her eyes. She feels the empty gap left by the absence of her son and the man she is soon to wed. Nonetheless, all is calm within the Force. This will be fine.

She takes the light rail home. Alone for the first time in several months. Her heart aches a little, but she knows it won’t be for long. Next time, she’ll have Yadier with her and Din will be on his own; they’ll trade him back and forth as his school schedule allows. She’s never been alone with her son before and she’s curious about how it will go, but they had decided that it was best for him to go with Din for this first separation. A situation he is familiar with.

She returns home and is struck by the silence that greets her when she steps through the doorway. No burbling child. No slap of tiny bare feet as the burbling child scampers along the floor. No low grunting of a middle-aged man lurching along after the burbling child.

Nothing but the low whisper of air running through the circulators.

She is alone again.

The smallness of her previous life closes in on her with deafening silence, the empty spaces left by her family sucking away the sense of purpose she had gained in their wake. For a moment, she is back at her hangar again, filling her days with fixing ships and designing parts, filling her nights with alcohol, lonely and bored, adrift in the habit of maintaining anonymity under the Empire’s boot. Then, the walls close in without her family to hold them up, closing around her throat like claustrophobia crushing a little girl trapped in a ventilation shaft…

She walks to Yadier’s room and sinks to his bed, scooping up a bantha stuffie and clutching it to her chest, proof that her son is real, that he is not an ephemeral dream, that he is real and he will be back in a couple days. She presses the stuffie against the beskar casing at the base of her throat, a reminder of the reality of her son’s father. She still has these pieces of them, this beloved toy and this symbol of shared parenthood, reminders that they will come back for her.

She pads back out to the kitchen and opens one of the cabinets to pull a can of soup off the shelf. The cabinets are loaded to capacity with non-perishables; soups and grains and beans and dried fruits and dried meats and dried pasta and cooking staples and spices, all lined up in orderly fashion, new items added to the back of the shelves as older ones are consumed off the front. Perishables are kept at a supply consistent with what a family of three can consume them at, bread and eggs and dairy and meat kept on a careful tally. Only fresh fruits and vegetables are left to chance, purchased on an almost daily basis. Neither Rayne nor Din are particularly good at cooking, but the cabinets are always well-stocked. A casual observer would assume they just like to be prepared.

Anyone familiar with starvation would know otherwise.

Both parents and their son remember what it was like. Both parents have vowed that their son will never know it again, in their own silent ways. Neither of them realizes what they’re doing on a conscious level when they load up the grocery sack on their way through the markets, picking up whatever catches their eye now that credits are no longer an issue. All they really know is that when they open a door to see shelves loaded with food, the stone of anxiety that lives in their bellies dissolves away for a little while. One worry to put to rest. One more layer of security, safe and hunkered-down in their home.

Rayne empties the soup into a bowl, pulls a beer from the fridge as the soup heats, then eats her dinner alone at the kitchen counter. She tries not to think about how quiet it is. When she’s done with dinner, she settles down at the desk situated in the corner of the main family room, and brings up the comm from her niece, her late husband’s oldest sister’s oldest daughter. Tasha has gotten settled in at Rayne’s old hangar, followed up with Rayne’s comms to her regular clients about the transition in operators, and has completed her first rounds of service repairs. Things are going well so far, though Tasha has noticed a common fault with fuel regulators coming out of the Kuat Drive Yards for the last few years, and asked Rayne if there are any off-brand replacements that are any better.

Problem is, there aren’t.

So Rayne brings up a blank design template from her tablet, and closes her eyes for a few moments, clearing her mind.

Bringing forth the ideas that have been brewing there for days.

She opens her eyes and begins her work.

---

Hyperspace slips by him for the first time since coming to Genesaria. When he had fled from Ilum with Rayne comatose in the hold, Yadier miserable with worry, and Cara doing the best she could to keep them all chugging along.

This is fine, Din reminds himself. The baby is burbling in his pod, anchored to the starboard jump seat, gazing ahead at the blue-white ripples with his huge eyes full of wonder. Just like old times.

The comm beeps, reminding him of the message that had spooled through when he’d booted up the Razor Crest’s auxiliaries that morning. He’d wanted to focus on work, and, having a hunch about where the message was from, had decided to postpone looking at it until they were underway. He activates the comm now, keeping a steady hold on his thoughts.

He’d been right about his hunch. The message is from Sorgan. The message itself, however, is much shorter than he’d expected.

Message received.

That’s all.

He sits back, breathing through a sigh, the sound of it harsh through the modulator. Well, what had he expected, really? He’s not sure. He supposes this is the best possible outcome – Omera has received his message and knows they’re safe. If she was able to get to town and receive his message that he’d found Yadier’s people, that he was staying with the baby, and that they had added to their family along the way, then she must be reasonably safe as well. Beyond that, no news is good news, as far as it goes.

This is fine.

Yadier burbles again, and Din allows the diversion of his attention. He swivels around, lifts the baby from the pod, and settles him in the crook of his elbow. “Dinner time?”

The baby claps and giggles.

They eat together at the small table in the hold, truly sharing a meal for the first time, eye-to-eye, on the ship. Din picks through his bowl of stew as Yadier eyes a plate of three warmed-over frogs. He’s a little put off by the fact that they’re already dead, but they smell fresh enough, so he puts his claws around the first one, gives it a perfunctory sniff, then shoves it in his mouth. Din keeps his eyes lowered to the table as the baby goes through his peristaltic writhing and gulping to get the whole thing down, finishing with a tiny belch, and the spectacle is over soon enough. “You got spoiled with all the live ones in the park, buddy.” The baby grins in agreement. “Back to frozen ones for a few days.” Yadier sighs, gives what looks to Din like a little shrug, then swallows the next two in quick succession. Din works his way through his stew, taking Yadier’s newfound discriminating tastes as a good sign that his son is no longer a starving, voracious monster. At long last, his son’s dietary needs are being met.

Bedtime rolls around soon enough, and Din tucks Yadier into his pod after story time on the flight deck, just like old times. The only new twist is that now he takes his helmet off to bring his forehead to his son’s, relishing the scrape of stubby claws along his chin. The baby drops off to sleep in short order, and Din heads down to the fresher for a quick shower. He nearly runs into the closed door of the starboard-side storage bay before he remembers he’d relocated his sleeping area up and behind the galley in the final weeks of their nomadic life aboard the Crest, a concession to the needs of sharing close quarters with the new addition to their family. An acknowledgement of shared lives and a mutual comfort he had never before allowed himself.

Now, he creeps back up the ladder, through the galley, and into the makeshift bedroom. The air is cool and he shivers despite the long-sleeved t-shirt and long pants he wears as he snuggles down into the blankets by himself. He can’t tell if it’s just that he’s unused to sleeping in such a large space on his own or if the heat-sink Rayne built is working a little too well, but he feels off-kilter in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time. He closes his eyes against the eternal blue twilight of hyperspace. The sheets are soft against his skin and the blanket is cozy over his body. The mattress is thinner than he remembers… maybe he’s gotten spoiled over the last few weeks as well, but he’s physically comfortable enough. He just…

He reaches out for Rayne’s pillow and pulls it to his chest. He regrets washing the pillowcase. No lingering scent of pineapple. Just detergent. The pillow is uniformly squishy, lacking the firm definition of his Jedi, but it’s better than nothing as it warms against his body and he lets out an unsatisfied sigh.

Just a couple nights. This is fine.

He drifts in and out of sleep, unable to really settle, so he has no idea how long it’s been when he feels the tell-tale dip of the mattress as Yadier crawls in with him. The baby grunts and purrs his way up, and Din releases the pillow so his son can take his place against his chest, tucking his wrinkled fuzzy head under Din’s chin.

The Mandalorian breathes easier, son secure against his chest, and they both slip into a peaceful sleep.

#din djarin #grogu #the mandalorian

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dragonbard-bastard · 2 months ago

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Another day another slay! Posting this late, and with Tumblr fucking me over :)

Started off today by heading to Grymforge! We pushed a Duegar off a boat (admittedly for my own personal enjoyment + extra XP, Soph would never) and sailed into the old fortress.

Sophronius was very unhappy about the fact they kept slaves and the attitudes of the Duegar they met first. So, they're not in the picture anymore. He was also not at all thrilled when he saw a massive amount of bodies piled up and the Duegar pushing them into the water. He dealt with them and proceeded to remove the bodies and give them a proper sort of shrine to remember them. It doesn't look that great I worked with what I had lmao

Talked to Stonemason Kith, have I said I love Stonemason Kith?

We got the Adamantine Forge working and killed the guardian in only a few turns using the crucible! We made the Adamantine Splint Armor for Lae'zel and the Shield for Shadowheart. With Sophronius wearing the helmet from the Guardian, those three cannot be crit'd against!! The dice hate me so this is great news.

We also walked by the Lava Elemental and it was surprisingly chill? Bro had no issue despite totally seeing us. Anyways we grabbed the Adamantine Chest and sent it to camp for Astarion to unlock later (he's been in camp all of Grymforge, you know why). In the box was the Amulet with the giggly monk and now Soph is wearing it

We teamed up with the rebels to kill Nere and of course Tactician has to make the Scrying Eye basically immune to every single damage type except thunder so that was a HUGE pain. Ended up luring the eye to the right where that chasm is and throwing it off. Some guy got mad but he didn't move or attack, he didn't take his turn at all and spent a minute doing nothing until he was dead.

I love Soph so much, these options fuck hard.

Anyways the bug where none of the enemies move or take actions happened in this fight too with some of the allied Duegar also feeling the glitch- it was annoying, boring, and long because it took a minute for each enemy's turn to be forcefully stopped. We didn't lose any health though I guess.

The gnomes were free!!! Soph demanded Brithvar let them go, and after watching him turn Nere into a was he got the idea. Took Nere's head and went back to the Myconid colony, where we delivered it to Spaw. Then we went back to Grymforge and up the elevator, into Act 2.

Traveling through the topside of the Sharran temple, one of the Moonrise Towers we got to the Shadowcursed lands. Immediately Shadowheart was like "OMG the curse doesn't affect me!!! Shar loves me!!!" I know it's not because she had the Blood of Lathander but I like to imagine she thinks it's Shar and it's literally just cuz she has a light source. from, you know, the morninglord.

