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legends-of-apex · 3 years ago

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‘The Day He Didn’t’

Robbie Reyes/Ghost Rider x Reader (angst, fluff)

Word count: 5,100

Rating: T (tw for death and grief, brief suggestiveness)

Summary: *Spoilers for Agents of SHIELD season 4* You, an agent of SHIELD and long-time resident of the Reyes household, deal with the fallout from Robbie’s “death” in episode 8. This fic mainly explores the relationship you had with Robbie and how you come to terms with his death whilst trying to take care of Gabe in his absence. Based on this request for anon. Reader is described as female.

Author’s note: I’m so sorry in advance to anyone who reads this as there so much angst! Some fluff sprinkled in there as well but mainly angst! Hope you guys enjoy it all the same! Please feel free to let me know what you think ☺️

“Cariña?” You stopped dead in your tracks, almost dropping the bundle of paperwork in your arms at the sound of the nickname only one person in the world had for you. You turned to see Robbie walking towards you with Mack and Daisy, “What are you doing here?” he asked, surprise evident on his face despite knowing your profession. The only reason he didn't have many apprehensions about helping out SHIELD in the first place was because you worked for them so he figured they couldn’t be all bad.

“I work here.” You blinked just to make sure you weren’t seeing things, “What on Earth are you doing here?”

Worry instantly seeped into your pores, and knowing it would, he took your hand in his, silently telling you everything was alright as his thumb smoothly dragged over your knuckles. He’d always avoided the authorities like the plague and you worried he’d been captured for all he’d been doing as Ghost Rider recently but given the lack of hostility towards him from the others in the halls, you guessed he wasn’t some escaped prisoner and was working with your team.

“This is your civilian boyfriend from east LA?” Daisy asked, never putting two and two together. To her credit, there were probably thousands of mechanics living in east LA and that was all you’d told her about him for fear she’d go snooping. What were the chances your boyfriend would be the one guy with a flaming head that she’d been tracking down?

They left you alone to talk and the very first thing he did was wrap you up in his arms. You were due home from SHIELD that evening. Having been away for a little over a week, he’d missed you terribly. Gabe had too although he’d never admit it. You sighed into his arms and placed a kiss on his cheek, unable to hug him back due to all the paperwork you carried.

Home had come to you rather than the other way around today, it seems.

“You know when I said I wasn’t worried about you working for SHIELD?” He grinned, “I’d like to officially retract that statement. The shit you guys have to deal with here is crazy.”

“Oh, you mean the guys with flaming heads and stuff?” You joked.

“It’s the ‘and stuff’ that has me worried now that I’ve seen it firsthand.” Your worlds weren’t so different after all and that worried him just because he knew how dangerous it was. You could take care of yourself, of that he was certain, but he never thought for a minute that you were dealing with the likes of him at your nine to five. Given how little you were legally allowed to tell him, he never asked and you never told.

“Oh please, I’m hardly ever in the field.” You assured, not wanting to worry him. What neither of you did was easy or safe but at least you got paid for what you did, he just got tired, “SHIELD is as safe as spy agencies come.”

Three days later Robbie was dead.

You quit SHIELD on the spot in favour of returning home to his little brother Gabe. Not only had the most important person in the world to him just died but the very reason for his demise was their uncle Eli.

You’d lived with him and Gabe for years, since Eli got sent to prison. Gabe had just lost the use of his legs and Robbie became the sole provider for the two of them. They needed you. And you needed them, and a place to stay. You got Eli’s old room. He didn’t mind, if anything he was glad the boys had someone looking out for them in his absence even if you spent half the week at work with SHIELD.

Robbie and Gabe still shared a room at the time despite their age but that didn’t last all too long once you moved in. Soon Gabe was sick of his brother’s late nights and when winter rolled around and the gas bill got too expensive, you were freezing in that room on your own. With the portable heater in Gabe’s room and Robbie sleeping in with you most nights anyway, it was the cold that finally pushed him out of sharing with his brother and into sharing with you.

Even though you’d been living with them for months, you and Robbie only really said you’d move in together once he shared a room with you. He kept your heart and your body feeling warm and safe. He was so endlessly, hopelessly warm in both body and mind despite everything. But it was when you moved in together that you started to notice something more than the trauma of what happened to him and Gabe that one night was bothering him. There was something very, very wrong with Robbie.

You even saw it in his eyes sometimes. The pain. The fire.

One night as you sat straddling his lap, gazing down at him with your hands braced against his strong chest, talking about what happened with Eli of all things when his eyes changed. They took on a molten orange hue. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen it but it was the first time you’d not been otherwise too… occupied…to mention it.

“Your eyes-” you started but you had no idea what else to say. Suddenly the permanent smell of burn made sense and the late nights he said he spent at Canello’s despite the lack of extra income. The Ghost Rider had been all over local news channels. He’d been targeting the same gang that shot up the car with Robbie and Gabe inside. White supremacist gangs too.

His panicked eyes searched your face, desperate for any indication of what you were thinking. His thumbs rubbed circles into the outside of your thighs as you stared at the pillow beside his head, gaze unfocused before you finally swallowed and locked your eyes with his.

“Are you...” You didn’t need to say anymore, he saw the realisation on your face and he nodded immediately. He wasn’t able to voice the answer, far too paralysed with fear as to what your reaction would be but he was done hiding this from you. To his surprise, you flung your arms around his neck and squeezed him so tight it hurt.

You wouldn’t tell Gabe, you wouldn’t tell the cops or SHIELD and most importantly of all, you weren’t going to leave him because of it.

Since then it seemed like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, made his steps a little lighter. The late nights he was out hunting were spent with you worrying about him since then, despite him assuring you that as long as that demon was in him he literally couldn’t die.

Most of the time you waited up for him so you could check him over and make sure he was okay, make sure his mind could ease and return to earth after the spike in adrenaline that came with the Rider taking over for a few hours. Although sometimes he was out so late that sleep took you despite your best efforts.

On one such night, he heard a soft mumblr of his name in the darkness of your bedroom, your voice quiet and strained with sleep. He felt his heart ache with the longing that laced it.

He crouched down at the foot of the bed so you could see that he was alright, that he was home, “Yeah cariña, I’m here.” He replied in a half-whisper, careful not to wake you up any more than you already were. He leant down to press a kiss to your forehead and recoiled at the temperature of your skin, “You’re freezing?”.

The heating got switched off again, but he didn’t need to know that right now. You made sure Gabe had the portable heater and a few extra blankets, knowing you’d have all the heat you needed once Robbie got home. “Got all the heat I need right here,” You tapped his chest softly. He was so inhumanly warm thanks to the hellfire bubbling within. Too warm for you to hold him for long in the scorching summer, but the perfect temperature for when the nights grew cold.

The moment he lay down beside you he was tugging you towards him, enveloping your body with his as much as he could. You nuzzled your face into his chest, clinging on to the fabric of his shirt. He tucked the covers in around your body before bringing his arm to rest across you, letting his fingers run a trail across your back.

“That better?” He asked and you nodded, finally able to exhale a breath at being a comfortable temperature.

“Yeah baby, thank you. Much better now you’re here.” His entire being radiated comfort, “Rough night? You look exhausted.” He truly did. Heavy bags hung beneath his eyes and he seemed like he could barely keep his eyes open.

“I am. But it always makes me feel better knowing I get to come home to you after.” He pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose, eliciting a giggle, “You comfy?” He asked and you nodded, “Good cause I ain’t moving till well past midday tomorrow.”

“And skip your favourite meal of the day?” You questioned all whilst settling down further into the mattress beneath you, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Baby, the only breakfast I need is nestled right between your thighs.” He was so close to sleep just then that you weren’t sure he even knew half of what he was saying.

You laughed, but your tone quickly sobered, “I was worried about you,” you hadn’t heard him come in. You only realised he was home when you woke up to the faint smell of burnt material filling your nostrils as it often did when he was around.

“You don’t gotta worry about me. You know I’ll always come back to you and Gabe.”

You hummed in agreement, “You better….”

“I will.” He affirmed, pressing his lips to your forehead, closing his eyes for the night as he did.

To his credit, he did come back to you night after night, day after day until the one day he didn’t.

All you could do was watch in horror as his own uncle impaled him with spikes of solid carbon. You had seen the look on his face when it happened. He knew exactly what he had to do but it meant breaking his promise to you and to Gabe but Ghost Rider did it for him anyway. At the very least it was quick for both he and Eli, at least he hadn’t suffered.

“He doesn’t even have a grave!” Gabe was in hysterics when you told him. Although the look on your face when you came through the door that day was telling enough of what happened. No body and no death records meant no grave. Nothing to remember him by except for the people who knew him and the emptiness in that house in his wake.

“Why don’t we go make one then, huh?” You offered.

That’s how the tiny wooden cross made its way into the back garden. A sharpened end so it sank into the ground right next to another one for Eli. It wasn’t much. But it was something and it seemed to make Gabe feel better about not being able to bury them. He prayed in front of it sometimes. Religion was big in their family but he’d never really cared for it until now, knowing their parents would be rolling in their graves with Robbie not having a grave or even a body to bury properly.

Both graves were adorned with marigolds. You brought Gabe to the market each week to buy more so the scent stayed fresh. He said they were usually reserved for Dia de los Muertos, the smell and vibrant orange colour was used to bring the souls of the dead towards an altar or a grave, but he said it couldn’t hurt to leave them there whilst the flowers were in season.

The only family he had left was gone in one fell swoop. Robbie always said he dreaded the day they’d have to bury Eli and add him to the list of family Gabe lost. The thought that he’d be on that list and added to the altar alongside his parents never even crossed his mind.

Despite everything, Gabriel decided to keep going to school and you couldn’t have been prouder of him for it. And you still helped him with homework, despite some of it already seeming like it was beyond you due to how advanced the content he was learning was. You helped him out with essays a lot as he struggled with those the most. Math and science were his true favourites, business too.

You sat at the kitchen table reading over an essay he needed help with as you often did. Although now there was no Robbie to come in from work and press a kiss to your head, or your neck if Gabe was out of the room. There was no one to mess up the neat part in Gabe’s hair or steal a chip from his plate. No comforting roar of the Dodge Charger as he pulled into the drive or rustling of the shopping bags or takeout that he’d bring home. No one to coax you into his lap or out for a drive to nowhere after dinner when Gabe went to his room to game with his online friends.

You missed him. You felt the loss of him in every sense of the word. Like there was a hole in your lives and that house.

It hit you hard sometimes and then the tears would leak. There was really nothing you could do to stop it. Gabe was the same although it was usually on weekends when they’d have spent the most time together that he got the most upset. That’s when he truly felt the loss. Robbie used to take him to a nearby arcade on Saturday mornings and they’d maybe catch a movie after, forever making sure that Gabe got the childhood he never had.

“I miss him. I miss him so much.”

“I know, Gabe. I know.” You’d pet over his hair as soaked the material of your shirt with his tears. And as much as it pained you to hear it, you were always glad he cried. In fact, you encouraged him to. It was healthy and Christ did that kid have a lot to cry about. You’d never forget the way he cried when you told him what happened. He hiccuped in both grief for his brother and uncle and the prospect that he was now well and truly alone. He didn’t expect you to stay with him, he didn’t think you’d want to so when you told him that you’d stay in what was now legally his house so long as he wanted you to, he cried even harder. Neither of you had to be alone and you’d been looking after one another ever since.

These days he made a point of always hugging you goodnight, something he never really did before. And you knew that it was because he was afraid of losing you too. You might not have been family but you’d always treated each other as if you were. Now you bonded over your shared grief of losing Robbie. He was still just a kid and you didn’t put any more strain on him than he already had but he often insisted on making breakfast or dinner, lunch sometimes too so you had something good to eat at work. Meanwhile, you worked to keep the lights on, took him to school or his friend’s house, helped with homework and generally kept his spirits up.

You even went to a parent-teacher meeting with him once. He’d very sheepishly asked if you could come and said it was borderline hilarious the number of guardians he’d had come in his dead parent’s place. First uncle Eli, then Robbie and now you. A few of his teachers remembered his brother well despite him leaving the school a solid eight years prior. His English teacher said she nearly quit when she learned there was another Reyes child who’d be passing through the school as if Robbie hadn’t already nearly given her a stroke in previous years. She said he wasn’t disruptive, in fact, he was so respectful and polite that she could almost overlook the fact that he’d miss class constantly in favour of beating the shit out of the kids who bullied others or working rather than doing schoolwork.

“If I had a nickel for every note I had to send home to his Uncle, I could afford to live somewhere way less shitty than here.” She probably didn’t realise that he had to work because Eli couldn’t afford to take care of them by himself, or why he dropped out at seventeen to work full-time so he could make sure Gabe wouldn’t have to.

Those parent-teacher meetings were a drag. But it was good to know that despite everything, Gabe was still doing well and still on track for a scholarship or two.

You adored Gabe.

For all his rolling over your toes when he went off in a huff or the days where it was difficult being responsible for your dead boyfriend’s little brother. But you loved him like he was your own little brother, and tried to love him just as Robbie did.

It was his eyes that sometimes got the better of you though. He’d say good morning and produce a plate of food for you, brown eyes beaming with the morning dew. And those eyes, the same as his brother’s in colour and size, would crush you and force the memories of all times you’d gazed into those similar pools right to the surface. Gabe never could understand why you got so upset, sometimes seemingly completely at random, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him it was because he had his brother’s eyes. That the sight of his likeness was enough to turn your composure to dust.

Part of you missed working for SHIELD too. You missed your friends and the good work you did at your job. You didn't, however, miss the uniform. But even seeing the logo now just reminded you of that day. Being a civilian with a civilian job was so strange to you. There was no dealing with aliens or anything nearly as threatening on the day to day but some small part of you missed it.

Mack, Daisy and Coulson came around sometimes. Mack mainly came to check over the Charger but his face was a friendly one and you were always glad to see it. Coulson and Daisy usually came bearing groceries and news of how things were at SHIELD, with Coulson still trying to convince you to re-join after you quit on the spot when Eli and Robbie died.