Anyways we help the Harper's fight off the shadows and I was sad because Yonas purty but now Yonas dead :( After heading to Last Light we talk to Jaheira, she does her whole vine bit, and Mol comes to our rescue. We have a glass of wine w her and detect the truth shit but drink it anyways. Soph doesn't have anything to hide.

We talked to Isobel, got the blessing, and helped fend off the Winged Horrors and I don't think there were any casualties, and Isobel was alright. We also got Karlach's engine 'fixed', enough so I could give her a big ol' hug.

I took a few long rests in quick succession in the hopes of getting my scene with Wyll but no fucking Durge and Dream Visitor shit is overriding it. Also got one of Gale's scenes.

The dream visitor said some shit I don't remember, but the butler guy showed up and was like you gotta kill Isobel and I'm not doing that so. Fuck off. Then that's where I left off.

A few notes about Soph being a Durge by the way: Since Soph is an OC the Durge storyline isn't totally 1:1. This run is supposed to be an AU basically, but basically his real story is basically "has been mind controlled by an evil cultist to kill hundreds of people." The parallels of killing in his sleep are the main reason I made him Durge. Also I needed to do a durge run. Another idea I had was if the Urge made me break my oath I would essentially switch over to doing an evil run? Where I'd give into the urges, because of a few lore reasons. When Soph gets mind controlled it leaves a sort of remnant of the magic in his head and it also turns his eyes all black and spooky and he's very easy to manipulate after that especially.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #dragonbard ramblings #bg3 durge #dragonbard Sophronius

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venstm · 3 months ago

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One wrong move and everything will come crashing down around him.

Those were the words that the young, aspiring hero had used to remind himself of the severity of his choices as he ducked into the alleyway, back pressing flat to the bricks. He has grown impatient with waiting, tired of letting others decide his fate, waiting for his future to hinge on his performance. He's not a clown in the circus ring, but a frustrated hero who has been marred with the villain's brush more times than he can stand, enough so that he has to prove his convictions to himself, staking his whole education upon it as he stalks the evening streets, managing low level crimes, giving into the lure of vigilantism.

Shinsou was simply tired of being told he couldn't.

Up until now, he had been able to keep the two world's separate, his already exhausted dispostion from bouts of insomnia proving the perfect cover for his nighttime activities, no one giving him a second glance. And on the streets he had been agile enough to slip away undetected, leaving his villains caught in his trance waiting to be scooped up by the nearest patrolling hero. But he'd misstepped. Because he had forgotten about the work studies, where the heroes were shadowed by his year group peers, each of them eagle-eyed and vigilant in the desperate need to pull himself.

And out of all people to be on this route, it had to be the one who would recognise him instantly.

In his head he counts, listening to the sound of footsteps draw closer, then he leans across, grabbing at wrist to pull Denki into the alleyway with him and cover his mouth just long enough for recognition to dawn. Then he backs off, putting himself on the other side of the alleyway, hands folded across his chest, scarf drawn up across the lower half of his face. "You should forget you ever saw me." Please forget, don't take this away from me. "I was never here, Kaminari."

curiosity killed the cat, he had never thought it applicable to himself and yet, as he trespasses on the part of shinsou’s life kept separate from the heroics he finds himself immured by long, lithe fingers. Someone was generously leaving villains in a stupor, stumbling through the streets and willingly depositing themselves in the hero’s hands. It was suspicious, gratitude overlooked in favour of speculating who was behind it. Denki had strayed too far, followed the traces of the perpetrator all the way to the source and his eyes blink slowly before widening in recognition. It was as if reality swarmed around him before becoming jarringly clear, the offender’s countenance startlingly familiar. shinsou retreats just as quickly, leaving him reeling in the wake of contact, static thrumming alongside his pulse, his breath tremulous.

❝ Shinsou … ? ❞ he gapes, uncertain for a moment how to compel his expression to normal, the street-lights humming over-heard casting hard, sharp shadows across the other’s features. ❝ it all .. it makes sense now.❞ forget he saw him ? it didn’t really seem like a possibility, the whole being jerked into an eerily dark alleyway quite memorable in contrast to the rest of his relatively uneventful patrol. He had left such an impression on him, not including the whole disorienting moment prior, that he would have recognized that shock of purple hair and that penetrating gaze anywhere. It takes him a protracted moment to fumble with his questions, they were meant to be seeking out whoever was at the source of this but now that he was standing before him it was as if his mind was blank, expelling a breath in a noise of bewilderment.

❝ why are you ? ❞ an innocuous tilt of the head, his arms crossing over his chest. ❝ I mean, i think i get what’s going on here but why be so .. secretive about it ? ❞ perhaps the other would have done better for himself to remain with a hand plastered over his blathering mouth. ❝ dude, it’s you, they thought it was someone out here causing trouble but it’s you.❞ his thought process a delayed between connecting dots evident in his furrowed brow and the contemplative downturn of his mouth. ❝ I’m not gonna out you or anything but i’m meant to be reporting back on anything weird and this ? well this is kinda weird. ❞

#he would have been better off had he just wrapped him up with his scarf and left askldj #resolutepath #ɪᴄ． ⋄　　 𝙳𝙴𝙽𝙺𝙸 𝙺𝙰𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚁𝙸． ⚡️

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helenaheissner · 8 months ago

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Love During Robot Fighting Time: Chapter 15

Hello, lovelies! Hope y'all are doing well :)

Don't forget you can read three chapters ahead on this story, twenty chapters ahead on "A Dream of Summer Rain", and two chapters ahead on "Magical Girl Exorcist Squad", by becoming a paid subscriber on my Substack or my Patreon!

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Thank you so much for your continued support of my work! Every little bit helps me to keep going :)

And now, back to our regularly scheduled nerdy romcom shenanigans!

***

Faith

Dark Shadows droned on my television screen while the effects of my weed gummy began to manifest. Everything was light and airy, and I laid on my back and watched the ceiling fan rotate while gothic soap opera nonsense served as the soundtrack to my stoned thought-ramblings.

I wanted to focus on what was in front of me, I really did. But all I could think about was my rival going on a date with my best friend, and the green thornbush of envy strangling my heart. I’d resolved myself to be a graceful loser, going out of my way to support Zeke and Kate’s budding relationship. I’d done Kate’s makeup for her, and given her an extended tutorial on how to walk in heels, given her my old falsies. She’d looked, to be blunt, smoking hot when I was through with her. Zeke was a lucky guy, and hopefully he realized that.

Kate, for her part, seemed to already know that she was a lucky girl.

I still couldn’t believe she’d offered to stop pursuing Zeke for my benefit. The first guy you like, once you realize you swing that way, tends to have a downright intoxicating effect on you in my experience. That she’d have been willing to give that up just to make me happy…

I was wrong about her. Or maybe I was right, but now she’d changed, and if I tried to keep acting like she was still a jerk, then I’d be the real jerk. She was a ray of freaking sunshine now. It was… Hard not to see the appeal.

An image sparked in my mind, of Kate’s head resting on my lap, me stroking her hair, running my hands over her shoulders, tracing the outline of her lips with my fingers…

I shook my head. That kind of thought wouldn’t help me at all in the days going forward. And honestly, it had been… Difficult to let myself feel attracted to another girl ever since Olivia left me.

Another image burst across my mind’s eye, of Zeke stroking my hair while I rested my head in his lap, of him running his hands over the edges of my body…

I shook my head again. I needed to stop this, otherwise I’d be veering dangerously close to fem-cel territory, and that was the last thing I wanted. Those two… Had each other now. If it didn’t work out, maybe I could pursue Zeke after he’d had an appropriate amount of time to grieve his former relationship.

Assuming it went that far. Maybe tonight would go badly and then I could…

No. Just no, Faith. Get over yourself.

My hand was unconsciously drawn to my phone, resting on the coffee table, and I scrolled through my contacts and pulled up Olivia. My red-lacquered fingernail hovered over the call icon, and my hands began trembling. The phone slipped out and fell onto the floor, and as I reached for it, a furious knocking exploded from my front door.

I groaned, then felt the sting of dysphoria as I realized I’d slipped into a low voice. I sat up, breathed a deep breath through my nose and held it in my chest while the knocking grew in rapidity and intensity.

I exhaled, then walked over to the door.

On the other side, I found a pale, dark-haired woman in her early fifties, her makeup a smudgy mess streaked across her blotchy face. She reeked of brandy and cigarettes, with ash-stains smeared across her white cardigan and blue skirt.

I sighed. “Hi, Mrs. Underhill.”

“Who are you?” she slurred, the traces of her Newcastle accent making themselves apparent.

You’ve got to be kidding me- you’ve met me over a dozen times and you still don’t… Wait, she’s never seen me as a girl! Holy crap! Do I pass that well? Am I such a convincing girl that this idiot just straight-up doesn’t recognize me? I’ve gotta work with this.

“Did my son finally get a girlfriend, then?” Mrs. Underhill spat.

“No, I’m just his roommate,” I said, each word carefully plucked from the marijuana haze choking my mind.

“Bah, his roommate- unbelievable, cohabitating with a young immigrant girl who doesn’t know better-”

My eyes narrowed. I see you’re the same as ever, bitch. “I was born here, ma’am. And both my parents are American citizens.”

“Are they, though?”

“Pretty sure I’d know that better than you.”

“Well, regardless, my scoundrel of a son should know better than to-”

“Don’t you talk about Zeke like that!” I snapped. “He’s a wonderful and upstanding young man!”

“Oh really? Well I’ve known him since the day he was born and I say he’s… Wait a moment.”

Oh, no. Paranoia stabbed through my chest, dread grasping my brain tightly. “Y-yes?”

“I completely forgot what I was here to talk about… Oh, right!” Mrs. Underhill said.

“Y… Yeah?” I asked, the paranoia spreading to my stomach.

“I’m getting a divorce!”

My eyes shot way, way open. “That’s… Not actually surprising, honestly,” I said. Then my eyes went even wider at the realization that my dumb stoned brain said that out loud. Dammit, I was gonna give myself away!

“Wot d’you mean?” she said, her Britishness intensifying.

“I, uh… Well, Zeke has, um, told me a lot about you and his dad.”

“Of course he did, that boy is completely incapable of keeping things- hic- in the family- hic,” she said.

“Oh, wow, you are really plastered aren’t you, Mrs. Underhill?” I said, trying very hard not to giggle at this grown-ass woman drunk and hiccuping like a freaking sorority girl.

“It’s- hic- Ms. Framing-h-h-ham to you, you little tart! Or it will be again soon. Ah never should have taken that miserable wretch’s last name. ‘Underhill.’ Wot a ridiculous name.”

“Excuse you?!” I bit.

“Oi, you heard me! You’re living with a young man in sin!”

“It’s not like that!” I said, “I’m not Zeke’s girlfriend. We’ve never been… He and I are just friends!”

“Good, good- you don’t want anything to do with anything that came from my wretch of a soon to- hic- soon to- hic- soon to be ex-hic-husband!”

“Stop talking about my friend like that!” I said, stomping my foot. My voice dropped low again- DAMMIT!

Mrs. Underhill… Ms. Framingham’s eyes narrowed and she tilted her head to the side and leaned forward. “Frank? Is that you under all that nonsense, lad?”

“... You can’t prove that,” I said, my back stiffening.

“Oi, you’ve got to be taking the piss- my good for nothing son is shacking up with a bloody tr-”

I slammed the door before she could finish.

“You open this door right now, you little fairy! I will not tolerate you being around my son, you disgusting little-”

“I’m not just gonna stand there so you can lecture me, you drunk old bitch!” I hollered. “Now get out of here before I call the cops!”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Don’t call my bluff, lady! I’m from an Army family- you do NOT intimidate me!” God, I was way too high to deal with this. My chest was heaving up and down as I lumbered over to the couch and laid flat, clutching my phone tightly. I opened it, and Olivia’s contact was the first thing I saw.

Dammit. I forgot what I’d just been doing. Stupid, stupid, stupid-

“Let! Me! In!”

“Nancy?” a rough voice accented with the neutral tones of southern California spoke from the other side. Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.

“Sid? Wot are you doing here, you louse?!”

“I came to speak with our son about our divorce.”

“No, you didn’t! I did- you don’t get to beat me to the punch.”

“He’s not home!” I yelled, doing my best to maintain a feminine tone.

“Who was that?” Mr. Underhill asked.

“Frank- little pervert thinks he’s a girl now.”

“Oh, lovely. Our son’s taste certainly hasn’t improved, then.”

“Both of you need to leave, or I WILL CALL THE POLICE!” I screamed.

“No you won’t, you don’t have the balls!” Mr. Underhill shouted through the door. I could practically hear the self-satisfied smirk on the old bastard’s face as he said it.

“Mom? Dad? What are you doing here?” Zeke’s voice reached me like a light of hope shining from the sky above.

“Ezekiel, I need to talk to you,” his father said.

“Wot are you doin’, shacking up with that freak in there?” his mom said. “And now you’ve got another one on your arm there- wot on earth is wrong with you?”

My jaw clenched, and I stood up and marched outside. “Don’t insult him!” I shouted. “Your son is one of the best people I’ve ever met, and I will not listen to you insult him in his own home.”

“Zeke, are you really going to let this freak talk to us like that?” his father asked. He was taller than Zeke, noticeably so at over six foot six. Zeke got his mother’s shorter, leaner frame, but he shared his father’s curly black hair and tan skin and green eyes. Mr. Underhill smelled like cheap beer to go along with Ms. Framingham’s hard liquor aroma, his baggy Megadeth t-shirt tucked into his ill-fitting jeans. He was in remarkably good shape still, I had to give him that; they both were. Zeke had always described them as people who excelled at making others think nothing at all was wrong with them.

Evidently, tonight the masks were off.

Zeke gulped.

And behind him, Katie, oh poor, sweet, innocent Katie, trembled with a rage I recognized all too well. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, but her eyes flickered with apprehension. Poor thing. She was worried about taking another step backwards.

She shouldn’t have to do that. Not after her first date with the boy she liked.

I marched past Zeke’s parents and grabbed both Zeke and Katie by the wrists, and pulled them into the apartment and slammed the door.

“Unbelievable!” Mr. Underhill said. “You stupid little tr-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” Zeke snapped. “You will not insult my friends. Now get out, or I’ll call the cops!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Ms. Framingham said.

“Ezekiel, c’mon, don’t be like that,” Mr. Underhill said. “We need to tell you something important!”

“Then stop burying the lede and say it!” Zeke said.

“Not until you come out here, young man!”

“Your parents are getting divorced,” I said.

Katie put a hand over her mouth in shock, her eyes wide as she backed further into my apartment.

Zeke blinked. “What?”

“Oh for God’s sake- he wasn’t meant to tell you!” Ms. Framingham said.

“So it’s true?” Zeke said through the door.

“... Yes.”

“Alright. Can’t say I’m surprised,” Zeke said. “Now I know. So you can leave.”

“Is that seriously all you have to say?”

“I’m calling the police now,” Zeke said.

“I already did,” I said, holding up my phone and hitting the speaker button.

“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?” said the operator on the other end of the line.

“Bloody hell!” Ms. Framingham said as she stomped off.

“Jesus Christ,” Mr. Underhill mumbled as he did the same.

“Oh, just a couple of pests who wouldn’t leave,” I said to the dispatcher. “It’s taken care of, though. Have a great night!”

I hung up, and then the three of us all looked at each other.

Well, that’s not quite true: Katie and I looked at each other, and then at Zeke, who’d slipped into a thousand-yard stare. Katie clung to his arm and said, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he replied.

“Want something to drink?” I asked.

“After that shameless display? I might never drink again,” Zeke said.

I nodded, then looked at Katie and mouthed, ‘take care of him for a sec?’

She nodded.

I scampered off, opening the windows, turning on all the fans, and retrieving a few joints. I led the new couple over to the couch and sat them down, Zeke in the middle and Katie to his left. I sat on his right, then lit the joint and passed it to him.

Zeke inhaled deeply, breathed out, and coughed slightly.

Katie, meanwhile, coughed up a storm.��

“First time?” I asked.

Her jaw dropped.

“Not like that,” I said in monotone.

She nodded rapidly.

“Figured. Zeke, talk to me. What’s going through your head, big guy?”

“Just… Wish I could say I was surprised by any of this,” Zeke said. “I don’t even know why I care- I barely talk to them anymore. I haven’t lived with them since I was eighteen. They drive me insane. They drive each other insane. I just… I dunno.”

“They shouldn’t talk to you like that,” Kate said, leaning forward, brow furrowed, hands gripping her knees tightly. “I just… It’s not okay. How can… How can any parent think that’s an okay way to talk to your kid!?”

“Katie, you’re shaking,” Zeke said.

“I- I am? Huh? I just… Everything feels really… Intense right now… And I just…”

“You don’t have to get angry, you know,” I said. “I saw you back there, about to lose your temper. And I get it, but you don’t have to. You can be supportive in other ways.”

“How so?” she asked.

“Zeke, put your arm around her,” I said.

“Huh?” he said.

“Zeke, put your arm around the pretty girl!” I said. “Trust me, it’ll be good for both of you right now.”

Zeke looked at me with immense confusion, then did as he was bid and put his arm around Katie.

“Good. Feel better?” I asked.

“Yeah, actually,” Kate said.

“A bit,” Zeke said. “I’m sorry you both had to see all that.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“I’m fine, really,” Kate said. “And this isn’t about me, it’s about you. How are you feeling?”

He took another hit, long and drawn out, then pawed at the puff of smoke he exhaled. “Well, the date went really well.”

“It did?” I said, forcing a smile onto my face. Be supportive, be supportive, be supportive.

“I think so,” Kate said as she coughed out another puff. “We did run into some people from work though.”

“Oh?”

They relayed the encounter with Olivia and the others to me, at which point I buried my face in my hands.

I felt Zeke’s hand on my back, and another hand, presumably Katie’s, patting my head. I opened my eyes and saw them both smiling at me, and a warm flush went through my body. “Olivia’s gonna keep being weird about this stuff, isn’t she?” I said.

“You know her better than me,” Kate said.

“Or me,” Zeke pointed out.

“Blarg.”

At that point, Kate leaned over Zeke’s frame and grabbed my hands. I blushed- seriously, what was with this girl and unprompted physical contact?- but I didn’t protest. “Let’s all do something to get our minds off of things. Ruminating won’t help us, now will it?”

Zeke cracked a smile. “What did you have in mind?”

“We could play ‘never have I ever.’ Or ‘two truths and a lie.’”

“Going for the throwback, I see,” Zeke chuckled. “I haven’t played one of those since freshman year of college. I’m game, though.”

I hesitated. This could go badly. One of us- namely, myself- could say something we regret. Unfortunately, I’m really, really, really dumb, and when I’m stoned, that becomes amplified twenty-fold, so I simply nodded and said, “How about two truths and a lie?”

“Works for me!” Kate said, with that winning smile.

“Cool,” Zeke said, clearly glad to have changed the mood of the night.

“I’ll go first,” Kate said. “I’ve been wearing women’s underwear since I was twelve. I drink skim milk every day. I don’t like bananas.”

“Hmmmm?” Zeke said.

“I mean, I sure hope you like bananas, if you’re gonna be dating a guy,” I laughed.

Kate blushed.

Zeke looked at me reproachfully and said, “Faith…”

Then Kate started giggling.

“Oh, you totally like bananas- that was the lie!” I said, pointing at her.

“Well, I didn’t used to like them, but I’ve acquired the taste of late,” Kate smirked.

Zeke’s face scrunched up as he tried to keep his laughter in a bottle. The attempt, while valiant, failed wholesale within the first ten seconds. “That’s good to know.”

“I mean if we’re gonna keep seeing each other, yeah,” Kate said, her eyebrows shooting up and down several times. She took a hit, owing to having lost the round.

“Dear God,” I muttered.

“What?” they both said at once.