“How’s Gabe?” Daisy asked, knowing he wouldn’t let her ask him herself. He blamed her partially for Robbie’s death having warned her not to get his brother mixed up in anything so dangerous as SHIELD. He hadn’t known then what his brother did at night but even now he still won’t look her in the eyes.

“He’s good. Somehow still on track for Harvard if he keeps his grades up. He’s even got a girlfriend now.” You told her and she smiled, “I think he’s trying to distract himself, keep himself busy so he doesn’t have to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone. Either that or he’s just putting on a brave face.”

Then she’d ask you the same thing she did every time she came to visit, “Are you doing okay?” and every time, you gave a weak “I will be,” in reply.

“Are you sleeping?”

“No, not really.” You were trying, truly you were. But every time you closed your eyes all you saw was the bright flash of orange that took him from you and every time you opened them you just saw the cold sheets at his side of the bed. When you did eventually get some sleep it was almost always whilst clinging to one of his old shirts on which his scent still lingered. You wouldn’t dare wear more than one or two for fear that you’d one day need to wash them all so you just cycled through his shirts until the smell on each one faded. It was the only way you could ever get to sleep.

Money was of course an issue and you received very little help from any authorities other than SHIELD due to the unorthodox nature of the situation. You weren’t a widow as you were never married and you couldn’t really be classed as Gabe’s guardian because of his age and your non-relation to him. But you’d sooner be damned than let him fall into the foster system. You’d do anything for that kid.

“SHIELD’s gone legit now. We can get you good lawyers.” Coulson said.

“Even with good lawyers, I don’t know how you’re going to sell the fact that the kid wants his dead brother’s girlfriend to be his legal guardian. Robbie doesn’t even have a death certificate.” Coulson’s heart was in the right place, it always was. But sometimes his optimism was misplaced.

Daisy’s eyes brightened, “We can forge one but Gabe would need to sign-“ you cut her off.

“No.” You stopped her from saying another word about it, “I’m not about to make him sign his own brother’s death certificate. He’s been through enough.”

It was a few weeks later when you heard a single creak in the floorboards at your bedroom doorway that was loud enough to wake you from what little sleep you had managed to get. It didn’t sound like Gabe’s wheelchair and he didn’t have any friends over so you were immediately on edge.

It smelt like something was burning, the air thick and bristled. You rolled out of bed immediately for fear that the house was on fire but then you saw a silhouette taking up most of the doorway. Based on the outline, it was a person and you stared for a second, just a second, before grabbing hold of the baseball bat at your bedside and making a move. When the shadow took one step inside your room, a hand outstretched towards you as the moonlight illuminated his features, you faltered and let the bat fall to the floor

“Robbie?” Shit, you must’ve been dreaming again. But you didn’t care.

You reached for him regardless, breath hitching when you touched something solid. You flattened your palm out on the centre of his chest where his jacket hung open, feeling the warmth and hellfire that bubbled within. His hand came to cover yours then and you looked up to see those brown eyes you’d gazed into so often and loved so dearly now damp and threatening to spill over with tears.

“I’m so sorry-“ he started but you engulfed him in a hug the second he opened his mouth. At that moment you couldn’t care less about why he wasn’t there, only that at that moment he was. You threw your arms around his neck when the tears started.

With a heave, he lifted your knees around his waist and carried you to the bedside where he sat with you in his lap.

He’d thought for so long about what to say and now that he finally had the chance, he told you everything. He told you about Eli, about the book of dark magic he’d read and been corrupted by was still around somewhere. How when he died, he clawed his way through hell. Literally. To get back to you. The demon inside him fought through hell to get back to that book and destroy it for good, he’d had the reigns fully in hell. Robbie was reduced to a passenger in his own body down there. Months without being able to live in his own skin.

“I can’t stay,” He told you, swallowing thickly, “He wants to take that book back.”

“Back?” You asked, already knowing full well what he meant. You just didn’t want it to be true.

He nodded solemnly as his jaw clenched, “To Hell.”

You held his cheek, searching his eyes. For what you didn’t know. Any indication he was kidding maybe? You didn’t find any. Instead, you only found pain and sadness. Guilt too.

“He said I can say goodbye to you and Gabe,” his voice cracked, “Then I have to go.”

He was lucky the demon allowed him that much of a privilege. It was only because the entire time he’d been in hell he had to deal with Robbie’s worrying, his longing nagging at the back of his mind. It was a courtesy only because he didn’t want to deal with that again.

“The thought of coming back to you has been the only damn thing that’s kept my heart beating. I would do anything to stay with you for good but I made a deal and he won’t let me stay until that book is gone.”

The last thing he wanted to do was give you false hope. He didn’t want you waiting up for him as you often did or putting your life on pause waiting for him to return when he had no idea when that would be. You deserved more and he wanted you to have that, even if it meant he might not have a place in your life when he did eventually return from the land of the dead. It wouldn’t be fair of him to expect that from you and so he never did.

He had that look in his eye he got when he was about to do something stupidly self-sacrificial for someone else’s sake and you weren’t about to hear it. Not now. You had a vague idea of what he wanted to say, that he never really deserved you in the first place and that he was sorry for all the pain he’d put you through, that he wouldn’t be upset when he got back if you chose to move on. But you knew he was damned and the risks and pain that came with it. And as much as he would never accept it, he was worth the pain.

You held him for as long as he could stay, knowing he was on borrowed time.

“Gabe’s got a girlfriend now. He finally made a move on Janet’s sister.” He blinked at you in awe, a smile spreading across his face, “You might wanna give him the talk before you go if you haven’t already.” As much as you loved that kid there was no way that was a conversation you were about to have with him.

He smiled wide at that and shook his head, “Already taken care of, chica.” They’d had that conversation far too early if he was being honest.

You held each other for what wasn’t nearly long enough to make up for the months apart. There was so much you both wanted to say and so little time to do it. You didn’t even know where to start, neither did he. So you just lay there in each other’s arms for as long as you could or until the demon got antsy.

You knocked on Gabe’s bedroom door and received a definitely still asleep reply.

“There’s someone here to see you.” You stood in his doorway, Robbie at your side waiting for Gabe’s eyes to open. When they did, he beamed and shouted in delight. You left them to it, not wanting to impose.

You waited in the living room, playing with the keys to the Dodge Charger in your fingers. When Robbie finally emerged from Gabe’s room, his eyes wet with hastily wiped tears, he made a beeline for you once more. “Thank you,” He kissed your forehead and tugged you as close to him as he could, “For everything you’ve done for Gabe. And for me.”

“He’s family and so are you.” You mumbled. He dragged a palm over his face again, wiping his tears.

“Gabe said I’m to ask you to marry me when I get back. To make you officially a Reyes.” You looked to him in question, “I told him that it was entirely your decision cause I’d marry you in a heartbeat. And it’s bold of him to assume you’d take my name.”

“Kid’s got some bold assumptions for sure.” You played coy, there was no way he was getting an answer out of you that easily. You knew he wasn’t asking you anyways, just telling you what Gabe had said.

“I’ll take that as a maybe.” He laughed. The prospect of marriage would never be a question for the two of you, it would always be a conversation. Something you’d decide on together.

“Take it as an order to get your ass back here and find out.” You smiled and kissed his cheek, “I love you. Please come back in one piece.”

“I love you too, Cariña. Take care of yourself,” he closed your fingers over the keys to the Dodge Charger so they were safely caged in your hand, “and my baby.”

Oh, you’d take care of his baby alright.

With one last bone crushing hug and a kiss, he was gone again. And for the first time in months, you felt whole. Even if he was going back to suffer, to trudge his way through Hell once he got ahold of that book. The promise that he’d return to you for good this time was one you knew he’d keep, no matter how long it took him to do so.

It was enough for you and it was enough for Gabe too.

The next time Daisy visited she said it’d probably be the last for a while. She and the team were in hiding from the authorities. She said she didn’t have the time to explain.

“You okay?” She asked as she usually did, knowing Robbie had been back to you before going to help them get that book back so he could bring it down to Hell.

“I will be,” you replied, and for the first time in a while you meant it.

Tagging (the horni for Ghost Rider squad): @icy-spicy @spring-soldier

#robbie reyes x reader #robbie reyes #ghost rider x reader #ghost rider #agents of shield #angst #fluff #my writing #fic #mine

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acourtofsnakes · 4 years ago

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Cabur - Rogue, Chapter 6| The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader (f)

Summary: A few weeks have passed and after landing on a small planet to collect a bounty, you and Mando decide to take a little trip to the market to stock up on some things. Nothing will come up here.. right?

Warnings: Angsty angsty annnnngst, (Sorry, I don’t mean to be so horrible to dear reader), Swearing (mild), brief mentions of death, touching on the same things as chapter 4 but not as heavy but I’ll still add the trigger warnings ♥︎ These chapters will get lighter, I promise,

Not beta read, I wanted to get this one out because I love it so apologies for any mistakes, I’ll be going in to edit a little later

Trigger warnings: Anxiety, horrible thoughts/insults, triggering comments maybe, thoughts of not being able to cope.

Words: About 6210

AN: Okay, okay, so, I was listening to my Rogue playlist on Spotify (link coming soon) and a certain song came on that just fuelled this chapter. SO, I highly recommend listening to Leave A Light On by Tom Walker if you want the vibes for this chapter. Just… honestly, please do it (I may have had tears)

As always, credit to whoever owns the gif. I usually find them on Google or Pinterest, so message me if it’s yours ♥︎

Rogue Taglist: @snipskixandbeskar @weirdowithnobeardo @the-bottom-of-the-abyss

Mando’a translation: Cabur - Protector or Guardian

A few weeks had passed since that night you saved the Mandalorian’s life, since he threw away the bounty puck to keep you safe.

You’d stayed that night grounded, and then when Mando was able to get up in the morning, he flew you off of that dump of a planet.

He didn’t ask anymore but how you had managed to save him. Whether he knew you were lying or not, he hadn’t pushed it, choosing instead to respect you. Kind of like how you respected him and his Creed.

You’d fallen into a sort of routine around the Razor Crest, without either of you realising it. Mando would fly the ship, and you could be found seeing to Grogu and Duru, or tidying things up. Sometimes you would clean the weapons in the cabinet, making sure they stayed in pristine condition.

Now and then, Mando would head out to get a bounty and when he got back, he would let you help patch him up. You never saw his bare skin, respected that. You would look away or close your eyes, pointing out the best things to use or how to administer them. The man was good at first aid, but his answer to everything was to shove the cauteriser on it. So, when you had been passing through some shops one day, you had stocked up on medical supplies, even found a shop selling the same herbs and plants that your mother had taught you about.

You’d even been on a few of the hunts with him.

Of course, you had argued first. When you’d asked him about it one day on the way out of Nevarro, Mando had simply said no.

Which had immediately riled you. You were not a girl who liked that word. You despised that word.

Which is how you’d spent the whole night and next two days bickering, over the question of your safety. When he lost that front, (“Seriously, Mando? I’m a fugitive. And after all, I’ve got a big, strong Mandalorian to protect me”) the Mandalorian had moved on to your lack of thinking before throwing yourself into the firefight.

He lost that one too.

(“Says the man who stole back a child surrounded by Stormtroopers.”

“You’re not coming. End of.”

“Did you want me to bring your pulse rifle over?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“You’re right. Pulse rifle and an extra blaster.”

“I hate you, you know that?”

“Sure you do, Lori. I’ll see you at the ramp.”)

That nickname had slipped out by accident, and he’d regarded you, for a long time. He’d gone still, and you almost swore you heard a hitch of breath through his helmet and then he just nodded and murmured softly, “See you down there.”

There had been a lot of little moments like that but they were so fleeting that you were almost convinced you’d imagined it. You were imagining a lot of things lately.

Sometimes, when you were walking through forests or towns, you thought you spotted something lingering at the edges of your vision.

A tall figure, cloaked in a hood that was embroidered in either silver or gold, depending on the light.

You’d even asked Mando about it a few times, but he hadn’t seen anything so you simply put it down to a trick of the light or sleeplessness, nightmares still plaguing you now and then.

Regardless of the nightmares and your vision playing tricks on you, you were doing… okay. You were warm, safe, had a comfy place to sleep. You had things to keep you busy, things that weren’t hunting for food or a good spot to hunker down in for the night.

Duru was happy too, having become fast friends with Grogu and the two of them ran rings around you and the Mandalorian. Well, mainly Mando, which you found hilarious because he was such an exasperated dad with them both.

It was a rare reprieve from your life, letting you slow down and… live. Rather than survive.

“I do not talk in my sleep.”

“Yes, you do!! Sometimes, I think you’re awake but you’re just having a fully-fledged conversation with your blanket.”

“Oh, shut up. I know I don’t talk in my sleep, tin can. You were probably just having dreams about me again.” You examined the fruit in front of you, then handed over a few credits to the kind vendor, slipping the fruit in your bag.

The sound of fabric hitting the floor sounded from behind you, and you turned to see that the Mandalorian had dropped the bag you’d made him carry. “I do NOT have dreams about you!” He stooped to pick up the bag, then rose to see you standing with your hands on your hips, eyebrow raised and that damn smirk on your lips.

“Mmhm, is that why you always have to pull something over your lap when I wake you up?”

He stared at you, and you had the very correct feeling that he was looking at you in mild shock, too caught out to come up with his usual cocky response. “I -you.. That’s completely..”

You burst out laughing, rolling your eyes at him and then dropping him a wink, “Come get me when you’ve thought of a response, Lori.” You turned and carried on walking through the market.

The two of you had stopped off on a nearby trading planet, to gather supplies. Mando had recently secured a bounty with your help and it had paid well, giving you enough extra credits to stock up and treat yourselves. Grogu was already half-way through a packet of blue macarons, which would no doubt come back to bite you both later when he was pelting through the ship whilst you tried to catch him. And it would be your fault because you had taken one look at those big ears and eyes, determined not to break but when the little womp rat had cooed at you… Of course, he had gotten his own way.