I just laughed, and laughed. “Nothing. I’ll go next. My favorite anime is Legend of the Galactic Heroes. I have a half-brother from my dad’s first marriage who’s fifteen years older than me. I prefer waxing my legs to shaving them.”

“It’s the second one,” Zeke said. “I’ve known you since I was eighteen- there is literally no way you’ve had a half-brother this whole time and never mentioned him once.”

“Kate, what’s your guess?” I asked.

“The second one as well,” Kate said. “You give off major ‘only child energy.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, my jaw dropping and my fists planting on hips in mock outrage.

“You know what it means,” Kate said, waving her hand at me.

“No, I don’t, because I really do have an older half-brother from my dad’s first marriage!” I laughed.

“No freaking way,” Zeke said.

“Yes freaking way!” I said, pulling out my phone and scrolling to a family photo. “His name is Darren Watanabe Junior, DJ for short. My dad knocked up a local gal when he was stationed in Nairobi. They were married for like, five years before they split up. He met my mom when he got transferred back to the states, and took a while for them to get together and have another kid.”

“How am I just now learning this?” Zeke said, taking the obligatory hit. “Your parents were at our graduation last year- where was DJ then?

“Torii Station, Okinawa,” I said. “He’s a Major in the Army. And like I said, he and I aren’t that close- he started attending West Point when I was three and shipped out to Afghanistan when I was seven. Think the last time I saw him was… Like, right before I started college.”

“Huh,” Zeke said. “The more you know.”

Kate coughed as she took another hit. “Indeed. What’s the lie then?”

“My favorite anime is actually Eureka Seven,” I said. “Your turn, Zeke.”

“Okay, okay, lemme think,” he said. “Uh… I was on the cross country team in high school. I speak fluent Romani. I’ve never been outside of California.”

“There’s no way you’ve never left California, even I’ve been outside California,” Kate said.

“You do not speak fluent Romani,” I said.

He looked me dead in the eyes and said a few words in a language I didn’t recognize.

I blinked. “Huh. Was that-”

“Romani. Vlax Romani specifically,” he said. “One of the only cool things my old man ever taught me.” He offered me the joint, then turned to Kate and poked her on the nose. “You, however, were correct. My dad also once took me on a business trip to Vegas.”

“Your dad is a mechanic,” I pointed out.

“A business trip to Vegas?” Kate said, tilting her head.

“His business is being a cheating man-whore,” Zeke laughed bitterly. “Either way, Kate wins this one.”

“Guess she really is a good fit for you,” I winced.

A pregnant pause sat atop us all for a few seconds. I shook my head. Stupid, stupid, stupid- why would you say that?! Oh, right, I’m stoned. That’s why.

“My turn again,” Kate said, leaning against the side of the sofa and putting her bare feet on Zeke’s lap. Damn, Kate, that’s bold. “I’ve never been outside of America. I don’t have any family outside of my parents. I’m a virgin.”

I started coughing, and so did Zeke. Kate just giggled at the both of us, holding her hand over her mouth. God, she had a cute laugh. It was insane how cute she was… No wonder Zeke was into her, she was adorable. And with how hot her mom was, the hormones were liable to be VERY good to her. “There’s no way a cutie like you is a virgin,” I said.

Zeke and Kate both stared at me for a moment.

“W-w-w-well, Zeke, w-w-w-what’s your guess?” I finally managed to squeak out.

“I find it slightly hard to believe your parents are your only relatives, even if it would explain how close y’all are,” Zeke said.

“Nope on both your guesses,” she chirped. “I went on a family vacation to Mexico once when I was very small. My parents are both only children and my grandparents are all dearly departed. And, uh, I’ve never gotten around to that last thing.”

“Well, we can work on that,” Zeke said suggestively.

Kate gulped, wide-eyed and blushing. I smiled at them both. Good. If this happened, if they happened, I could move on. Good. This was good. Good good good.

“Your turn, Faith,” Kate said.

I took a hit, and did my best approximation of Kate’s cute girl giggle. Thoughts drifted out of the smoke around my brain, of Zeke, of Kate, of myself, of various permutations of the three of us. Sometimes all three of us. “My favorite drink is a Cosmopolitan. I’ve always wanted to go white-water rafting. I’m bisexual.”

A sense of relief, like Atlas’ burden was suddenly taken away from me, came all at once. I’d never actually said it out loud before, never let myself say the word in reference to myself. I’d never… Admitted it. Never actually admitted that I liked guys. Zeke, yes, but not guys in general. It was scary, as if I were afraid that people would look at me differently, as if I would be different, as if things between Zeke and I would change if he knew…

But I’d wanted things to change. I’d just been too scared and too stupid to try to make it happen.

“You don’t really seem like a white-water rafting girl,” Kate said.

“She’s not,” Zeke said. “That one is the lie.”

I smiled. They hadn’t even blinked. Neither of them had. Thank God. “Guilty as charged,” I said as I took another hit.

***

“Oh, yeah, I should probably give these back,” Kate said, reaching down her dress and pulling out the falsies.

“Keep ‘em,” I said, shaking my head.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said.

Zeke had passed out, and was lying across the couch while Kate and I sat on the floor painting each other’s toenails. The hours had worn on, and on, and on, and both of us were so damned stoned it was clear that Kate wasn’t gonna be driving any time soon. She texted her parents that she would be home in time for her shift tomorrow. The clock was getting close to striking twelve, but the princess wasn’t leaving anytime soon. I was painting her nails pink, because she seemed like that kinda girl, while she was doing mine red, because I was that kind of girl.

“I just,” Kate said, “I feel like it’s gonna create expectations I can’t live up to, once my boobs actually start growing in.”

“Pffffttttt.”

“What?”

“I think you’ll be fine.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean your mom has got big bountiful bimbo bazongas, so you’ll probably have them as well.”

“What?!”

“Milf’s got them tig ol’ bitties-”

“Yeah, I heard you, I was just flabbergasted. Also, did you just refer to my mother as ‘milf.’”

“I calls it like I sees it. Just like I sees them honkin’ hooters-”

“You’re really determined to milk this joke, aren’t you?” Kate monotoned.

I cackled. “Was that on purpose?”

She smirked. “Might have been.”

“This conversation is udderly ridiculous,” Zeke said, his eyes still closed.

“You’re awake?!” Kate and I both shouted.

“Hard to sleep when you two are being so loud,” he laughed.

I felt myself blush; I SAW Kate blush. Honestly, it was a relief, knowing it wasn’t just me.

***

Morning came, and I woke up on the floor, snuggling something warm and soft, and smelling something greasy and delicious. I opened my eyes to find myself resting my head on Kate’s shoulder while we both leaned against the front of the couch, Lacus shoved between us as a shared neck-pillow. I slowly pulled myself away, making sure the plush seal was safely nestled in Kate’s arms, letting my eyes drift over to the kitchen.

Zeke was hard at work, cooking bacon and hash browns together on the cast iron skillet, while a plate of fresh strawberries sat in the center of the breakfast table next to a bowl of vanilla yogurt mixed with granola. The coffee maker fizzled with percolation, and our entire supply of orange juice had been placed into a glass pitcher I didn’t even know we owned.

“Dang, Underhill, pulling out all the stops,” I said as I wandered over to the kitchen and wafted the delicious smell of the breakfast food.

“It’s not too much, is it?” he said.

“Nah, I think you’ll be fine,” I said, leaning against the side of our stainless steel fridge.

“I just… Really wanted last night to be perfect, you know?”

“I get it. It seemed pretty great from where I was sitting though.”

“Yeah, but between Olivia and my parents and everything… It didn’t go quite as hoped. Thank you for helping out though- really came in clutch.”

“No problem,” I said, looking at the floor.

He looked at me, as if he were considering saying something. He opened his mouth.

I put a hand on his chest and said, “I was wrong about Kate. She’s fantastic. And she’s fantastic for you. Just don’t hurt her, okay? Everything is still new to her.”

He closed his mouth, and he nodded solemnly.

Part of me wished I’d let him say whatever it was he was about to say. I didn’t even know what it was, but it looked as if… No. No, I didn’t want to know. I’d had my window, let it hang open for a full year while I’d been too stubborn and too scared to go through it. Kate had seen the opening and jumped right on through because she was just braver than I was. She deserved him. I didn’t. And looking at her there, in that moment, the idea of doing anything to hurt her just seemed cruel beyond measure.

These two would work out. I’d move on. That was how it had to be.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” Zeke said.

“I’ll wake up sleeping beauty, then,” I said.

As I nudged Katie awake and led her groggy ass to the breakfast table, I took in the sight before me. I was happy if he was happy, and what was more… I was happy if she was happy too. If this was how it had to be… Then I could learn to live with it.

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hope-of-virgo · 11 months ago

Text

2024

happy new year!

you can find the post i'll be referencing continually here: https://www.tumblr.com/hope-of-virgo/706484244807024640/im-currently-bedridden-as-a-result-of-hormonal?source=share

so it's a little under a year since I wrote the original, and things have surely made a change.

my (now) wife and i got married less than a month ago, in the eyes of the australian government i'm a girl, and i seem to have stumbled backwards into a management(ish) role at work.

so... about those resolutions.

stop: doomscrolling i had an amount of success on this, partially due to twitter shitting its pants and reddit having the Great Blackout and subsequent degradation of content. a lot of algorithmically sorted internet shit has done this recently, and a lot of it comes down to "we are approaching a fiscal cliff". what i have picked up from this though is that i'm enjoying learning new skills, such as fermenting and learning sql. i don't carry around a handbag project as much anymore due to some joint issues i've been having making me switch to a backpack, and doing an rsi at work.

stop: masking my autism this has definitely gotten better with my hrt progressing; i'm less afraid to be my authentic self. the hard part has been the pronoun switch and managing the mood problems that happen as a result. for those not in the know, i switched from he/they to she/they after someone at the pole studio called me "she" and i was like "huh...didn't hate that". i also generally held the view that if people weren't calling me that without being told, it would feel inauthentic to ask them.

stop: making excuses not to go to the pole studio this hasn't stopped, but it's as much to do with other factors as it is me butting heads with a number of studio members. actually getting there is difficult without driving, and due to my town growing really fast as a result of melbourne being really fucking expensive to live in, there's been a large cop presence flood in too. i'm a medicinal cannabis user for chronic pain, any amount of thc in my system meets the evidentiary burden for drug driving, and good luck getting a social work job with that on my record. i'm moving to an electric scooter this year, which should solve a lot of these issues.

keep: cooking my own meals now that my wife and i are living together, i'd already be cooking for her, so it's an easy routine to keep food in the house for the both of us. it's also getting easier to find reasons to cook my own meals since i now no longer live within walking distance of 3 different pizza shops, the cost of food has basically doubled in the last year, and my wife is getting into the "growing your own food" side of urban homesteading, which gives me lots of options to cook with seasonal produce.

keep: doing gender affirmation my op shopping buddy bounced in and out of rehab a lot this year and we actually haven't seen each other at all as a result. she reached out to me proactively at christmas as well, which is a first, so i have high hopes for that. my hair's getting longer and changing texture, and i'm fitting the form of "women's clothing" a lot better now. i'm still shit at makeup but i always feel better about myself when i do it so while fucking it up feels bad (god knows when i turned up to work having fucked up my eye shadow in like september i looked like i'd been kicked in the face), getting it right feels amazing.

keep: watching new shows and listening to new music i actually went pretty well at this i think. i had the aim of getting to 2000 songs in my spotify library, which is a 25% increase, and i think i ended the calendar year with 1990. i went to a lot more live music this year, i saw betty who, cry club, eilish gilligan, florence and the machine, aleksiah, bella amor, teenage joans, merci mercy, and waterparks. i also went to see lights' headline show in melbourne, which is a top 5 experiences of my life moment. she's been my most listened to artist for the last 10 years. when she was performing "when the summer dies" she got down into the crowd, and there was this moment where she looked at me, then ran her hand through my hair. this sounds like fanfic but i swear on my life that it happened.

start: eating more vegetables i'm doing better at this; i'm a sensory seeker when it comes to food, and vegetables are pretty boring. i also don't really like sweet food (and neither do my teeth, but that's a different story), so getting my fruit intake can be hard. i've solved the problem to an extent with pickles and ferments, and mixing fruit into yogurt as well.

start: actively reducing household waste my state has introduced bottle and can deposit refunds. we don't buy a lot of bottled and canned drinks, but it's nice to have the added incentive. we bought a compost bin with our wedding money, and i'm loving being able to find something to do with the veggie scraps. i'm looking into vertical farming gourmet mushrooms this year. we've moved to household cleaners where you basically get a "forever bottle" and fill them with refills, which you then send the bag back and they reuse it. the plastics they use as part of this scheme are also recycled from reclaimed ocean plastics, which is kind of cool. my bestie made me some beeswax wraps, and i think i've used single-use plastic wrap like 3 times this year maybe. that's not even counting the plastic savings from not buying bread from the shops anymore.

start: more longform journaling got banned from instagram for it, but that's probably not a net negative. doing longform writing when you're already doing a lot for uni can be a challenge, but i've done a bit. i've also joined the fediverse as part of the reddit exodus, and that's been a bit of fun.

start: diversifying my income sources i'm now an accredited life model, though i've actually been too busy to utilise it. i've basically retired from *~spicy accounting~* as well, because i'm having a bunch of problems even having sex in my private life, let alone doing it at work. the economic issues have also cut out a lot of my clientele, so i'm taking it as a sign from the universe that it's time to go do something else. i also decided to quit my job, which people like @tamaaya68000 and @gotouhitori have been trying to convince me to do since that one awesome time in 2021 where i tried to jump in front of a train because it seemed like a better option than going to work the following monday. fortunately there are positions open in other parts of the hospital that i'm applying for later today, and when i get my diploma i'll likely apply at child protection, who are so desperate for workers that they're promising guaranteed promotion to cpp4 within 2 years and hiring people on working holiday visas from other countries to fill the skilled workers gap.

start: interior decorating currently writing this from in the middle of a bunch of still-packed moving boxes from when i moved in like 3 months ago. it's a work in progress. i'm going to ask a friend of mine to paint me some things as some commissioned art, but beyond that i'm actually not sure what i want to do with the space.

2024's resolutions will probably come next week, but overall i'm pretty happy with the year 2023.

#hope-of-virgo

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wellofhavoc · 10 months ago

Photo

These things aren't EXCLUSIVE to AI art, nor are they in EVERY piece, but if a piece has two or more of these, consider checking out an artist's portfolio for more instances. This is NOT meant to undermine OP's point of "Don't just count fingers and teeth-" Maybe these patterns too will be figured out and we'll all be fucked. Until then, I hope these help.

Things in the piece are made of other objects in a way you can't discern to be intentional. This could be anything from two legs on a chair not looking the same to a leaf being a frog when you really closely look at it or not having a pattern you'd see in real life.

Melting shapes. Look for drooping shapes and uneven straight edges- branches that look like a net because of how they run over each other and leaves that turn into puddles in otherwise really well rendered pieces.

Inconsistent light-source. Look for color, intensity, and direction of light. Sometimes a person might just be going for balancing out the piece or maybe they make a mistake, but it's especially notable if it's inconsistent in the same object.

Over rendering. Again, that might be a new artist or a stylistic thing, but if everything in a piece is rendered with the same level of detail and it's in a painted style, that's probably AI. Look at this with wide landscapes that are in the same focus no matter how far away from the "camera" it is.

Low saturation or high-contrast high-saturation. Obviously this can be a stylistic choice, but it may also be an effort to disguise mistakes or an inability to render strong details. Low saturation also tends to come from the art they know they can successfully copy and some hyper saturated pieces aiming for realism might end up like over airbrushed Wikihow example images.

Characters don't interact with the background, something artists do sometimes- but due to the nature of AI, this is always going to be easier to accomplish than forcing them to interact.

Repeating patterns with no distinct shapes. Consider the hair whirls you sometimes see with long AI hair.

Nonsensical room layouts. Rooms that look either oddly shaped or something's there that shouldn't be [a washing machine in a kitchen] Sometimes an artist just didn't think about it too hard, sometimes it's entirely intentional, sometiems that's just wrong.

I do this with nearly every artist I'm not familiar with now, unfortunately- especially those in a semi-realistic style, as this tends to be big with AI artists. Other art and photos to be on the look out for are landscapes claiming to be photos that seemingly have no difference in focus.

Obviously I do have hindsight, but I'm going to use the above images as examples to seek out these points of interest for visual people out there.

Drooping window panes and the one that's turned looks improperly skewed. Repeating shapes at the end of the skirts and nonsensical twists in the fabric down the edges, like she has roses of fabric in her dress. Her right hand is over detailed as well as the lap of her dress, but the top of the dress, her face, and even her other hand are without. She looks like she's on stairs but that looks like a wall pattern right behind her head.

Figure not interacting with the background, trees are unevenly lit and rendered, branches are swerving in nonsensical patterns almost like limbs, grass and ground is drawn in three separate art-styles, path's pattern isn't even with the horizon line, shadow under figure is incomplete and doesn't match the shading of anything else in the picture including the cloak he's wearing.

The blue web material is- with the power of retrospect- a pretty obvious inability to make clouds, but assuming this was an intended technique- as the shapes do look pretty cool and are used just inconsistently enough that i would call it intentional at a glance but not inconsistent enough for me to call it "random," the tip there lies in the hair becoming the blue web, as the way it's done here doesn't make much sense. This is a great instance of the character not interacting WELL with a background. Of course there's also the hand in this instance, the detailed collar bone but the rest of her chest is smooht, her thick neck, and aimless pattern on the shirt ended by the fact that her arms are way too long and her shoulders are too far back to have her hands there.

Begging people to stop reblogging this AI trash from “The Phantom Painter” on Instagram (instagram.com/phantom.painting). I’ve been seeing it on my dash more and more often from people who are otherwise anti-AI and either can’t tell it’s AI or don’t care because it looks cool.

This is the kind of shit that is VERY CLEARLY trained on the works of existing talented artists’ with distinct styles and this asshole is selling prints and making a profit off of stealing other people’s hard work.

Don’t give people like this money or attention and they will go away.

Please, if you’re going to buy art prints, buy them from an actual artist.

#ai #ugh you're so right

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magicsunwheel · 3 years ago

Text

Why You're F#cking Amazing

Pick-a-Card

How to play: pick one of the photos below using your intuition. You can close your eyes and meditate for a bit or just take a few grounding breaths while thinking of the topic. Feeling drawn to more than one is fine! You might have messages in more than one pile

Pile 1 (x) Pile 2 (x) Pile 3 (x)

My pile numbers always go from left to right, then down to the text row (if applicable)

Pile 1

Cards: The High Priestess, Five of Swords, Seven of Pentacles, The Moon Rx, Five of Rods, Ace of Pentacles

You are so intuitive! You're either very in touch with your divine feminine or are working your way there right now. Something about you is severe in the most beautiful way. You can take things seriously when they need to and the way you command a room with just your presence is unmatched. Maybe you're also a tarot reader or involved in spirituality/divination in some way. Maybe you really like Pick-a-Cards.

Something beautiful about you is that you never give up on a fight, especially when you know the end is worth it. Your ambition is strong and you will fight for what you love and what you want. You are not weak-willed by any means.

This also makes you so unique! You work so hard and put so much labor into your love even if you know it will take a long time to come to fruition. The times that you feel discouraged by a lack of results are few and far between. If for some reason you do find yourself wistfully hoping for faster results or an easier path, you can easily remind yourself of why you started in the first place.

You might have moments where you think of yourself as sneaky or like you're hiding a part of yourself from others, like your true self would be too much for them. I'm here to tell you that your intensity is exactly what make you such a beautiful person! You thrive in competition and in adversity. It gives you a chance to show off your quick thinking and survival skills. Others look at you with envy of how you can make an opportunity out of seemingly nothing!

If you need help improving your self-love, Spirit says to stop comparing yourself to others! You are amazing and beautiful and unique all on your own! Throwing yourself into the fray to compete against others who are nothing like you will only fim your inner shine. And you really do shine! When I asked for a card about why you are beautiful, nearly half the damn deck flew out!