It felt good, to wander a market and not be scrounging for things under the cover of a hooded cloak. You still had one on, you couldn’t bear to part with this item, the most beautiful piece of clothing you had ever had. You just didn’t have the hood up disguising you.

A gift, from Mando.

The first time you went out with him after the puck was destroyed, Mandalorian had insisted you wear yours. However, it had been covered in his blood from his injury, and you couldn’t get it out, no matter how hard you had tried. It hadn’t bothered you that much, though you were.. not sad as such, but it felt a little strange because it had been one of your few possessions for so long. But, maybe it was a symbol. That things had changed, and that was in the past.

A couple of days later, you had just walked into the cockpit when you noticed there was a package on your seat. When you picked it up, it was squishy, bound in a sort of thick papery material and tied with a length of string.

You’d glanced at the Mandalorian, who was watching you, the picture of calm but his hands had been fiddling with something on his belt, a shockingly nervous gesture you weren’t used to.

That simple, uncertain gesture had risen your pulse and you unwrapped the package, trying not to show how your hands were shaking at the first gift you’d received since being a child.

A gift from the Mandalorian.

Pulling away the paper had revealed a mass of fabric, a blue so deep it was almost the same colour as the night sky. You’d lifted it out and it had unfolded and revealed itself to be a new cloak. The material was soft, thick enough to keep out a biting chill. You’d made a noise of awe and surprise, but had immediately fallen in love with it, pulling it on. It fell to about the middle of your calves and secured at the base of your neck with a small silver clasp.

The inside was lined with a thin layer of heat-reflective material, and when you’d run a hand over it, Mando had finally broken his silence, “I noticed you were always cold, even if you had layers on so I.. wanted to make sure you weren’t cold anymore..”

You swore you could almost feel the heat creeping up his neck, and that softened you. He was nervous about giving you this cloak, like he didn’t know how you would take it.

You had smiled at him, a soft smile that made your eyes glitter like the surrounding stars and placed a hand on his knee lightly, “Thank you, Lori. I adore it, I truly do.” Then you’d spent the next minutes admiring it, putting the hood up and realising it shielded your face in shadow.

So, naturally, you had moved around the cockpit and upper level like a phantom, pretending to be a shadow in the night.

You’d even earned yourself a laugh from the great wall of beskar that was fast becoming your friend. It was only a soft chuckle, just picked up by the vocoder, but all the same, it had lit something within you.

It still echoed in your ears now.

A few moments later, the Mandalorian was back at your side, Grogu in his little bag and Duru walking next to him. “The point still stands. I thought I might finally get some silence at night, but you talk just as much.” His raspy voice had a softened edge, one of teasing and you might even have heard the hints of a smile playing at his lips.

You turned to look at him over your shoulder, “You love it when I talk. I have to talk to you, otherwise I’d be worried you had turned to stone. You’re so quiet sometimes.” You stopped at a stall, admiring the fabrics here – not to buy, just to look at the different things in a place you had never seen before.

The Mandalorian made a soft noise, “No, sweetheart, that’s just called quiet time. You might want to try it sometime.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but something behind Mando caught your eye. Rising up on tiptoe, you peered over his shoulder… but there was nothing there. Weird. You could have sworn you saw someone wearing a hood just… watching you.

You shrugged, assuming you had imagined it like before and then looked back to the man before you, “I can be quiet. I just choose to fill your hours with my wonderful voice.” You flashed him a grin, eyes dancing.

A voice cut across before Mando could talk to you, “You.” It was a snarl, tinged with recognition that wasn’t exactly the most positive. It was bitter, aggressive and almost… pained.

Mando turned quickly, his hand flying toward the blaster on his hip, instinct overriding him. His movement allowed you to see who had just interrupted the conversation.

A lady stood there, with curly magenta hair twisted up into a braid. She had tattoos along her neck, and her eyes were a shocking green. She was breathing quickly, staring at you with such disdain that it made your neck prickle.

How did you know this woman? You’d never been to this planet before.

You blinked, holding up your hands as a surrender gesture, “Uh… I’m sorry but I don’t know you. I think you must have me confused with someone else…”

The lady shook her head fiercely, making the whisps of her hair that had escaped bounce wildly. “No. I do not have you confused. I would know you anywhere.” Her eyes were wild with fury, pinning you to the ground with just a stare.

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t know who you are. Maybe you could tell me your name?” You extended a hand, trying to diffuse this situation and help the woman understand that you aren’t who she thinks.

She flinched back from your reach, even though she was still a good few feet away. “How dare you. You don’t even know who I am?” She made a noise of disgust, looking you up and down in such a way that you were surprised the skin didn’t flay from your bones, “Typical. I don’t know why I’m surprised. She was probably just another tool to you, wasn’t she? Another person to use and discard like trash.”

You blinked, your hands dropping to your sides. Your skin began to tighten, your blood turning a little frosty. You looked to the side, seeing a few people start to stop and watch this altercation happen.

The Mandalorian seemed to pick up on this at the same time as you. He turned more toward the lady, his hand still within reach of his blaster, “Why don’t we take this somewhere more private?”

The woman barely even looked at him, “Don’t get involved in this, Mandalorian. You’re just as bad as she is. At least to do what you do, you have to have respect and creed. You have morals, no matter how murky they are.” She jabbed a finger at you, “Unlike this savage monster.”

Your breathing immediately shallowed, getting a little unsteady as she spat out that word, that hateful word that followed you around and hounded at your feet. “I’m sorry? For whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry if it’s hurt you. I didn’t mean it, truly-”

She laughed, a cold and cruel laugh, but her eyes were slowly turning glassy with tears. She took a few steps closer, “You don’t even remember her name, do you? Shall I remind you? Help you distinguish her from your kill list?”

You didn’t fail to notice the way the Mandalorian’s stance shifted. His body tightened and he stood closer, shielding you slightly with one of those ridiculously broad shoulders. He was going on the defensive, feeling the situation start to spiral.

The woman barely spared him another glance, “3 years ago, you showed up on Trask. You stumbled around the market for a few days, bleeding from a wound in your leg and you passed out.”

Realisation was beginning to filter through you. It sparked in your mind and you remembered a dark street and rain, your leg heavy and cumbersome beneath you. It had burned like fire and when you went down, you couldn’t get back up again.

The woman was still talking, “Someone picked you up, took you to their home. My sister. She was there for work, and saw you lying in the street, like some kind of dumped animal. She nursed you back to health, gave you somewhere to stay.” She could see it as it began back to you, “You took her aid, her comfort and then, there was a warning put out in the village. There had been a high-risk fugitive spotted in the village. Anyone with information was to come forward immediately.”

Your hands curled into fists, your chest shuddering as guilt and darkness began to swirl within you, “Stop.”

She chose not to hear your quiet plea, “I was supposed to meet her. But she sent me a comms message. She would meet me, but she would have someone else with her. Someone who she couldn’t tell me over a comms message. Someone in trouble. People said this girl was dangerous, to be handed over with no hesitation but she didn’t see that. No, she said this girl was terrified, that she just wanted to live.” She tilted her head, walking closer again, “But the next day, this special little girl was gone. And then the Imperials came.” Her voice shook, her expression unreadable.

You shook your head mutely, not wanting to hear this, memories flooding your brain.

“Someone had tipped them off that my sister was harbouring a fugitive. They tore through her home, destroyed it and dragged her in for questioning. They demanded she tell them, beat her when she denied it. She never gave it up.”

The woman was right in front of the Mandalorian now, who extended his arm out, ‘That’s close enough.”

Nausea roiled your stomach, and you weren’t sure if you were going to pass out or throw up. There were too many eyes on you, too many people watching as this woman revealed you bit by bit.

The woman lowered her voice, deadly soft and it shook, but carried in the silent square, “My sister was murdered because of you. Because of what you are.”

Mando froze, his head tilting back to look at you slightly. You still hadn’t told him.

She wasn’t done. “They told me a few weeks ago that you’d been captured by a Mandalorian. I wept with relief that day, because I knew the Mandalorian wouldn’t fail. You’d be taken to whoever wanted you, and you would finally repent for every single sin you’ve ever committed. Your life is littered with them. My sister, my beloved sister is dead because of you. A killer. A beast. Your hands are stained red, girl, and they will always be stained red. I admit, I’m disappointed that you slithered into his head with your poison too but you will kill him too and then… You deserve everything that will ever come to you. And more.” The woman was breathing almost as quickly as you, her eyes glinting in sick delight at the pain she was causing you.

My sister is dead because of you.

A beast.

Her words mingled with that seductively dark voice in your mind and you gasped for a breath, knives feeling like they were digging into your lungs. Your eyes darted around, noted the strangers looking at you with horror and that shared disgust. A father pushed his daughter behind his legs as he caught your stare, hissing at you.

A flinch ran down your body and without a second thought, you turned tail and bolted. The sunlight was too bright, obscuring your vision harshly and making you stumble every now and then.

You were distantly aware of a male’s shout, then a harsh thumb and the Mandalorian’s voice snarling, “Stay down.” He stopped to check your pursuer was down and then he was running after you. “Hey, wait.”

You ignored him, boots pounding into the dust as you ran through the market, needing to get out of this place, get away from her and the memories. Where the hell was the ship? It was right here a minute ago. I haven’t gone the wrong way. This is the way we came.

You could still hear Mando behind you, knew he was hot on your heels. “Drop it, Mando.” You led him around people and stalls, knowing if wanted to be in front of you, he would be. He was letting you flee, stopping anyone coming after you.

Dodging around a crate of fruit, you almost sobbed. There it was, the Crest, gleaming in the sunlight. You slowed down as you reached it, stopping a little way away to let the ramp come down, let you inside to sanctuary.

Nothing happened.

Bastard.

You took a breath, trying to get past the tightness in your lungs, “Let me in.”

“No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.” His voice was firm, arrogant, in a way like he knew best and you’d listen to him.

~“A killer. A beast. Your hands are stained red.”~

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, staring at the Crest, at where the ramp was tucked in tight. Your heart was pounding, not from the run, but from the realisation that no matter where you went, there would always be someone you had touched with that curse. “No. I’m not telling you anything. I don’t owe you anything.”

He laughed behind you, but it was a cool laugh, nothing humorous in it, “I’m not saying you owe me anything, princess. But some woman just cornered you in the street and spat abuse at you. I thought I would be prying you off of her, not chasing after you.”

A wolf. No. A beast.

You spun round, eyebrow raised, “Because I’m some wild animal that would rather fight than talk my way out of a situation?”

If he had no helmet, you would have seen him blink, “No, I’m not saying that. But, well. You have to admit it, don’t you?”

Something was beginning to prickle up the back of your neck, his words threatening to cut a little close, “Admit what?” Venom laced your tone and you tensed, as if bracing for a punch.

The Mandalorian walked closer, oozing confidence like he somehow knew you better than you knew yourself, “You don’t really think, do you? You never calculate the risks of a fight. You just jump straight in with no regard for your own safety. I mean, when I came for you on Sorgan, anyone smart would have seen a Mandalorian and run.” He wasn’t saying it in an arrogant way, he was saying it as fact. And he was right. A Mandalorian appeared on the street and you turned around and crossed to the other side. You didn’t engage him a fight and flirt with him.

A cold laugh rocked though you and you tilted your head, “Anyone smart? So you’re calling me stupid now? Is that it? Beast or stupid?” You took a few steps closer to him, ignoring the villagers milling around that had started to look, having heard the fight in the centre of the market. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t calculate risks. You think I’ve had time to calculate risks in my life? I don’t have time to sit with my little notepad in my ship and jot down the pro’s and con’s of engaging in battle. I didn’t have the luxury of being trained like you.”

Bitter astonishment filled the Mandalorian’s voice, his own body going rigid, “The luxury of training?! You think I chose to become a Mandalorian? That I woke up one morning and skipped along to Mandalorian school?” His voice rose, the rough rasp turning to stone with every word.

You observed him with a steely gaze, something in you needing to push him away, to protect yourself before he got too close. So, you aimed for what you knew would work, his Creed. Your eyebrows rose, looking him up and down as you leaned your weight on one leg, “You’re telling me you weren’t born with that thing already stuck on your head?” Spiteful sarcasm dripped from your voice and you pointed up at his helmet.

The Mandalorian let out a snarl that no doubt usually sent normal people running. He stalked toward you with predatory grace, a hunter toward his prey. “Don’t you dare.” Like he read in your eyes where you were going with this.

Ugly triumph filtered though you as you stood your ground, not afraid of him, “It’s all the same with you Mandalorians, isn’t it. You have all your training, don your shiny armour and suddenly you’re better than anyone. That helmet goes on, you don’t have to face the consequences of what you’ve done. No one knows who you are, so you don’t need to take the blame.” These words were spiteful, beyond cruel and you hated yourself more and more for each one, but he was starting to get into the cracks, starting to see you. You couldn’t see him die.

Mando was right in front of you now, towering above you with all his broad-shouldered posture, frustration roiling off of him in waves. “You think I don’t feel remorse for what I’ve done?” His voice was so low, barely leashed.

You nearly purred, tasting the promise of a fight, even if it did twist a knife into your heart. “I’ve never seen it.” You tilted your head back to look up at him, letting every ounce of spoilt, cruel brattiness melt into your expression.

A soft growl rumbled through the helmet, so muted you barely heard it in the noises of the market behind him.

Yes. Yes.

And then he relaxed, his shoulders eased and his hands uncurled.

What? No – Disappointment, maybe even shock registered on your expression. You’d been sure, so sure that aiming for his beloved Creed would get him to fight you. Why hadn’t it worked?

Mando shook his head, the sunlight bouncing off of the shiny metal, “No. I’m not doing this with you. You can’t push me away, no matter how hard you try. You don’t mean anything that you just said, I can see it in your eyes.” He pressed a button on his vambrace, and the ramp opened behind you.

He saw you.