Sprit loves you and I love you so please take care of yourself and keep making those amazing opportunities to improve your physical surroundings. (I feel like you have a very clean room/home)

Pile 2

Cards: Nine of Rods, the World, King of Cups, Three of Rods, Ace of Rods, Two of Cups

Ahh the Loona pile!

Similar to Pile 1, but much more fiery! You are resilient! Taking time to collect yourself before pushing forward with a renewed sense of energy and purpose is such an amazing and useful trait. You maybe aren't as commanding of a presence but you have such an inner strength that no one can deny.

You got the World for the reason why you're beautiful! Maybe it's related to physically being very beautiful and possibly exotic-looking. You might have very specific features associated with a certain area of the world that stand out where you live. You also have such a wonderful understanding of the world and where it's currently at. Things can seem negative or like hope is lost but you still seek out the beauty and share it with others. You see opportunity where others do not and feel a sense of peace and connectedness with all of humanity. Wow!

Your uniqueness shines in your emotionality and compassion. You might be a natural born leader who makes sure to understand all under your rule. You lead with kindness and, most importantly, by example. You don't have any desire to use you position for ill-gotten gains. Power to you does not corrupt, it solely provides a tool for you to do good in the world and really make a difference in the lives of others, whether it's on a large or small scale. You are probably the kind of person who makes sure to give money to those who need it when you pass a begging mother and her children, or buying a homeless man a bottle of water on a hot day.

Your card for why you think you are not perfect actually came out quite positive. Maybe you don't have a very low self esteem, but I can see a few possible scenarios here. You might be constantly planning in your head, waiting and watching for the next move to take but never actually getting to the action part. Maybe you're planning for your future and have so much planned out that you're excited for, but haven't made the practical plans on how to actually get there. This could make you feel bad about yourself especially on days where you're reminded of others moving ahead in their lives while you're still planning. Visualisation is very important in manifesting your desired reality! If you are moving slower than others around you, remember that it is okay to not be where "everyone else" is. Life is not a race or a competition. Taking your time to get to where you need to be when you need to be there reminds me of the story of the tortoise and the hare. Quick does not necessarily mean better.

You can improve your self-love by creating! Using your creativity and passion to make something! Create art, whether it's physical/digital art, music, writing, inventing, anything that uses those creative muscles of yours. It doesn't have to be good! Just creating something will help burn up that excess energy you have that's trying to rush you somewhere. Self-expression this way can be a wonderful hobby even if you don't consider yourself as a creative person.

Your kindness really shines through. You care so deeply about the people around you and your spiritual team cares just as deeply about you. You are loved and watched over and protected by Spirit. Others around you also see your sparkle and appreciate and admire you, even if they don't show it. Know you are beautiful and amazing and bringing a light into this world that needs to be here.

Pile 3

Cards: Six of Rods, the Hierophant, Four of Rods, Six of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Hermit Rx

Damn, who are y'all!? You've got some mighty power and pull in this world. Maybe you're a public figure or have some kind of platform, like a social media with many followers. You could also be well-recognized within your field of study/work. Whoever you are, people see you and look up to you. They celebrate you and how amazing you are! Spirit loves this about you and you really shine in the spotlight. Your achievements deserve all this pomp and celebration!

You are naturally authoritative. People listen when you speak and take your words to heart. You might also be a religious person or someone who enjoys organization and the comfort of hierarchy. People will willingly follow you wherever you lead them because they trust you with all their hearts. "A merciful ruler" (lol) You hold your position with grace and dignity befitting a king or queen.

You are unique in ways the public recognizes, but we knew that already! You might be someone who likes to entertain and you throw the greatest parties and get-togethers. Maybe you've planned a wedding and everyone had such an amazing time! You know how to relax and have fun when the time for celebrating arrives. You can out down your guard and bit and let loose. Not many people with such responsibility can let go of the reigns like that, but you don't seem to hold on to control too tightly.

Your past might be a source of anxiety for you. Maybe you're worried that what you've done when you were younger will catch up to you and ruin what you've got going on now, but it's important to remember that the past is the past. It cannot be undone or wished away. Taking time to accept what happened and recognizing that you've moved on to bigger and better things is important here. Whatever happened, take time to heal your childhood wounds and forgive past actions.

Ending this cycle will bring much more self-love to your life. Old habits and patterns being out to rest is the way forward. It might be a painful ending and something you don't necessarily look forward to, but it is something that needs to happen to clear out old energy and welcome in everything new. You can't expect to move on if you're still repeating old actions or ways of thinking. It's time to set these things to rest and evolve. Leave behind what no longer serves you.

Your understanding of yourself knows no bounds. You've taken the time to inquisit yourself and learn all of the shadows that lie there. Self-reflection might be a favored pastime for you. Through this knowledge of yourself you are able to see truths that many struggle to see all their lives. Your light can cut through the fog if bullshit and see the true source of something. Use this knowledge of yourself to become the best version of yourself that you can be! I know you're already on your way there and it's amazing to see! Spirit is so proud of you and loves you so much!

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sasaparilla · 3 years ago

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Salecrow headcannons.

(These are too long, sorry. Probably have a few mistakes)

-His fingers are constantly snapped. It's a small habit he has, slowly pressing them with his thumb whenever he has the chance. The snap sound is loud, almost as if he really had broken his fingers, although for him the sensation is satisfying.

-No regret or mercy for his nails. He uses them to scratch any surface, even harsh ones just to drive his victims' anxiety higher than it already might be. The gutural repulsiveness it sends them in just seeing him leaving claw marks in the walls so effortlessly is similar to when someone scratches the school's green board.

-Still talking about the one above: No, that doesn't hurt him.

-Besides his bones, his hands are the second toughest thing he has. It's hard for something to actually make him flinch in pain when it comes to his palms (heat, cold, cuts, etc). His touch is roughly resistant.

-A big fan of natural lighting from candles, he likes to see the shadows of the items dancing on the wall when the fire slightly trembles after a breeze.

-His psychopathic behaviour doesn't extend to animals. His objectives are strictly towards humans only and so is his cruelty. Animal fears are instinctive, yes, just like mankind's primitive ones. However the second bears numeral meanings, sources, philosophy and so much charm with their screams. Animals on the other hand, just don't seem interesting at all and their irrational innocence appears to hold an admirable take for him. Where's the fun in hurting them? None.

-The fabric of his costume is thick with a texture similar to veludo at the exposed side, plus it's waterproof too, mainly because that helps him keep his body temperature decent since cold weathers are his worst enemy - third to Batman and fire, but that's the wonder of being so skinny, barely any meat in those bones to keep him warm.

-His sleep position depends a lot on the environment he is in. When on Arkham Asylum, he slept like a freaking corpse, facing the ceiling and not moving an inch, always leaving an arm resting on his chest, ready to attack anything that could snap him from his sleep (his sleep was short during these times). When he is in a more "private" environment, he allows himself to sleep more comfortably, curling in a ball like a cat. Being all stretched like a tree kinda tires his joints.

-He slightly bends to make an entrance - similar to Lady Dimitrescu for example - except he doesn't tip and touch his hat. Man is so freaking tall.

-Extremely silent, like a killer in a slasher movie. He is dead quiet 99% of the time.

-Likes to gently pull Poison Ivy's plant hair and see how it forms a weird shape in her head (of course, when she allows him.) This habit of him when both of them are close has led her to give him a little sprout from her hair. The sprout is now a healthy plant resting in his hideout as he waters it a lot.

-Amazed by gifts. The Ivy event left him so speechless when she did that. Turns out, below that creepy mask lies a man that is easily impressed when it comes to gifts of any sort. He has never got anything from anyone besides screams and even threats, so a gift for him is extremely special. He will literally treasure it. Dare I even say that's the very first step someone can do in order to approach him.

-He doesn't wear glasses. This Crane has an excellent vision both for reading tiny letters and stalking someone from a long distance without being caught.

-His calligraphy is absurdly cursive and a mess because he writes fast so that it leaves his words in an unintelligible doctor's writing, although he will feel offended if an ally doesn't understand what it says in the paper.

-I feel like the Long Halloween animation gave us a fair idea of how he is beneath the mask so I stick to that a lot except I don't think he would ever care to take the hair away from his face. The tangled long hair could often let strandes hide Crane's face.

-He has a deadpan face when not wearing the mask. No smiles. No frowns. Just his eyes staring at anyone's souls dared to get close to him.

-Not only cite nursery rhymes but will also hum them when working.

-During his childhood, he used to bury dolls somewhere in his path back from school to home, so he could always return to them for a moment without having the danger of it being taken away from him.

#jonathan crane #salecrow #my hcs

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yanderenightmare · 4 years ago

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Hello, I have been looking at your content and I must say that I really like the way you write and I hope you are doing well.I don't know if your applications are open now but I want to give you an idea, how would the yanders react if their beloved has depressive periods and low self-esteem?It may be a bit of an anguish at first but I would like how they would react, use it on purpose or go soft on their beloved.

yandere ! BNHA headcannons

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

goodiebag WARNINGS: depression, self-harm, abuse, manipulation, abuse, profanity, amnesia, anxiety, panic-attacks, arson, bipolar disorder, blood, death threats, eating disorder, guilt, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, mental illness, mind control, paranoia, noncon, dubcon, starvation, suicidal ideation, trauma

BAKUGO KATSUKI - KACHAN

MELANCHOLIA –

She’s always biting her tongue, the inside of her cheek, her lip. So much so, he doesn’t even know what her lip normally looks like without it being bloated and swollen and red from having her teeth sink into to it. He’s okay with her chosen silence as long as she answers when she’s spoken to, which she does, lacking the will to refuse, knowing it will only cost her valuable energy, energy she needs in case Bakugo decides he wants to rip the breath from her lungs while he hunches over her, his hips snapping into her again and again, ramming at a pace so rough she both dreads it and welcomes it, for on the one hand it’s exhausting and she always wakes up with aches in the morning, yet on the other hand he makes her appreciate breathing which is always a nice reminder when she often times wonders what tranquility would be found in not breathing whatsoever.