That dark beast was starting to awaken, its ears pricking up. You needed to get out of here, away from him, away from this, now. You just shook your head, turning around and walking up the ramp, watching Duru as she ran ahead of you.

Footsteps sounded from behind you as the Mandalorian followed you. He took Grogu from his little pouch, popping him on a cargo crate and Duru immediately jumped up next to him. “Don’t walk away from me. I’m trying to help you, but you keep shutting me out. Why did that woman say those things about you?” His gloved hand enveloped your wrist, his grip not tight or authoritative, but it began to break something in you.

“Let me go, Mando. I mean it.” You let ice creep into your tone, trying to disguise the cracking inside you, the darkness that was beginning to stir and whisper.

And the damn tin can saw it all. Your back was to him, but he still fucking knew, “Please… You know I would never judge you for it, for whatever you did to make her say that.”

Excuse me?

Anger flared through you now, igniting into a blaze and you snarled, “Whatever I did?!” You didn’t give him time to respond, not before you swung around, using his grip on your wrist for leverage. You had spent enough time around him now to become familiar with the plates of his armour, so you knew you aimed correctly when your fist connected with the side of his ribs between the front and back plates.

He grunted, jolting a little but he still didn’t let go. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant-” His voice had softened and, in your rage and hurt, you mistook the pleading tone for a condescending one.

Before he could finish, you punched him again, harder, “Don’t. Don’t try to start spewing excuses at me. I knew perfectly well what you meant. You thought that she had been hurt by me. That I killed her sister with my own hands. Probably slit her throat and bathed in her blood.”

“No, no, I didn’t. If you would just listen to me and stop shouting, please-“

Your foot connected with his shin, making him stumble backwards. You followed after him, “You didn’t even stop to think that maybe, for once, I didn’t actually do anything. But no. Like always, you looked at me and saw the worst. You assumed that I was a monster.” You chopped down at his inner elbow this time, causing him to let go of you in reflex.

Mando tilted his head, his voice coming out sharper this time, “I assumed?” He laughed, the bastard laughed, “What else am I supposed to do, sweetheart? You’ve been on this ship for nearly a month now and I still don’t know anything about you. So yes, I was wrong for assuming, but can you blame me?”

Your eyes flashed and you were on him again, “So it’s my fault that you thought I was a monster? You’d met me for all of two seconds on Sorgan and started whispering in my ear like honey, that death followed me wherever I went. There was a bounty over my head and that’s all you saw.”

Mando went still, his shoulders tightened, and his voice came out lower, “You’re still bringing that up? I told you that you weren’t my bounty anymore.”

Before you could answer him, that velvety voice inside your head started to whisper in your ear, “Oh no, oh my sweet darling. He sees you. The real you. He knows you’re a monster.”

You shook your head sharply, lifted your eyes back to the Mandalorian’s stupid face. Helmet. Visor. Whatever. “I’m not your bounty but you believed that woman. So say it.”

His confusion was palpable, “Say what?”

You took a step forward and your chest butted up against his, “Say it! Say that I’m a monster. A murderer. I kill everything I come near.” You laughed, coldly, the words coming out with your voice but in your head, they were being repeated in that cruel, silken whisper. “You regret it, don’t you? Throwing away my puck. You wish you’d kept it, then you could get rid of me, be free of what I’ve done, why I’m being hunted.” Those steel bands were still wrapped round you, crushing you, swallowing you whole again.

Something broke in him, his composure as the anger rose again and he leaned down to you, “Stop.” The command was a growl and he lifted a finger, pointing at you, “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

Yes. Yes, fight back, fight me. Tell me what I know I am.

You raised your eyebrows, smirking at his finger and then back up at him but your expression was bitter, “Am I? Why’s that, Mando?” You tilted your head and practically purred, “Tell me.”

The tension in the room was tight, the air almost crackling around you with this outburst of emotion, the threads of your entwined lives pulling taut.

The light bounced off of the plates on his shoulders, betraying his slightly ragged breathing, “You just screamed at me for assuming the worst about you, yet you did just that to me. How can I want to be free of you, when I don’t even know who you are.” He lifted his hands to your shoulders, to try and calm you down, to push you away maybe.

The smirk began to slip from your face, “Does it matter who I am?”

His grip tightened, “Of course it does. Because you’re not a bad person. Let me help you, please. Just tell me something. Anything.” His voice turned pleading, and he lifted a hand from your shoulder, like he was going to cup your cheek.

You’re not a bad person.

Fire blazed within you again, protective and destructive. This was too close. He was getting too close. You had to stop it, now. You had to get away.

You reached up, grabbing his wrist and using the element of surprise to slam him against the wall behind him, pinning his wrist there and then your blade was at his neck, dull light glinting off of it, “Back off. You can’t help me. I’m not some broken doll to add to your ragtag collection.” Your own breathing was ragged, coming in sharp pants as the room started to spin.

The Mandalorian flinched, like you’d hit a nerve and his free hand moved. Bingo.

Yes, you thought, almost begged, Punch me. Fight me, please.

But he didn’t. He just curled his fingers around your wrist and pushed you away, dislodging your knife and knocking you back a few steps. Like you were weak.

You couldn’t do this, he was starting to slip through the cracks that were forming in you. He was looking at you, seeing you. He always had, from the moment you were nothing but hunter and prey, he knew exactly how to get through your intricately woven net of silver-tongued quips and cocky arrogance.

No.

Your voice cracked, echoes of the dark beast’s laughter in your ears “No! Stop pushing me away, stop taking it. Fight me!!” You surged for him again, your hands curling into fists, slamming against the beskar plates again and again.

You didn’t care that it hurt, that it made pain explode across your knuckles.

You liked it, you liked the pain. Deserved that and so much more.

And the Mandalorian… just stood there. He shook his head, just slightly, “No.” He stood there as you hammered your fists against his chest, even when you started to kick him. Just watched as your eyes became glassier, your punches harder but less accurate.

Why wasn’t he fighting you?

Your hazy mind began to overwork, searching for something, anything to provoke him, “Why? You don’t want to fight a girl? Too proud are you?” You slammed your knee into his, pulled at the armour plates, honed your pain and fury into him but he just absorbed it. “You’re as weak as I am, you’re running too. You’re the hypocrite, Mandalorian, not me.” Your words were stilted, made no sense as you spat out words as cruel as you could, just needing to provoke him.

Nothing did. Nothing. There was no noise in the cargo hold but the sounds of the people outside, beeping, the dull thud of your fists, your spiteful words and your own ragged breathing.

And the whispering in your head that had turned into a full-on symphony of bitter taunts and sniping truths. It rose with memories, flashes of your dead parents, the battered bodies of those that had tried to help you, people who had been caught in the cross-hairs of your life. Innocent people that had turned into nothing more than collateral damage.

Blood had started to smear on the beskar, your knuckles splitting open with the repeated impact. You could hear Duru meowing, Grogu gurgling in worry but you didn’t care.

The beast and its army rose, tasting the scent of blood and bringing you visions of the future, of the Mandalorian, dead on the ground. The blood from your fists turned into his own, painting the ground red. Duru, fur soaked in scarlet and Grogu, his tiny little body broken on the floor in a pool.

And above them, you stood, soaked in the blood of these three. Relishing in the pain and torture that you had caused. You could taste their blood.

The room began to spin further, the whispering detonated into a roar and it unleashed a heavy roiling cloud within you. It choked you, squeezed fists around your lungs, clouded your eyes and snuck into your head. It whispered to you, such cruel taunts, sucking out the deepest, most vile thoughts you had about yourself and spat them back out, combined with these visions of the future. It leeched the energy out of you and with a choked sob, your knees gave way.

Duru let out a yowl of concern, springing off of the cargo box.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be confident, or strong. I can’t be brave and cocky, I can’t keep throwing myself into every fight, I can’t run anymore. I can’t do this. I can’t-

And then a pair arms caught you.

Mando caught you. He didn’t haul you up against him. He didn’t try and pull you up.

No, he sunk to the floor with you, supporting your weight in his own body, leaning against the wall and letting you collapse against him.

You froze, your body stiffened as he did. This… people didn’t touch you like this. They didn’t put their arms around you unless they were trying to drag you somewhere.

You hadn’t been hugged since you were a child, and yet here you were. The Mandalorian was holding you, but loosely.

Waiting, for your consent. For you to be okay with this.

And as his gloved hand brushed your back, such a tender warmth broke through you, caressed your pain and you couldn’t resist. You sunk into him, the last saps of energy leaving you as tears flooded your cheeks. The armour was hard, digging into you a little bit, but the feeling of just being held was more than enough.

He wrapped his arms around you, coaxing you against his chest. His legs were either side of you, one stretched out on the floor and the other resting up to support your back. Distantly, you were aware of four clawed feet padding over your lap, Duru settling into the space between you and Mando’s arm.

The armour disguised the frantic beating of his heart, your tears and shaking of your body held the trembling of his own hands, but he didn’t mention it. Didn’t mention the fact that this was the first time he had held someone like this that wasn’t the kid… since he was a child himself. He was just as starved of touch as you, even more so because he had no skin-to-skin contact either. He could feel your warmth through the fabric of his clothes that weren’t covered, could feel the weight of you leaning into him.

He didn’t speak, just held you in the dimness of the cargo hold, keeping you together as you fell apart, kept the promise of death away, just as you had done for him.

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#the mandalorian x force sensitive! reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x force sensitive! reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #reader insert #star wars #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #grogu

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valeskakingdom · 4 years ago

Text

Request

Jerome met the reader at the circus ... They spend the evening together (well, maybe have sex)? And then the reader leaves Jerome (he gives her his grey coat, what a gentleman) and comes back the next day, only to find out that he killed his mother and is sitting in Arkham. A year goes by (like in the show, I guess?) and the next time the reader meets Jerome, he’s on the bus with the cheerleaders and of course Jerome remembers her! ;) Is that too much? ;-;

Requested by: @valeskaduh

So guys, here's the final part 2 of my one shot. Hope you like it as much as part 1!!

Wordcount: 3510

Here's part 1: "https://valeskakingdom.tumblr.com/post/647442495087820800/request

Warning: mention of murder and violence

Credit: @gotham-swag

It was late, something after midnight already.

You both, Jerome and you, still laid in his bed fully covered in sweat thinking back about what has happened before, all the feelings, the pleasure... Everything.

Your clothes laid strayed on the ground; your underwear laid next to the bed while your shirt and pants laid elsewhere in any corners of his room.

Jerome had wrapped is arm around your waist to comfort you whilst you rested your head on his chest listening to his heartbeat. It was even and slow.

"That was great, wasn't it?" Jerome broke the silence between you with a slight chuckle.

"Indeed," You chuckled "It was worth it."

"It was. Haven't met a girl that could give that good blowjobs."

"Jerome!" You slapped his chest in embarrassment widening your eyes, a strong blush went over face. You were a little shocked about his assertion, but otherwise you felt honored.

"No need to be embarrassed (Y/N)," Jerome chuckled caressing your side "You could see it as a compliment. I'd choose you over others."

"U-uhm...Thank...you? I feel...honored." You mumbled in embarrassment.

"You're cute when you're shy like that." Jerome smirked, sitting up and took a cigarette from his nightstand and lightened it to smoke.

You hummed saying nothing, just gave him a little smile.

You liked it how he called you cute, and that he liked your shyness. It gave you some hope that maybe that this,between you and him, could turn into something more than just a simple one off. All the sweet nothings he whispered into your ear, all the compliments and intensive kisses... That couldn't come just out of nowhere. You had the feeling something was special between you two; you couldn't say what it was though. All you knew was: you felt different in Jerome's near. It was like you two would know each other for ages.

While Jerome was smoking his cigarette off, his smoke spread through the room that you inhaled it. It didn't bother you, you were used to it from home.

You think took your phone out of the pocket of your pants to behold the clock: 00:37

Time for you to go, you needed to get ready in a few hours for your work.

"Anyways, I think it's time for me to go. Need to stand up early," You sighed grabbing your underwear to take them on "You know, work and such."

"Awww really?" Jerome gave you a little pout while admiring your body for one more time "I enjoyed the time with you."

Again he viewed you from head to toe, admired your curves and your flawless pale skin. His view was giving him chills again and he had the urge to touch again. He missed this feeling of your soft skin, this incredible feeling of him inside you making you moan, or the feeling when you dug your nails in his back because he pleasured you well.

"Me too," You giggled and pulled your pants up to buttoned them, then taking your shirt on "But yeah, I don't wanna be late. My boss becomes mad if anyone's late."

"How's your boss when he's mad?" Jerome asked with a certain leery undertone mixed with jealousy.

He looked at you frowning, his breathe became uneven, he kinda seemed to be upset like if you say a wrong word he's about to explode.

It confused you a little, but you didn't give a shit about it. You thought you maybe were just imagining this jealousy. How could he be jealous anyway? He didn't know you at all so he had nothing to loose when you go.

"Let's say you don't wanna mess around with him. He can be a little scary." You took your shirt on. Now though it wasn't as tight as usual anymore because Jerome tugged it from your body.

"Is he touching you?" Jerome gave you a stern look, his tone became rougher what confused you even more.

"Oh no. No, no, he's just yelling and he hears grudges." You turned to him "It's just annoying, that's all."

"Alright," He nodded standing up to take his boxers on "But wait, before you go..." Jerome walked to his wardrobe taking out a dark grey coat handing it to you "Here, it's cold outside."

"Thank you, but you don't-..."

"It's fine, you can keep it," Jerome smiled "See it as a little reward for the gorgeous night." He winked at you making you blush.

"Thank you." You smiled at him taking his coat on. You smelled his cologne, it smelled like any usual cologne but knowing that it was his made it special.

You both walked to the trailer's front door.

Jerome opened the door, you walked a few steps but turned around to face him. With a smile. You looked at his beautiful shining blue eyes for one last time. More and more you recognized that you liked him. You realized that you've never felt this huge amount of comfortableness and happiness. Sure, in an another relationship you've been happy, too, but not as much as with Jerome.

It was strange, very strange. You couldn't understand how you'd be so attached to a stranger. Maybe it was because Jerome was the perfect guy in your eyes and something gave you the feeling that you two belonged together?

"Well, then," you kissed his cheek quickly "See you around, Jerome."

"See you around, (Y/N). Hope to see ya again." One last time, he gave you this amazing smile before he shut the door.

With a little smile you walked out of the circus. You couldn't wait to visit the circus again to meet Jerome and have an amazing time together.

***

Days went by.

You couldn't stop thinking about Jerome - how kind he was to you, how good he treated you, and let's not forget about the sex, of course. The sex was amazing.

Though you still had his coat. You know you couldn't keep it, you wouldn't feel right about it.

Due to different circumstances, the circus was still in your city. On the one hand, you were curious about the reason why. Maybe there were some complications with travelling? Or maybe they did an extra show and had a lot of work to do to prepare for the show?

On the other hand, all your thoughts focused in Jerome. You were excited: you imagined to hug him, talking to him, laughing with him... Everything you wanted to do when you were able to see him again.

You made your way to Haly's circus with Jerome's coat.

As you arrived, everything seemed to be normal. The circus tent was still constructed, the trailers stood still on the same places as on the day where you visited the show, and the artists still walked around the yard.

You looked around to find someone you could talked to and who you didn't bother; then you saw the Ringmaster who was taking his rings to pack them into his case.

He was a tall colored man with some kind of clown makeup: red cheeks. white makeup was smeared around his face and a fake beard was glued on his upper lip. He was wearing a red suit and a black tophat.

"Hey, uhm...excuse me?" You hesitatingly tapped on his shoulder.

"Hm?" He turned to you with a grunt "The circus is closed for visitors. There ain't be a show today."

"Oh, I know but," as the Ringmaster was about to turn around, you grabbed his arm and turned him back to you "I was just looking for Jerome. He gave me his coat a few days ago and I wanted to give it back."

"Oh, haven't you watched the news? Jerome's in Arkham-..." You widened your in shock, you hoped you haven't heard it right.

"Wait, wait, wait...he's what?!"

Arkham?! Has he really said 'Arkham'?! The asylum where murderers, cannibals and other lunatics are living in?! What is he doing there?! Why is he in Arkham?! What has he done to be busted in there?! These were the thoughts that couldn't get out of your head. Jerome was a criminal? How could he?! He was so kind to me, so polite...was that all just acting? Did he play with my mind?

"He killed his mother with a hatchet. You might know her as the snake dancer." He sighed shaking his head slightly while he kept packing the rings in his suitcase "Let's just hope she didn't have a painful death."

"A-alright...t-thank you..." In shook and disgust, you slowly walk back to your car.

You couldn't believe what you've heard. Jerome was a killer: a blood-thirsty, psychotic and cold-hearted killer. You felt poor, you had the feeling you were about to throw up every minute. You slept with him and you liked it...you even wanted to meet him again!

You were disgusted by yourself.

Now you just wished that you could have changed the past; that you've never slept with him, never let him kiss nor touch you...that you've never even talked to him! You just wished that as he bumped into you, that you ignored him or snapped at him that you and himwoukd have never dealt with each other - everything.

***

*1 year later*

It was a rainy and cloudy day in Gotham.

It was cold, your window panes were fogged through the high temperature difference between your room and outside. In your room, it was warm and comfortable while outside it was cold, almost as cold as in winter.

You were just sitting on the couch eating some sandwiches, drinking a Coke in the hope something new and excited happened in your life.

This day was bearing you down, you didn't know why though. Maybe it was just the weather? You had no idea. You just felt empty inside since last year. And you exactly knew why.

You still couldn't believe the fact Jerome was a killer. You couldn't imagine how an actual kind and smart boy with a gorgeous smile, ginger hair, blue eyes and some abs could grab a hatchet to kill his own mother. You just wished it was a lie and that reality played a bad game with you. For sure, you didn't know Jerome completely, you've just met him once but still you could say that this all felt so wrong.

It was the disgust that caused this feeling. You were disgusted by the thought that you allowed a murderer playing with your mind to get in your pants while he was about to murder something behind your back. You were disgusted by the thought that you imagined you and him being a couple, that you wanted to date him... You were disgusted by everything that included him because it reminded you of all this. When you just heard the name Jerome, you felt shivers down your spine and a feeling mixed of disgust and feeling poor.

One thing that confused you was: you couldn't throw his coat in the trash can. You kept it, it hung in your wardrobe and you smelled on it every day because his cologne was still buried in it, then you remembered the gorgeous night you had with him and all the feeling you felt...But then you remembered who he really was and what he has done right after the meeting of you which caused you to close your wardrobe fast and walking out of our room to quickly forget all that - day by day.

Full of boredom, you turned the TV on hoping something could entertain you there.

But then you saw this:

"Hello, Gotham City! We're the Maniax and I'm Jerome, the shot caller of our little gang. We're here to spread the message of wisdom and hope!"

You couldn't believe your eyes. It was Jerome with a bloody nose who cackled shortly, then shot a cop because he coughed and groaned in pain - he apparently disturbed his little show. He was back, he escaped out of Arkham.

Your body was shaking, your breathe was uneven - you were paralyzed.

You started panicking. No place felt safe for you anymore, especially not your little apartment. You needed to be with someone. You thought, when you're alone you'd be fucked. Maybe he remembered you and wanted to look for you? You remembered that he told you, he'd choose you over others. Of course, they could have been just words but now you never know... He was a psycho who might remember everything.

"Some people have no manners." He took a deeper look in the camera "You're all prisoners. What you call sanity, it's just a prison in your minds that stops you from seeing that y'all are a just tiny little cogs in a tiny absurd machine! WAKE UP!"

Jerome yelled in the TV what made you flinch and you curled up in your couch wrapping your arms around your legs tight. Your face was half hidden being your knees that you were still able to watch his little show - but with fear.

"Why be a cog? Be free like us!" Jerome started to cackle "And just remember, smile" he cackled squishing the dead cop's cheek while cackling louder.

Then you heard horns honking, the police was haunting him.

"Oh, time to go!" He crawled down do the ground taking a police head on and still held the camera tight "But dont worry, we'll be back very soon! Hang onto your hats folks, 'cause you ain't see nothing yet!" Jerome cackled insanely but you immediately turned the TV off.

You grabbed your phone fast to call your best friend (Y/bff/n). You needed to be with them. Being alone in a little apartment would just driving you nuts, especially when Jerome was out!

Your best friend was the only one who knew about Jerome being your one off as they knew that Jerome was a killer so they surely understood why you were so scared. You didn't want to risk anything - whether he'd remember you or not, you didn't want to be alone.

Your phone was ringing, you hoped they'd pick up the phone:

(Y/bff/n): hey (Y/n)! Wha-...

(Y/n): Have you watched the news?!

(Y/bff/n): Uhm...no, why? And why are y-...

(Y/n): Jerome's out of Arkham!!

(Y/bff/n): Wait what?! Are you sure it's the Jerome you're thinking of??

(Y/n): he was in the TV...he's planning something... Can stay with you? I can't stay alone. It's driving me nuts. I already have the feeling he's eyeing me from several corners.

(Y/bff/n): Of course! Come over now. We'll get your stuff later.

(Y/n): Thank you! I'm on my way already! See you!

You hung up, immediately taking your jacket, your phone, your keys and some shoes.

You ran out of your apartment, locking your door and walked straight to the next bus station.

You were in a hurry. Outside you didn't feel well at all. You felt being watched, being haunted. You had the feeling Jerome was everywhere and that he just waited the perfect moment to catch you. Everytime someone was walking past you, you felt shivers down your spine and you were scared that any person was a member of 'the Maniax' and kidnap you and bring you to Jerome. You walked faster to the bus station to arrive your best friend's home as fast as possible. You turned your head to the left, to the right, to see whether someone was haunting you. No one did though. It was just your mind.

As you arrived station, the bus came immediately.

You entered the bus as it stopped and chose a seat in the back.Everywhere around you cheerleaders were gossiping, laughing, squeaking about any boy who kissed a friend and such. You instead kept quiet and looked out of the window.

After a few minutes of driving, the bus stopped through a red car from the fire service that blocked its way. Its horns were honking and you could hear someone was getting out of the car.

You saw a ginger guy dancing out of the car on his way to the entrance of the bus. Your heart stopped. Was it Jerome? Was now the moment where you life will end?

He knocked at the door with something, the cheerleaders started to scream.

Something bad will happen now was what you thought while your pulse was running, your sweat was dripping down your forehead, and your hands were shaking. You wanted to cry, you wanted to crawl back in a corner and hope everything will be fine.

Suddenly the door opened, strangers in white suits with guns entered the bus and put us all in handcuffs that were sticker on chains while they pointed their guns at your heads. But for an unknown reason they went out immediately after everyone in the bus was handcuffed.

Cheerleaders were screaming louder, some even started to cry, to son, and to beg for mercy. You instead kept quiet. You couldn't scream. You were in shock and panic, in fear, some tears were already streaming down your cheeks while you tried break free - you failed.

"I want you all to know," you suddenly heard a familiar voice that paralyzed you in shock - he was here "this was a very difficult decision for us. It was between you and uhm... senior citizen bingo party. In the end we decided to skew a little younger. Youth won the day. Sorry." Jerome walked through the bus eyeing each cheerleader girl and pointed his gun at their heads.

With every step he did, you could hear a clicker-clacker caused by his shoes.

Your heartbeat felt like it could explode every minute. You had the feeling you would die soon. More and more tears streamed down your face, you were sobbing in fear, your hands shook uncontrollably. You just wished, you'd come out here alive.

Then Jerome stopped walking, he was eyeing you in surprise and excitement.

"(Y/n)?!" He bended down to you in astonishment completely around him that all the cheerleaders around him were crying and sobbing, and so were you "My, my, my, look at you. You've grown up in that time we haven't seen each other. How you're doing?"

You said nothing, you were just confused about his behavior.

What was wrong with him? Just a few minutes ago he was about to kill us and now he's behaving like an innocent child?! Was what you thought as you just gave him a confused look.

You were still scared though, maybe again he was just playing with your mind as one year ago just to get you?

"It's so good to see you (Y/n), you know that?" He sighed with a smile on his face leaning his elbow against the seat in front of you to lean his head against his hand "I really couldn't stop thinking about you when I was busted in this dirty old shack. The night in my trailer with you...it was marvellous! I still know each part of your body in detail...it brought me many good nights in my cell." Jerome chuckled dark.

You didn't know what to say. Was he about to kill you now? Was it all just a trick again? Do you have to feel honored now that he thought about you every night and jerked off your body?

You stared into his blue eyes, you could tell he was planning something new - and this time it included you.

"Yeah," Jerome kept staring at you with his grin in his face "Anyways, what's new in your life?"

"U-uhm...p-pretty boring...," You sniffed "Nothing has r-really changed since l-last y-year." You stammered feeling odd about having a normal conversation in such an actually dangerous situation.

"Hm..." Jerome hummed flicking his tongue "You know, actually I wanted to splash gasoline all over the cheerleaders and burn them but...now that you are here... I take you with me and THEN I continue my plan." Jerome uncuffed your hands taking them tight and ran with you out of the bus, the other cheeleaders started to scream and cry again and again begged for mercy.

As you and Jerome stood in front the open entrance of the bus, he softly wiped some hair strains behind your ear. With his thumb he caressed your soft skin and wiped all the tears and smeared mascara away.

Jerome smiled at you admiring your face for a while. He looked deep in your eyes, then down to your lips. With a finger snip your fear was gone, the feeling of uncomfortableness faded slowly. Your breathe was uneven though, his personality changes scared you still. Your hands was still trembling, your knees weak. But something told you that you didn't need to be scared of him anymore. He at least safed you.

"From now on, doll, you're mine."

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orionsangel86 · 3 years ago

Note

100% agree on the selfcest, like

Marvel don't have the balls

They're don't have gay people because they're afraid of backlash, you really think selfcest is the way they're going to go????

Things I wanna know:

WHERE IS B-15 MY BELOVED

They??? Kidnapped an CHILD??? how the fuck did a child step out of your ridiculously drawn boundaries??

Of course they were androids, can't be that easy to contact them. That basically means that Ravonne(?) was in charge. Get the truth out of her, Sylvie

Actually, does this mean that "Time Keepers" don't exist at all?? And this is all a play by a mortal Man™ to keep Order™? A Thanos 2.0?

Fuckin' KNEW pruning wasn't death. Like FIRST of all - pruning? Weird name and in Gardening doesn't it mean to cut away the extra leaves to allow new growth? That doesn't mean the cut part of the plant is dead

What do you think that place is? Also, can't believe they Wandavision and didn't bhage mid credit scenes until EP 4

Ahhh I've only just seen this ask and OOooh I have sooo many of the same thoughts here!

On the selfcest - I don't think using their lack of gay people is actually a great argument against them going for it. Remember that this is selfcest between a man and a woman (well, a male presenting and female presenting Loki anyway which means straight people get to look at them and consider it "normal")

I actually totally think Marvel WOULD choose selfcest between a male and female presenting Loki over any "gay stuff" because I just think Disney are that nasty.

Remember how in Supernatural The CW signed off on Dean textually showing sexual attraction to a DOG (which was very clearly shown to be a female dog) and yet threw a MASSIVE homophobic hissy fit when the show tried to imply he reciprocated Cas's gay feelings to the extent that they totally butchered and ruined the plot of the last two episodes of the show to cover up the gay?

These networks are more willing to support the concept of bestiality between male and female presenting different species than explicitly gay scenes between two consenting men (Looking at you Beauty and the Beast)

So yeah, I would totally believe that Disney would choose the path of "heterosexual appearing" selfcest over anything remotely gay

(yes I know that Loki being attracted to women doesn't make him heterosexual yes I know bierasure is a very real problem and as an actual real life bisexual person I am well aware of this but do NOT give Disney this pass okay.)