He doesn’t want to confront her about it, sensing how she might not enjoy confrontation all that much, and not really wanting the whole ordeal to result in making her cry at the mere sound of his voice. He won’t alter the volume or the roughness of his tone, no matter how many times she cringes at how loud he’s being, but he does try being gentle, at least with his criticism. He showers her in compliments, which is a huge contrast to how he would usually handle fixing things. But, he finds using softer methods benefit him as well, loving the blush that adorns her face each time he does so, his own confidence probably boosting more so than hers.

He does nice things, not really knowing what or which way to help. He doesn’t make her do any chores, ignoring the nagging feeling that keeping her busy would probably help more so than having her sit and look cute all day, but… he’s afraid of admitting it, but… he quite likes taking care of her. He quite likes hugging her throughout the night, feeling her small tremoring sobs against him while stroking her back. He likes comforting her on those same nights where she wakes abruptly from some nightmare, stroking glossy diamond tears away from her cheeks, loving her bloated lips and that cute red wet irritation flushed on her nose and cheeks.

The only times he gets upset with her is when she refuses to eat. He tries so hard to make things she might like, but it’s scarce he sees her taking more than a few bites, if she makes a move to eat at all. He doesn’t want to make her cry, despite it being a constant hobby of hers, he doesn’t want to be the reason to her crying, but… he can’t have her starving. He finds the fear-tactic surprisingly effective on someone who spends most their time fantasizing about death. A few sparks in his palms has her all but quaking, scared half-way into catatonia or even comatose, so much so he has to pull her into his lap and spoon-feed her. Not that he minds that either, he comes to enjoy it quite a lot actually. How her small frame melts so perfectly against his chest, legs swung over his lap, head on his shoulder, remnants of her fear-stricken cries still evident as small spontaneous jolts run through her, being slowly comforted away with the same hand that caused the trouble in the first place.

DABI - TODORKI TOUYA

ANXIETY –

He couldn’t be happier with his little ball of blue wrapped up in soft-tinted crushed dreams with a heart made of honeycombs and dandelion-fluff. Whereas his misfortunate lack of happiness stems from a place of violence, where violence breeds violence, she’s nothing but a tender trauma. Such a soft despair, such a sweet despair, such perfection found in something so devastating. It’s artwork really. How she can cry herself to sleep, trapped in his arms, feeling as though she’s dying, yet wake up the next morning all velvety and soft in his arms, her heart finding comfort in what her mind rejects, what her mind fears.

He tries being a source of comfort for the most part, but teasing and haunting and poking fun at her is such a delicious past-time he cannot simply just refrain from. He’ll be a real villain about it at times. Having her as a complete blubbering pathetic hiccupping mess, poking fun at her crybaby-face as he licks the tears from her cheeks and gorges himself in her panic, his fingers dancing small patterns on her stomach as she wiggles beneath him.

She used to be so scared of him. So skittish and paralyzed, cold-sweating and eyes constantly leaking he had to imagine what her eyes would look like without being rimmed with red. She used to shiver and shake and quake and reel in on herself, curl up until her limbs ached from how small she was trying to make herself become, backed up into the corner beneath his shadow, his leather-boots looking like the onset of everything horrific as she coward in front of them. But wild untrusting childlike beings such as her is quick in nature to tether themselves to the first or only source of light. And though the transition was slow, her anxiety soon shifted from being directed at him and soon for him instead.

It was too easy, and it benefitted him so undeservingly as well it was cruel. How he simply took all those fears of hers, all those fears for everything residing in the new foreign room she’d been taken captive in, manipulating them into becoming paranoia for everything found outside the bedroom door instead. He went from being the source of her dread, of her panic, of her misery, of her pitter-patter heart and shattering teeth to her savior. Soothing her in her frenzied quakes as she spluttered on sobs containing what hellish monsters and dangers found outside, begging him to be careful, to come back to her, to stay.

She will hug him close throughout the night, hanging almost like a noose around his neck when he needs to leave in the mornings, tracing his scars with a stream of endless worried thoughts blubbering in her groggy voice. And he’ll humor her worry and tame the oncoming panic-attacks by giving her a little light-show of blue flames in his palm, words of his own coming to assure her how nothing will ever happen to him and how he will never let anything ever happen to her, assuring however many times he has the time for.

She’s too cute it’s unfair. Unfair that small creatures like her exist without anything to protect them from hungry wolves like him. And though he was never the type to fantasize about clingy things, he has to admit… coming home to someone who lunches at him in the most secure yet clumsy and desperate embrace, he feels as though that feeling of coming home is all he’ll ever need in the world, that she’s all he’ll ever need.

SHIGARAKI TOMURA

INSOMNIA –

It’s nice. He knows it shouldn’t be the word he describes it with, but… that’s what it is. It’s nice. It’s nice to stay up with someone who expels the same type of energy as him, and not to mention the same amount of energy as him, or… lack of thereof. It’s nice living off of fumes together. It’s nice slipping to and from consciousness and how it almost turns into a game of who can survive the longest before collapsing, with the other shortly following, too tired to even bask in their victory.

It’s nice irritating over the same sharp sounds that attack their sensitive ears, not at all like the familiar sound of soft clicks of the controller in their hands. It’s nice communicating almost purely through mellow moans and groans and croaks, always understanding what the other is emitting despite it being but shapeless sounds.

It’s nice finding agreement in how the lights should always stay off, how it’s turned into some religious rule never meant to be crossed. It’s nice annoying over the same crisp bright light of the sun that violate their eyes those times they forget to shut the blinds before passing out after having counted stars and eating in the dead silence of night like nocturnal beings ignoring the light of day as though it were the plague. It’s nice how they can both find comfort in the glow of the moonlight or computer screen, leaching off of the energy like flies.

He’s found kinship in her presence, and despite it merely being himself and her in the darkness of his room, with flying specs of dust decorating the air and their computers the only windows to the world beyond their four walls, he feels as though the whole universe is looking at him when the softness of her glinting, beaming, sparkling eyes set their gaze and lock with his. It’s strange, but he always found angel-bright smiles and supersonic eyes to be too intrusive and annoying and scary to stand before, whereas her sunken dark eyes, ringed with shades of lilac contrasting her otherwise pale porcelain skin, kept almost albino in the darkness of his room… she couldn’t be more perfect.

Come to think of it, it’s perfection. Her in all her sleep-deprived glory, all her drowsy silliness, her sloppy harsh movements, tripping and stumbling with her droopy-eyes, in her soft giggling fits, where she’ll catch her stupidity just a moment too late and roll around on the bed, trying to shrug off Tomura’s teasing judgement as he pokes fun at her idiocy. Giving up on forming complete sentences as she almost always ends up toppling over her own words, settling for whining or sighing as she turns her head to bury it in his chest.

Utter perfection. Never bothering to get dressed, walking about like a little tease in only underwear and Tomura’s ill-fitted hoodie, hair pulled up into a messy-bun too messy, always defeating the purpose of keeping her hair from out of her face. Her unstable movements, disconnected to the ground as though she’s floating. Too grabbable and easily defeated in her weariness when being pulled into his lap, simply humming and moaning in response as he plants soft kisses down her neck, his fingers coming to destroy whatever’s in the way of him and her body.

HITOSHI SHINSO

HYPERSOMNIA –

She sleeps so soundly, like a little couch-kitten. All soft and cute, playing in her dreams. She’ll sleep whole entire days, only opening her eyes in small flutters every now and again and moaning ever so softly once he wakes her, though quickly scrunching her nose and twisting to fall asleep again. Her drowsiness rendering her pride invalid, causing her to pull at him to better comfort herself against his body, whining when he shifts, his warm presence leaving the bed when he needs to go to work. Her little unconscious protest making his heart twist in his chest, tempted to stay in bed with her all day long, yet comforting himself with the fact that he’ll probably come home to find her in the exact same position.

She’s so cute. She’ll curl and stretch, resting anywhere she finds comfortable: in bed, in the sofa, in the armchair, on his chest, his shoulder, his lap. Adorable with her little snores, all knotted up, remnants of her dreams spilling out from her sleep and coming to life in her limbs as she kicks and shakes her head, delving further into the pillow and twisting intricately in about the blanket. Eyelashes fluttering, eyes skittering beneath her puffy eyelids, caught up in whatever hurricane her mind has conjured up.

She seemed unfazed once she woke up in his room for the first time, and even then, she only gave him enough time to explain himself before nodding with heavy eyelids, laying her drowsy head back on the pillow. The situation dawning on her gradually over the first month, and if whether she was startled or angry, he couldn’t tell. If anything, sept for sleepy, he’d say she seemed confused, but alongside the confusion was the look that told him she couldn’t find the energy in herself to think too much about it without her fuzzy head hurting. Settling for eating breakfast with him in the mornings, and even thanking him on those occasion where she would forget the circumstances that led her to live there.

She doesn’t struggle when he pulls her limp body close to his own in the dead of night after he’s done for the day. He’s only mildly concerned, but it’s not his affection that shakes her from her sleep. He’s a selfish person, and he’s not one to hide those ugly aspects of himself. He’s selfish, greedy, controlling. He has to use his quirk on her sometimes… often times. Though she’s cute when she’s sleeping, he wants to do more than just watch her. He wants words, conversation, he wants to know what’s going on in that dark dreary head of hers, he wants to know what eerie things she’s been dreaming about, where she escapes to when her eyes slide close.

What more: he wants those eyes on him, those puffy, sleepy beautiful doe-eyes. He wants her to pay attention as he touches her skin and not simply to moan in response to it, he wants her to hang onto every single moment his skin touches hers. Telling her to focus reaches a long way. Those otherwise sleepy doe-eyes widening in such moon-bright curiosity, slaving at the hands of his quirk. Her otherwise limp and soft body shaking under his overwhelming touch, goosebumps springing to the surface under his tongue, a wicked glint evident in his lilac eyes.

TAKAMI KEIGO - HAWKS

BIPOLAR –

She’s fragile on most days. Whether that fragility is in the shape of a daisy or a bomb is impossible to say until she either falls apart or blows up. It’s all rather uncertain, sporadic, spontaneous, where he’s given only a few signs where which he can predict what state of mind she’s in and how stable that structure is.