That being said, whilst I totally think Disney WOULD choose this route over say, canon romance between Loki and Mobius, I still don't think Loki and Silvie will be a thing. Mobius even called it out in the episode as being twisted and nasty (it IS guys even if you think it's in character for Loki, it's just weird and icky...) so I think it's a misdirect. Its basically this:

"I have feelings for you!"

"I have feelings for you too!"

Narrator: "The feeling was friendship, but neither of them had ever experienced it before."

Anyways, enough about the selfcest!

1. B-15 IS GONNA KICK ASS AND BE AMAZING

2. Oh I actually think there is gonna be a good explanation for that based on Ravonna's refusal to tell Sylvie what the reason was. (Still think maybe it has something to do with the fact that Sylvie isn't actually a Loki? (Please Disney, if you are going for the Loki/Sylvie love pairing route at LEAST reveal her to NOT be a Loki but the Enchantress instead! THAT would make sense!!!)) Otherwise it's probably going to be because she was a GOOD Loki. Like, a Loki who was raised with love and knew who she was and was growing up to make good choices and be a good person and that just didn't fit the timekeepers narrative (which actually makes the whole child abduction thing even worse...)

3. Yeah the time keepers being fake seemed a bit obvious to me, but I still don't think its Ravonna who is in charge. I think it's gonna be a wizard of Oz type situation where it's just some man with an over inflated ego in charge of the whole thing. I've heard rumours about a dude called Kang? But I don't know enough about the comics to really going into any further detail about that.

4. OMG that is such a great point about pruning. You prune plants to keep them neat and growing the way you want them to rather than leaving them to just grow crazy and chaotically the way nature intended. The point is that pruning is a form of control which is technically against nature. But you're right that the pruned pieces aren't dead technically, you can prune, propagate, and regrow.

I think that place is gonna be some sort of dumping ground for all pruned things, both pruned people, and the items on the timeline that were "reset". So you know how young Sylvie was playing with the toy ship? They took Sylvie, and "reset" the timeline which caused the toys to disappear. I think the toys will also be in this place that Loki is now in with all his alternate versions. It's gonna be like a weird pocket dimension or something.

I was so annoyed about that midcredit scene lol! I wasn't expecting it so just stopped watching when the credits first rolled and didn't know Loki came back at first! It was only when I saw people talking about it on here that I was like wait a sec... and went back and watched it! Urgh! What a sneaky trick!!! Lol!

Aahh this answer got long and rambly but please let me know what you think about all this! I am still really enjoying this show even with the icky selfcest implications and can't wait to see the next episode!

#loki #loki spoilers #mcu loki #loki theories #asks

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wille-zarr · 4 years ago

Text

The Mandalorian: “We Have a Deal”

In Fields of White ~ Chapter One ~ “We Have a Deal”

masterlist / next chapter

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x f!reader

warnings: rated T for violence; reference to mild injuries; death; mild swearing; mentions of hunger

word count: 4.1k

summary: fleeing from the life you wish more than anything to forget, you are left to navigate the galaxy alone as a wide-eyed wanderer. in the process of evading the dangers linked to your previous life, your destiny is forever altered when you cross paths with an intimidating mandalorian and his unusually gifted child.

a/n: first, i must thank my amazing beta readers @sana-katarn @disneyjedi19 @barrissoffee77 for their fantastic feedback and for cheering me on throughout this whole process. secondly, i must thank @kaminobiwan @royalhandmaidens @fancycheesebread @arda-ancalima @babyomen @highlycommendable for their kind comments and enthusiasm towards this story. i can’t thank you all enough. i can’t even put into words just how much it means to me. i love you all very much, and i am so excited to begin the adventure that is in fields of white.

also found on: Ao3

In Fields of White

Chapter One: “We Have a Deal”

Reflecting upon the events of your life, you decide you must be either the luckiest or most cursed person in the galaxy.

Current events have you leaning towards the latter.

With a frustrated grunt, you squint your eyes against the dust billowing down the street. Reaching up to your hat, you lower a pair of goggles to rest securely around your eyes. You mutter curses when you feel sand rattling around in the lenses, trapped inside by the whipping wind.

You slightly lift the scarf pressed against your mouth and spit, ridding your mouth of the dust turning to mud. At this point, six weeks into your miserable residence on the tiny planet of Taek, you must have consumed enough dust and dirt to birth a new desert planet.

Grumbling complaints to yourself, you tighten the scarf around your face as you stalk down the street, avoiding eye contact with anyone or anything for too long. You learned that lesson the first week on Taek after a tussle with a Twi’lek.

In your defense, you were only trying to be friendly, but, apparently, Taek didn’t have much in the way of locals, only smugglers and pirates looking for a quick refuel and refresh. Prolonged eye contact and a friendly “hello” with those kinds sometimes didn’t end too terribly well. The fading bite mark on your arm proved as much.

Hoping to rid yourself of the dust that seemed to penetrate everything this dirtball had to offer, you slip in between two buildings, allowing yourself a reprieve from the sandstorm whipping down the street. You loosen your scarf, shaking your head as sand pours from it like a waterfall.

“Damn it,” you grumble. “I shouldn’t be hungry after all the sand I’ve swallowed.” You spit more dirt out of your mouth as if to prove your point.

Satisfied that you’ve ridded yourself of as much dirt as possibly achievable on a planet full of dirt, you turn your attention back towards assessing Taek’s current batch of inhabitants.

Taek’s only starport held a different crowd of creatures every couple of days. Outside of the few storekeepers, cantina-owners, and brothels, you are convinced Taek holds no permanent residents.

You cross your arms and lean against the corner of the building. “One mean-looking squid-man,” you mumble under your breath as you take tally. “A Twi’lek, looks like a smuggler…. Rodian...”

A bright flash of light from down the street pulls your eyes in that direction. Letting your arms fall to the side, you squint, making out an armored figure striding down the street, reflecting bright sunlight even through the dust caking the air.

A Mandalorian.

With a sharp inhale of breath, you jerk backwards into the alley. “No, no, no!” you hiss to yourself.

You’d seen and avoided other bounty hunters on Taek, but this was a Mandalorian bounty hunter.

You’d heard stories about Mandalorian hunters.

If he was looking for you…

Your stomach tightens with more than just hunger.

Stars.

You are dead.

Forcing your breath to even itself out, you scold yourself for the unreasonable panic.

“It’s going to be okay; I’m safe,” you mentally repeat your well-worn mantra. You pause, scowling.

A new mantra might be in order at this point in your life.

You peer back around the corner of the building, torn between wanting to observe the actions of the Mandalorian or bolting as far away as possible. With a deep breath, you choose the former, and also possibly the dumbest, option. Releasing an anxious sigh, you lower the goggles onto your face and tighten the scarf back across your mouth.

You move forward, mingling with the faces of others who, like you, wish to escape a named existence. You push against the crowds of people, eyes sweeping back and forth for any sign of the sun-reflecting armor.

Panic slowly begins to creep back in when, after several minutes of searching, you can find no sign of the Mandalorian.

A sinking feeling grows in your stomach that, in this game of tooka-cat and nuna, you might just be the nuna after all.

After an eternity swimming through a faceless crowd, your eyes latch onto gleaming metal again. You grin underneath your scarf, and your grin only widens when you see the cantina he chooses to go inside.

The Tiny Whomp Rat Cantina is one of the few establishments where you have managed to make connections with a few of the bartenders. When you are having an unusually lucky day, one of the friendlier bartenders would provide some extra work for credits or a bit of extra food.

You position yourself across the street, hoping you looked as ordinary as whatever’s considered ordinary on Taek. You shake your head with a groan. Inhaling dust all day and the lack of food is beginning to mess with your head. You suppose that might explain why you are currently stalking a Mandalorian instead of getting the hell out of sight.

You let your legs give way as you slowly sink down to the ground, leaning against the wall of a building for support. You feel and look pathetic- the perfect disguise.

Frustration presses in your chest after an hour passes with no sign of the Mandalorian leaving the cantina. At this point, you’ve called the Mandalorian every curse word under the sun, and even invented a few new ones for him. To top it off, dusk is falling, and it is beginning to grow chilly, only flaming your irritability further.

Stupid tin-head.

Son of a Hutt.

Shavit brain.

Kriffin metal man.

Damn it! You are too impulsive and impatient for this. You grumble new complaints under your breath as you rip your scarf down and roughly rub your face. If the hunter is searching for you, he isn’t doing a very good job so far.

Oh, what the hell.

You’re going inside.

You stand, pausing a moment to let the blood rush back into your legs. You hesitate only a split second before stalking across the street and creeping through the cantina doors.

You can hear your grandfather’s voice now.

“Child, did you think at all before you chose to act?”

“Yes, actually, I did this time. But probably for not long enough."

Your grandfather is still spitting truths at you even in death.

Shuffling forward, you crinkle your nose at the wall of smell that smacks you in the face as you move inside. You hate this place. It smells like a rotting Hutt eating a decomposing Kowakian monkey-lizard whilst basking in the swamp gasses of Nal Hutta.

Not that you probably smell any better at this point, but still.

The only thing you are grateful for is the fact that the lack of light inside the dingy cantina provided excellent concealment.

Daring not to glance around too much and draw attention to yourself, you stalk straight towards the bar, very grateful to see it’s your friend, a grey-haired elderly man named Irea, working this evening. He looks up and actually smiles at you. It took three weeks to get that smile out of him, and so you return it eagerly. His is the only smile you’ve seen in weeks.

“Hey, kid.” He picks up a glass and begins drying it with a stained rag. “I’m afraid I don’t have any work for you today.” He sighs. “The boss is cracking down, and I-”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt with a raised hand. You slip into a bar stool and lean forward, eyes darting around. You don’t see the Mandalorian anywhere.

You lower your eyes, clenching your hands tightly together on the bar in front of you. “I haven’t come here about that.”

Irea tucks his rag into his back pocket and places a hand on the bar beside you, leaning forward with his body, blocking your conversation from the prying eyes of customers.

“What’s wrong, kid?”

You bite your lip. “Nothing… I mean, I-” You pause and take a shaky breath. Your eyes lift up to meet his own. “I need to ask you about one of your customers.” Your voice drops so low that even you struggled to hear what you had to say. You dart your eyes around again, still not spying the Mandalorian anywhere. You can’t help but fear at any given moment he will jump at you from behind.

“Oh?” the old bartender prods.

You tense, scared to even breath the words. “The Mandalorian. He came in here, right?”

Irea nods slowly. “He’s in one of the back booths,” he whispers, tilting his head towards the rear of the cantina.

You can’t see the back booths from your current vantage point, but your teeth clench knowing you are in such close proximity to the Mandalorian. Too close. You instinctively pull your hat down to sit lower on your face.

“What is he doing here?” you hiss. “Do you know?”

Irea’s eyes shoot around the room. Once he is satisfied there is no one close enough to eavesdrop, he continues, “He’s talking with some strangers I’ve not seen before.” A mischievous expression inches across his face. “But I may have overheard a bit of their conversation, accidentally, mind you.” He points a finger at you with a wink.

You flash him a bright grin. “Of course, of course. Accidentally.”

The old bartender motions for you to move closer towards the wall, so you slip off the barstool and move along with him. He leans in closer to your face. “The Mandalorian is trying to discover the location of Marek’s basecamp.”

You suck air through your teeth with a sharp hiss. “No way.” You shake your head. “Good luck finding that out from anyone.”

He chuckles. “I’m certainly not going to tell him.”

You laugh along with him. “Me neither. Stars!”

Another lesson you learned about this region within the first week of your stay: it’s probably a good idea to avoid associating with Marek and his smuggling ring cronies.

Of course, you learned this after you had already “visited” said basecamp. What can you say? You have a knack for learning lessons the hard way.

But, thank the Maker, the Mandalorian is not searching for you. You feel the tension drain from your shoulders as this realization sinks in.

“Stars, if I had any money, I’d buy a drink right about now,” you chuckle dryly, tucking your chin underneath the ragged scarf draped around your neck. Irea’s eyes soften, and he pats you knowingly on the shoulder.

You smile up at him and crinkle your nose. “Well, thanks anyway,” you sigh, shifting to stand up.

A heavy thud of metal launches you back into your seat.

Oh hell!

Hell!

Kriffin’ hell!

All the air shoots from your lungs as you stupidly gawk up at the Mandalorian. He leans against the bar, mere feet away from you.

“For my tab,” the Mandalorian rasps through his helmet’s vocoder, sliding credits towards the old bartender. The Mandalorian pulls away, not sparing one glance at you before sweeping out of the cantina.

You clasp your hands over your eyes, letting out a sharp breath.

“Stars,” you mumble. All of that stress and worry, and the Mandalorian hadn’t even looked at you. If you weren’t so relieved, you might would feel insulted.

Irea chuckles. “It’s getting late, kid.”

You nod your head, understanding the meaning behind his careful words. After dark, the streets of Taek were not a place not fit for those wishing to avoid trouble.

And seeing as how you possess no weapon, you care very much to avoid the night. You move to stand up again when Irea discretely slides a small package under your hand.

“It’s all I can spare without the owner noticing,” he hisses. “You didn’t get it from me.” He spins on his heel, turning his attention back to drying dishes.

Tears burn in the corner of your eyes, and you squeeze the bag of scraps to your thigh.

You are too kind for this place.

-------

You make your way down the street, grateful that the air has finally cleared itself of the rolling dust clouds. It’s uplifting to walk and breath in clear air, something you never thought you’d take for granted. A wave of stench hits your nostrils from the direction of a junkpile, and you almost gag.

Well, it’s mostly clear air, anyway.

As you continue on your way back to your home camp, you stop by a few of the mechanic shops to ask if they have any work available. You are met with the usual: no work. Taek is pretty small, and the local staff of mechanics keep things taken care of, leaving little work to freelancers like yourself.

Which is probably for the best.

You make a terrible mechanic.

Ignoring your mounting frustration towards life, you make sure to stop and search a few garbage dumpsters located behind some cantinas for anything you can hoard.

Again, no luck.

The food Irea slipped you will have to do for now.

You are so tired of this.

You numbly weave your way through the dark labyrinth of alleys, stars already beginning to twinkle in the sky, instinctively following the path you have traversed every morning and evening for the past six weeks.

As you near the spot where you’ve been sleeping at night, you blood rushes ice cold at a distressed, high-pitched scream echoing from one of the nearby alleys.

You cringe, cover your ears, and keep walking.

You know you have to keep moving; ignore everything you might hear. No one investigated screams at night on Taek. Not unless they were heavily armed and ready to throw down, which you most certainly aren’t. But after another shrill cry rises in the air, your twisting heart won’t allow your feet to keep moving away.

You let out a groan and follow the length of an alleyway before the voices are just around the corner. You cautiously move forward, crouching behind a crate. You peer above it, grimacing when you spy two Zabrak women pressed against the wall of a building. You recognize them from one of the merchant stores in town. They are rapidly speaking in their native language, cowering in terror. You do not recognize the two males, one Rodian and the other a species you had no name for.

But he was tall, really tall.

This... probably won't end well.

The Rodian’s hand shoots out and grabs one of the Zabrak’s arms, sending her into screaming hysterics.

“Wait!” you shriek, jumping up from behind the crate more as an involuntary reaction to the Zabrak’s screams than a conscious decision. “Stop!”

The Rodian actually drops the Zabrak’s arm, in complete shock at your sudden appearance. He and his partner take a few steps towards you, speaking a language you have no name for.

But their body language didn’t exactly scream “friendly”.

You shake your head, eyes narrowing.

Stars, this was not planned.

You have one option.

“Run!” you shriek at the Zabraks, not sticking around to see if they take advantage of your distraction. You scramble over a crate and fly down corridors as fast as your feet can take you. You know these alleys well, just about the only advantage to being marooned for six weeks on Taek. You take a few confusing twists and turns before diving behind a barrier wall, panting heavily. You clutch your side, pain stabbing it from your sudden burst of adrenaline.

“Stars, the things I get mixed up in,” you groan inwardly.

Just when you start to think you might be free, you hear the men’s yells echoing from one alleyway over.

Damn! They both followed you.

You let out a short growl and clench your teeth, pushing away from the wall and zooming towards the location of your home camp. If you can get there unseen, you could hunker down for a few days and stay hidden until the pirates, smugglers, whatever, leave the planet.

You turn the corner, hope building in your chest, and run full-speed into the courtyard- straight into the Rodian.

You shriek and stumble backwards, right into the tall alien’s legs. His hands tighten hard around your upper arms. You yelp at the pain and uselessly try to pull away. The Rodian moves forward laughing and saying things to you in his native language.

“Let me go, you filthy…. disgusting… bug!” You kick as hard as you can, trying to make contact with the tall alien’s legs, but he only laughs and lifts you up in the air by your arms. The oxygen whooshes out of your lungs as your feet dangle a good three or four feet in the air.

“Ahg!” you cry. “Listen! I- I… urg, no hard feelings! I’m…. a mechanic! I…. offer services… free!”

Both men burst into laughter, but you remain dangling in the air.

“Put her down.”

You jerk your head sideways. Standing against a wall, almost nonchalantly, is your Mandalorian. Your mouth gapes open in utter disbelief.

“I said,” he takes one step forward, “down… Now.”

You catch the shine of a weapon pointed directly at the tall alien.

Holy kriff.

The tall alien harshly hurls you to the ground. You hit dirt hard with a cry and cover your head instinctively. You have no time to process anything before-

BLAST. BLAST.

The stench of burned flesh immediately permeates your nose. You crack open your eyes to find yourself face-to-face with the smoking remains of your Rodian friend.

“Bloody seven hells!” you yelp, stumbling up to your feet. You gawk down at the two bodies, mouth still gaped open. Your senses flood back to you all at once. Your eyes shoot up in the direction of where the Mandalorian had just been standing. All you can see is the gleam from the back of his helmet as he retreats from the courtyard.

“Wait!” you cry, freezing him mid-stride. He does not turn around, but you see him tilt his helmet slightly to the side at your voice.

You pause, your heart pumping so hard from adrenaline that you can hear it pounding in your ears.

Maybe it was that same adrenaline or your heightened emotions, but the words that spill out of your mouth surprise even you.

"I know what you're looking for."

He hadn’t been expecting that.

The Mandalorian slowly, silently turns in your direction. His dark visor bores straight into you, not at all unlike a falcon considering if you are worth making prey.

You mentally hiss at yourself, lamenting your impulsion.

Oh, what the hell.

Too late now.

The Mandalorian continues staring at you in laden silence. You take this as an indication to continue. You hide your shaking hands in the pockets of your pants and take a few steps forward, as close as you dared to someone so threatening and who just killed two men now laying at your feet.

“You’re looking for Marek’s base.” You pause, testing the words. The Mandalorian makes no noise nor shows any indication that you are correct.

Silently berating yourself and your horrible decision-making skills, you open your mouth to continue. “Nobody here will help you. Nobody who knows where it’s located.” You pause again and flex your fingers nervously. “They’re… too intimidated.”

This time you let the silence sit, heavy and dense between the two of you.

After what feels like an eternity, the Mandalorian tilts his visor to the side. “And?”

With a deep breath, you throw your shoulders back, taking on the presence of someone much older, experienced, and confident. “I can take you there.” Pause. “You have to go on foot. A ship or speeder would trip the sensors.” Pause. “And you can’t get there without my help.”

Thick silence hangs in the air. You fear he might burn you right where you stand with just his damn gaze. Abruptly, the Mandalorian shifts to place a hand on his holster. You shallow hard at the motion, though you suspect it’s an involuntary mannerism of his.

“Fine… how much?” his voice rasps.

You shake your head. “No credits.”

His hand drops from the holster at that.

“What then?”

You take a second to consider your words. This could turn out to be another scheme that fails horribly, but at this point, it is all the hope you have left. You had to throw your trust to something.

“I- I need transportation off this rock.” You can’t help the edge of desperation your voice takes on. “As close to Keolith as you believe is a… fair exchange.”

The Mandalorian remains silent a few seconds longer than you are comfortable with.

“Why transportation?” his gruff, modulated voice slices through the silence. “Credits just as easily pays for transportation.”

You shake your head. “There’s no public transportation here. Even if I had the credits, I'd have to trust a stranger found in a dingy cantina.” You let a small smile inch onto your face. “And considering my limited experiences here,” you motion towards the smoking bodies, “I really don’t want to do that.”

You hear the Mandalorian grunt, your heart leaping that you might actually be getting somewhere with him. You take a few steps closer towards the Mandalorian. “Plus, I can work! I’m a… mechanic.” You bite your tongue at this. You... probably should not claim that as a benefit to having you on-board.

Your shoulders sink, losing a bit of their straightness. “I’m… I just have to get out of this place,” you finally say, your voice sounding very small and very unlike you. You stare the Mandalorian down, refusing to shift your eyes away despite the discomfort bubbling in your chest.

The Mandalorian is the one to break the gaze, and he looks down at the ground with a heavy sigh. “Fine.” He lifts his head back up. “We have a deal.”

Your eyes flutter in shock. “Whu-?” Quickly masking your surprise, you nod sharply. You straighten back up, taking on the persona of confidence again. “Excellent… We have a deal then.” You can’t help but flash a toothy grin at the Mandalorian.

You close the rest of the distance between the two of you and reach out a hand. “In my culture, we shake on deals,” you explain when the Mandalorian stares down at your open hand.

You hear him release a puff of air through his vocoder, but he carefully places his hand in yours- a solid, firm grip, and you flash an impish smirk up at him.

The dark, emotionless visor stares back down.

You are first to pull your hand away and cross your arms. “It would be best to head out in the morning. It’s about a whole day’s walk. We can meet here at dawn?”

The Mandalorian nods in agreement. “Fine.” His helmet then turns to look at something somewhere behind you.

You follow his line of sight, eyes moving around the courtyard, pausing when you see the bodies of the men still laying on the ground. You chuckle cynically at the sight. Even after the sounds of blaster fire, no one dared come see about it until morning.

“Where do you live?” his raspy voice interrupts your dark humor. “I can… escort you there.”

At that, you let out a dry chuckle. Your smile saddens when he tilts his head at your response.

“Sure.” You keep your arms crossed as you meander through the courtyard and past the bodies lying dead on the ground. You turn and look up at the Mandalorian who is trailing slowly behind you.

“I’m kind of… already home.” You drop to your knees and pry away a loosened board underneath decking beside a set of stairs. You squirm through the tight opening, twisting around to peer back up at the Mandalorian towering over you.

“See you tomorrow, Mandalorian.” You pause. “Oh, and… thanks for, you know, killing them.” You nod in the direction of the corpses.

With a loud thud, you pull the board back closed, entombing yourself under the decking you call home. You start to crawl further underneath when you hesitate, observing the Mandalorian through the cracks between the boards. He is staring directly at the panel you had just replaced. You almost think he starts to move forward.

But he turns on his heel and strides away, leaving only you and two dead bodies for company in the courtyard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

masterlist / next chapter

a/n: Thank you so much for reading the first chapter of In Fields of White! Please feel free to review/comment on here or Ao3 letting me know what you think! :D

Message me if you would like to be added to the tag list for In Fields of White. Let’s just say I have some surprises up my sleeve with this story! Also, it should be noted that this will most certainly be a slowburn story BECAUSE WE STAN SLOWBURN STORIES.

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ahsokasanity · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter Seven

A Court of Shadow and Ribbons Click for earlier Chapters

Training continued, leading up to Cassian and Nesta’s mating ceremony. They were not sickeningly in love in the training ring and just referred to each other as Cassian and Nes (sometimes with a simmering look, but it was not overt).

Gwyn was not uncomfortable around them, she was merely confounded. How could two intelligent, confident and centred people be so reliant on each other? She thought of her sister then. Had not that been a reliance on her part? Didn’t she still wake from dreams of her sister returning and having her fractured world heal just that little bit more? Sisters weren’t the same as lovers she supposed. At least she now had Emerie and Nesta. They were the support and the challengers that she needed to step out of that library every day.

She had memories of other feelings, emotions and physical stirrings before her acceptance into the preistesshood. For males – well one or two who had a kind word or a nice smile, or just a really balanced physique! No one had elicited those feelings from her since before that day. The one that ended everything normal for her.

All she really remembered was an image of her sister, bloody and staring blank eyed, and the need to get the children away. After that was just pain and humiliation and the word NO, no, no. she still awoke screaming that some nights.

Cassian had been the first male, probably ever as she never knew her father, who she felt comfortable with. Her smile sparked at the thought of how Cassian could make Nesta happy. She was on some level envious of the banter, the looks, the calm feelings that flowed between them. The sexual tension was not something that she dwelled upon. It scared her a little. It was awakening however to see Nesta encourage and build that tension. It was obviously worth it for her.

She fingered the rose on the end of her chain absentmindedly. The trainees were resting between bouts of combat featuring a more experienced warrior (Cassian, Azriel or one of the Ribbon cutters) against the newer recruits just starting on practise blades. It was better this way. The warrior was responsible for holding their own blows and blocking, letting the novice practise moves more safely.

Azriel had squared off against Margot – another new trainee from the library. She was short, so short compared to Az, and she needed to work hard to keep her blade up. Azriel was letting her strike here and there, blocking with his own wooden sword and stepping out again when Margot was getting her feet tangled. Cassian directed them both from the side and kept Margot moving and thinking. Azriel saw Gwyn with her rose between her fingers and smiled a little at her, stepping back as though he could see and feel the moves Margot made before she even thought them. Gwyn mouthed “Be careful” and nodded her head to the side as Margot attacked again with a powerful thrust and some very good foot work.

Az was taken slightly by surprise at the speed of this last parry and hurriedly moved his own body and sword where they should be. Seeing the spymaster slightly discomforted thrilled Gwyn down to her bones. She had only even seen him so composed, so in control. It was part of why he intimidated her so much. He was so perfect.

At the end of that session when the group went in to cool down moves, Gwyn stood to the side at the front nearest to Azriel. Nesta nodded to her and she began a haunting melody that led them all through breathing more slowly, stilling their minds and relaxing all of those strained and taut muscles. She looked up and across surreptitiously noting Azriel’s slightly raised and unfurled wings. He looked to be basking in the sun, in the sound, and his eyes were closed. The feeling was as close as she could get to pure admiration. His tan skin was smooth despite his scared hands which seemed notably at rest. His muscled arms held behind his back and his straight posture showed off the length of his body and trim waist. She was actually quite pleased that she could not see him from the back. It may have been too much to bear.

Suddenly Gwyn realised where her thoughts were taking her and shut them down. She was thinking these things about the Assassin, the most cunning of The Night Courts Warriors. She, who had been defiled and hurt as a young girl, was beginning to lust over a five hundred year old legendary figure. Oh she was in trouble.

When the song came to a whispering close, she dropped her gaze from the troops and nodded to Cassian for authority to be excused and left. Her knee caps were jumping up and down on their own and her stomach was in knots. If she’d eaten lately she would have been sick, instead a hollow grumbling reminded her that it would be lunch time if she could keep anything down. The library reasserted itself as her sanctuary as she rushed down the stairs to get changed and go to work.

Az, Cassian and Nesta sat together at the dining table whilst the House served them braised chicken and sweet corn with mountains of leafy vegetables. It knew their protein and vitamin and mineral requirements intimately and after a big session like today, it seemed to enjoy fulfilling their needs. Nesta spoke first (while holding one of Cassian’s hands under the table)

“Well that was interesting” she mused. “What had Gwyn so riled that she left without saying goodbye as if the cauldron where after her”

Cassian gave Azriel a knowing wink and shrugged, Azriel had the good grace to look discomforted. Neither of his friends knew about the necklace or where it had been before it was around Gwyn’s throat. Now he wished that he had told them months ago. He had been dealing with his emotions as he thought of them. Now it was not a difficult task to get through the day training with Gwyn or lunching with Elain or having meetings with Mor, it was a little lacking in excitement actually.