Most things depend on sleep, and upholding a balanced sleep-pattern has become one of the most important things in Keigo’s life after having taken his little darling. But, she manages to slip past his schedules more times than he would like to admit. When she refuses to go to sleep, his mind drifts to all the fun things they can do if they weren’t sleeping, and when she’s sound asleep and drowsing far beyond what time she should have woken up, he can’t find it in himself to wake her, not when he is the reason as to why she was so spent and sore and exhausted from the events and methods he used to make her fall asleep in the first place.

On little sleep one of two things can happen. She can either have the energy of a hummingbird or be tired to the point she almost looks sickly. On her lack-of-sleep-high she’s confident, cocky more so than Keigo, where she’ll test her luck on how far Keigo’s willing to bend his rules when she misbehaves, calling him all types of names, laughing in his face when he snaps and cackling even harder even madder when he decides to punish her, as though it’s all a game to quench her boredom.

With the absence of sleep causing her exhaustion she becomes irritated, seething with boiling rage, red in annoyance, whatever energy she has left focused on making her discomfort known as she scowls at him each time he smiles too loudly, but being too drained to physically act on her frustration or to even make up a snide comment without evoking a headache, left to simply snarl. He thinks it’s cute, where he knows well enough that if he pushes her limits too far she might just break. Break, and therefore let him gather her up into his arms and hush and tut at her to stop crying while he strokes her back, feeling her tremble with unparalleled frustration weighing down on her shoulders.

Then there are the days she sleeps too much. The same options are present here too. She’s either too energetic or too well rested. Either black or white. No grey. But with too much sleep she isn’t ever hostile, but still wild. Wild and enthusiastic and self-destructive and prop-full of ideas and insane in her passion. She’ll be unable to focus on anything, she’ll forget things seconds after they’ve been said or done, but… she’ll laugh and she’ll smile, and it won’t be one of those haughty nasty smiles she gives him when she’s feeling spiteful, but genuine in its playfulness or even bliss.

Then on other days sleeping half the day only results in her being even more drowsed out, yet accompanying her exhaustion isn’t irritation, but soft-tinted melancholia, where all she does is stay wrapped up in her blanket, quiet and still, silent tears dripping down her cheeks as she focusses on how hollow her chest is, as though caving in on itself, where she’ll fall all limp and snuggly in Keigo’s embrace, humming appreciatively as he wraps her up in his wings. All the while a treacherous smile of satisfaction on his face.

MIDORIYA IZUKU - DEKU

DESPOND –

When Izuku chose his darling it was done without compromise, without fault, it was done with perfection. Meaning, he fell for all of her, invested in all of her, determined to preserve all of her. Even her inexplainable unfounded absurd plethora of self-doubt that make her delirious and hopeless with anxiety and guilt. He let himself fall hungrily in love with her little terror-wide heart. He fell viciously in love with how desperate in need of him to come help ground her she was.

It was as though she’s made for him, he would argue. It was as though he’s made for her. Some breeds of people are just too vulnerable to take proper care of themselves. Some people just aren’t meant to take care of themselves. Whereas others are made to help, other people need to help.

Emotions are abstract fundamental tools meant to be used. Lesser minds might look down on his methods, yet Izuku came to understand quite early in life that things such as morals are chains meant to keep you from achieving your goal. He has no quarrels with using and abusing those tools presented to him, where her irrational feelings of doubt, hopelessness and worthlessness are a delicious opportunity to achieve his goal. Besides, her emotions are too easily abused and give such great unshakable responses, and even though he doesn’t want to tamper too much with her instability… they’re just too in-reach for him to ignore, too tempting for him to stay away.

The feeling of responsibility sits like an extra organ inside him, where his toes curl each time he sees her large doe-eyes look at him as though he were the sun, as though her whole life revolves around him. She’s just so dependent on him, so in need of his guidance and advise and praise, where he’s afraid she might just drown in her own guilt if she senses she’s displeased him. She makes sure she wears what he likes, has her hair the way he likes, letting him play with her like putty in his hands if he asks it of her. How can he be expected to not exploit what is so clearly offered?

Besides, he spoils her as well. He returns the favor so to speak, even though he knows she has given herself no choice but to worship him in her mindset of inadequacy. She’s so sweet he nearly feels undeserving, because she’ll blush so preciously when he compliments her, bashful and adorable and too good to be true, he wonders how such a creature can ever feel like less. He adores her, yet that doesn’t stop him from finding such satisfying bliss in the fact that he’s infinitely stronger and faster and not to mention smarter. Whereas she’s gullible and too eager to please, another attributing factor as to why he loves her, despite it is also being the cause of her demise, or maybe even because of it

The truth is she’s lucky that she belongs to him. Lucky that he won’t ever let anything happen to her, no matter if she’s the source of her own harm. She’s lucky to have him to anchor herself to as so to avoid floating away in her hopelessness. This is safer for her. Despite him sticking his bloodstained inky fingers and twisting her heart in his deadlock of a fist, she’s safe, safer than she could or would ever be on her own.

CHISAKI KAI - OVERHAUL

AMNESIA –

It’s cute. He won’t deny that it’s cute, because it is. It’s adorable and unbelievable and annoying all the same. She’ll forget the rules, she’ll wander too far from her confines, not greeting him at the door, not kissing him on que, leave questions unanswered despite him having told her to always answer him when she’s spoken to, all things he feels he’s made blatantly clear through threats and countless reminders. But, not only will she forget his rules, but basic living necessities, she’ll forget to eat and drink, forget to get dressed, forget where she is.

She’ll say the strangest things sometimes. Mild and mellow passionate thoughts regarding the clouds and stars and moon and gods and how pretty his snake-eyes are, like great big lakes of molten gold. It’s strange but he finds such great comfort in her little philosophical blubbering, her soft voice kissing his ears like gospel. It’s a tender type of relief or resolution found in listening to nonsense as opposed to the serious matters he has to deal with in his position in the underworld, her view of the world somehow painting everything, even the ugly and the dangerous, in beauty.

Sometimes she’ll drift a bit too far away though. She’ll daydream more than sleep, absentminded when he’s speaking to her, unable to focus on him or anything for more than a few minutes at best. All dizzy and fuzzy, as though she’s just woken from some dream or as if she’s always dreaming. Irritation festers in his chest when she doesn’t answer, but as she turns her head, expression all soft and oblivious, his chest caving in at the sight of those doe-eyes, all anger simmering into nothing, rendering his annoyance nonexistent, replaced by a sense of hopeless forgiveness and somehow appreciation.

When it comes to her for once actually remembering what she’s supposed to do she’ll weigh each task as though one wrong decision would cost her life. Greeting him at the door in nothing but underwear, already having failed at picking out an outfit and resorting to wearing the lingerie Kai picked and laid out for her on the bed in the morning. The simple task suddenly becoming a battle where she’ll spend much too much time deciding whether to take his jacket first or give him a kiss or welcome him home. Too many decisions with too faulty statistics and unsure outcomes she ends up merely standing there doing nothing but hold her head in her hands and whimper slightly at all the noise that suddenly crowded her head, tears already threatening to fall as she stands before him, all guilt-ridden and trembling.

He can be patient as long as he knows she isn’t disobeying him on purpose, especially when he sees how guilty and how terribly sorry she is each time she fails on acting out simple tasks such as those he gives her. She’ll cry and apologize for the mere act of breathing on some days where she’s extra fragile, where she seeks nothing but his praise, his comfort, his hand stroking through her hair as she sleeps restlessly in her sobs on his chest, unaware of the mild smile of satisfaction and endearment displayed on his face.

TODOROKI SHOTO

SELF-CONSCIOUS -

She’s always hiding. Like a little mouse, she’s always squeaking and squealing and hiding. Hiding her face, burying it in the pillow when he compliments her gorgeous eyes, begging him to stop, small timid hands pushing ever so slightly at him. Hiding her chest, her nipples, when he admires them, his hands playing with the soft and supple flesh, whimpering as she tries to twist away. Her knees trying their best to wrench shut, to hide and protect what sensitivity find between them from Shoto’s hungry fingers and tongue.

She’s always hiding… but he likes to hunt anyway. If she drapes herself in pitch-black hoodies he’ll gladly rip them off, or scorch them off and expose her delicious artful body. If she refuses to leave the bed he’ll gladly attack her where she’s sleeping. She’s always hiding, but she quickly comes to understand that there will be no hiding from him.

He doesn’t understand why she would ever want to hide divinity, and therefor doesn’t respect the wish. Having made it his mission to expose every little piece of her, licking up long lines of bumpy purple and white scars, sucking and biting at those pointy cherry nipples strutting at the coolness of his breath, kissing those plump lips of hers despite her cringing to cover herself up in thousand layers of clothes, dark clothes, where only the very least of her skin is remaining on display. He won’t have it.

He has to tie her up on most occasions where she’s too difficult and shy to listen and let him play with her beauty. He’ll have to tie her up like a starfish on the bed, limbs spread in each direction, scars running along them, quite like the ones he receives in battle, only precise and matching and purposeful, his hands coming to touch them in reverence, worshipping every little altercation she’s added to her skin, further pushing its ever-changing perfection, watching as she hopelessly struggles to hide herself, yet the both of them knowing how she’s fully his.

He can’t allow her hurting herself anymore though, not with the fear that she one day might slip up and kill herself just a little bit too much, but he’s happy to help her through the tools of fire and ice. Frostbite flowers look even more as though they belong on her body, as well as blotches of burns, his markings, his teeth. He’ll never forget the moan he received on his first indulgence branding her body with his elements, how she purred in gratitude, small blissful squeals and mewls following, further egging him on.

Once she grew more comfortable with his hands and his stare… or rather… once the need for his hands outgrew her discomfort, she became somewhat addicted. And now, she can be wild in her cravings on some days, demanding it of him, threatening him, fighting him. She’ll bite and claw, begging for him to retaliate, longing for him to push her into the bedsheets and teach her what it’s like to feel alive by teasing her with the promise of death.

Without him she’s left to pick at scabs, counting the seconds until his return. She’ll pull at her hair until her scalp is screaming. She’ll ball her fists, creating those blood-red crescent moons in her palms, biting her nails until they bleed and then some. Then bask in relief upon his return.

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