He wondered whether he dare mention the topic of Gwyn with them both. At least Nesta did not have that power of death anymore, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted her opinion of his pining for a traumatised priestess. Cassian knew. He knew that Cassian saw his extra looks, his tension around Gwyn. He’d known him for five hundred years. Hiding that would have taken a lot more manipulative skills than he possessed – and he did have a heap of them. Thankfully Cassian was protective of the priestesses and loyal to Azriel so he wouldn’t step in lightly. And he would definitely approach Azriel alone first.

Azriel answered Nesta, throwing her off any innuendo between the two, “library work no doubt. We did run a little overtime today”

Nesta settled into her chair with a hrrmph. “She could have said bye to me and if she’s coming to the ceremony tomorrow – Since the blood rite, she’s been more withdrawn again. Except with Emerie and I. I hope she can deal with the extra people at the River House. I really want her to be there.”

Cassian squeezed Nesta’s hand and smoothed her brow. “We all heal at our own rate Nes. I’m sure she’ll do all she can to get there”

Azriel had a thought. The perfect solution to making Nesta happy on their mating ceremony day and widening the world for Gwyn. “Maybe you could ask her to sing?”

Cassian stared at him and smiled (he too saw the reasoning behind this suggestion). Nesta frowned a little then warmed to the idea. “I could, and that might be easier for her because she would have a task. She wouldn’t have to socialise unless she wanted to and maybe we could offer for Az to bring her back here when she’s ready to go?”

Azriel had to try to fight his smile, but his eyes twinkled anyway. “I’m happy to do that for you – and for Gwyn if that’s what she would like to do”

Cassian just grinned and thumped lightly on the table “Great”

#Gwynriel #acosf #acotar #Nessian #Mating ceremony #valkyries #singing

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deviant3lover · 5 years ago

Note

OOOOOOOO! You writing for other charaters now? Cuz, here are some bois I'd like to see your take on! Pick and choose who you'd please: Zombieman, Child Emperor, Tatsumkai, Sonic, Flashy Flash, Mumen Rider, King and, (one I'd really like to see) Sweet Mask. Thanks, and happy early birthday!

Thank you~! And lmao, my birthday was like, a month ago now;; I swear my attention span is hella weak- I see a shiny thing and I

Z I P

Outta my work and go over to look at it for the next 3 days.

And anon… dear anon…

I will do ALL OF THEM.

MUMEN RIDER:

If I’m being honest? I honestly hated him when he was first introduced.

He cycled as fast as he could to confront the Paradisers, had a moment where he parked his bike, (a bit awkward, but I faintly enjoyed the sight) pulled off a show of confidence that implied that he knew the gravity of the situation and has a way of dealing with it effectively (the common subversive tactic: weak looking character has tremendous strength) and then got DECKED ON with one hit, showing that it was just shallow hot air he couldn’t back up.

And then he got credit for the work that Saitama did. (Albeit unintentionally.)

Not… the greatest first impression. I thought he was an overconfident guy who was playing hero, uncomprehending of the danger that he puts himself in for the sake of living in an idealised fantasy that since he’s the protagonist, since he’s the one with determination and a heart of gold, it’ll all work out. Him cycling towards the Sea King at full throttle, with him apparently not taking the hint from the Paradisers, drove that belief home to me even more.

(Wow, I sound like Garou here. :o…)

And then he launched into his spiel.

How he felt like he wasn’t good enough to take the promotion, how he knows, better than anyone, that he’s weak. That yes, he might not win- might even get killed for his fruitless efforts for it, but what matters is that he tries. Not because he feels like he can pull it off eventually, or that the monsters will submit to how ~brave~ he is, but because it’s just important to try in the face of overwhelming odds, if it means that others have a slightly better chance of surviving because of it. Willing to die just so others won’t, even when you’re dismissed as a weakling both in the present and after death.

And that made me doubt about what I thought of him.

It wasn’t until I saw him trying to convince TTM to leave Garou alone, trying to intervene when Garou attacked him, and getting his face smashed repeatedly into the concrete sidewalk for his efforts by the same man he tried to defend, that I was utterly convinced that Mumen was genuinely heroic.

This may be a little dark, but I have a feeling that Mumen’s sense of justice doesn’t entirely stem from his selfless nature, but also from feelings of worthlessness. That he goes above and beyond to be a hardworking hero because he feels he has no worth if he dares do otherwise. The Christmas extra chapter in the manga sort of sparked this belief for me. If Mumen’s sense of justice was purely selfless, he’d mention other options (e.g. Friends inviting him out, new bistro downtown, setting up a mini Christmas tree and treating himself to a nice present) and maybe consider injecting some time for himself for them, if not on Christmas day, then the day before or after. Instead, he says with a smile, that he’ll be patrolling the streets for danger with no allusion to his personal life. And that lingering suspicion still sticks to me to this day.

CHILD EMPEROR:

First impression? I didn’t think too much of him, because I didn’t have much reason to. Very little screen time in the early manga/anime didn’t get me to form much of an attachment or investment in his character.

But later on? I like him! A kid prodigy, but it’s made clear time and time again that he still has room to improve, and I’ve always been a big fan of personal growth and developing self-reflection/awareness in stories. The fact that he wasn’t a stuck-up brat who thought he knew everything, and (taking into account that he’s literally 10 years old) still had a great deal of growth ahead of him in terms of the technological and the personal…

Yeah. I’m definitely holding out my hope for seeing a side story dedicated to him.

If I had the luck to choose the idea for the plot, I would love to see what sparked his love for technology, his mishaps and successes and so-so’s when it came to developing his skills and his gadgets. I want to be able to see the people around him reacting with awe and confusion over this kid hurriedly drawing up complex diagrams on a chalkboard board for different ideas before they leave his mind, which gadgets he’s put the most work in, the most time on, and is proud of, and finally; if he had a snobby phase and is ashamed of it. Bonus points if he took a break from his work to read up on how to be more like a mature adult so that older people will take him more seriously outside of being an inventor.

SONIC:

I, uh… honestly don’t think too much of him? He never really stuck with me.

Conversely… I do, however, like the few times we get the spotlight shined on him. He’s a badass to watch, and I laughed and cringed when the infamous ‘accidental punch’ scene came up on my screen. Considering the fact that I watched the anime first before the manga, I wasn’t anticipating it at all.

Which makes me glad in this case! The animated scene feels way more impactful and memorable than the manga version. I felt the build up and the rapidly increasing dread rise in me as I saw Saitama’s fist slowly punch Sonic’s unmentionables. Animating the- ahem- impact of his punch done me in and seared that scene into my mind.

Hmm… I feel like Sonic’s a more rebellious version of Flash, whilst also having been influenced by him. The both of them enjoy taking care of themselves in more luxurious ways, with their glossy hair and refusal to be filthy or rough in any way (e.g. Flash taking good care of his hair in the shower, Sonic opting to cook the monster cells and serve them tastefully before eating them) but I feel like Sonic likes rebelling more outwardly towards how he’s been trained and conditioned as a ninja compared to Flash. He just gives off that vibe~

Expanding on that, I feel like he’s more self-reflective and subtle in his thoughts. Flash is sort of absorbed in his own business and narrow range of experiences (not that I’m blaming him: he’s a busy man) while Sonic is more rooted to reality, and is a little more mellowed out to show for it. In the audio CDs, he gains a new understanding of what Saitama is forced to go through and respects him more as a person than just a milestone to beat, and he overcomes his trauma of Saitama ‘punching him’ by accepting what happened and simply keeping the possibility of it happening again in mind; not to torture himself or blame himself for being ‘weak,’ but to acknowledge what he’s fearful of and accepting it, allowing him to move on.

FLASHY FLASH:

I was gunning hard for him to be a cold-blooded woman assassin who wants to look elegant and deadly at the same time. Femme fatale, minus the seduction.

I was a little disappointed when he turned out to be a guy, and more so when he riled up Metal Bat with his insults while telling them to cut it out (counter intuitive, but it wouldn’t have been so bad if I wanted to see that. But I didn’t want to see it so lmao-) so, apart from his cool character design, I was a little turned off in my investment in him.

I was hoping that they kept the name ‘Lightspeed Flash’ instead of Flashy Flash. Yes, I know that they’re pretty much the same in terms of meaning, but the former just sounds more dignified. Considering he’s a man who takes himself seriously in both his work and appearance, I feel like it’s more in character for him to suggest a hero name that sounds more impressive, but still shows that sort of silliness underneath when you look closely.

He gained back some of my respect for him when he directly told Tatsumaki off for stealing his kill and talking down on him. That takes mad guts and I was wondering which of the heroes are willing to risk a serious fight with her to prove that they’re not one to be trifled with.

(Metal Bat was a little different in that regard: at the time, I just saw him as another affectionate parody of the delinquent trope. Nice contrast to the rest of the older, calmer heroes, but a little generic.)

Flashy Flash… yeah. I feel like he’s willfully disconnected himself from the world both emotionally and socially. Not because he’s afraid, but because he thinks it’s useless. He’s already seen the worst of it thanks to his upbringing, so there’s no point in putting in effort to go out and explore just to discover what else is wrong with the world.

I also think that, like Tatsumaki, he feels more than competent on his own and believes doesn’t need any outside help or interference. Hence, anyone who doesn’t meet his personal standards immediately has their opinions and suggestions of him dismissed or not truly considered with respect. He thinks he knows what’s best, even when there’s opinions screaming that he’s not, because he doesn’t respect others that way.

KING:

OOF- Okay, I was actually pretty ambivalent about him.

I thought he was cool when he intimidated the Tongue monster into submission, then thought he was an egotistical, vain hero when confronted by the G4 monster, then thought he was a pitiful, cowardly man forced to flee out of necessity, and then thought he was an endearing puppy when he realized just who Saitama is to him.

And. Hm.

King is… a very genuine man. I like him. Like Mumen Rider, he’s willing to put himself on the line to protect others. What makes me a little conflicted is if he’s more, the same, or less heroic than Mumen.

More: He has absolutely nothing to defend himself with in terms of physical skills or strength. His luck is his only maxed out stat in the hero game he’s obliged to play, and he’d rather be left alone, but he still puts his life on the line to help others, even when he’s scared witless.

Less: He does have his awe inspiring, fear inducing reputation that can neutralise the monster threats more often than not, and is aware of this, using it to his advantage. So maybe he’s a little less courageous since he knows it will work in his favour more often than not.

My take on him… King strikes me as a good man. In a normal, monsterless world, he won’t be the kind who’ll fearlessly charge into battle against terrorists, or pull off any awe inspiring feats by himself by passing life saving legislations; this man isn’t interested in grand scale heroics and would rather support those who are interested and are good at it.

No, King strikes me as a man who wants to keep to himself and offer his sincere help to those who manages to become good friends with this shy man. He may be quaking in his boots at imminent danger, but he’ll still try to stand up for what’s right when someone else is being taken advantage of, even if he’s not entirely sure of what he’s doing.

AMAI MASK:

(RECENT WEBCOMIC SPOILERS!!)

I never cared much for Amai until now.

I can’t imagine anything more devastating than working yourself down to the bone to protect and give people hope, to cultivate others into what it means to be a true hero, only to realize the people you worked so hard for was just as hideous as you used to be. This man worked so hard, and him protecting the people he cared about wasn’t enough to deter them from reacting with horror and disgust. It wasn’t even five minutes until the first of his ungrateful ‘fans’ tried stoning him.

Thank God Saitama intervened… the look on his face after he was called a cool guy was both ugly cute and heart wrenching. He may have been called dreamy or inspirational by the adoring masses, but being broken down to the very thing that you’ve been ashamed and fearful of your entire life, and still having someone who sees you as someone worthwhile must’ve meant the world to Amai. He’s a monster, yes, but he kept a vice grip on his morals and never let them go, even when his grip on them was weakening with every breath he took.

I also liked the way that ONE written his rise to fame. The build-up and anticipation surrounding how he looked behind the mask, Amai himself being bitter over the vanity of the public, learning to accept it, and gradually became obsessed with embodying the symbol of justice- this time, where everyone can see it. But it wasn’t on his own terms, no; instead of being seen as the ugly but virtuous man before, he has to present himself as a handsome idol, instead of being loved and revered for who he truly is; ugly and all. That it’s not a defect.

And I felt pity for him when I realized that’s what happened.

My opinion and takes (interpretations) of him? He’s interesting, to put it lightly.

If I think more on it, I feel like he’s losing himself to his delusions. It’s ironic: someone focusing on saving the hearts of others, yet all they can see is themselves.

True to the series, Amai reminds me of Genos. Of what Genos would’ve turned out to be if he was kept alone with no one he can truly connect with. No one who can remind him of the sweeter things in life that don’t matter. No one you have a personal, deep connection with to return home to.

Amai strikes me as a man who’s so focused on eliminating evil that he sees it everywhere, no matter how small or large it is, or if it even exists. If someone doesn’t live up to his standards or sees what he sees, he immediately has this sort of insurmountable, unseen distance from them that can’t be easily crossed.

In all honesty, I’m intrigued and worried for him. Part of my indulgent ideas for him is that he’s slowly starting to hallucinate and had started monsterize from the inside for a long, long while, and it’s only by the Association’s dependence on him and his adoring fans that keeps preserving the man that he used to be when he was purely heroic, but hideous. And even then, it’s not enough.

I feel like he’s painted himself in a corner where he feels it’s too late to try and get help for his condition, instead desperately searching for someone who can take his place. He knows how important a symbol is, and if he had the choice, would keep it up as long as he lives, but his passion for it isn’t enough to drive off what he’s becoming.

And he was right.

ZOMBIEMAN:

I may have done Zombieman already, but I also realise that I’ve missed out on some things that I wanted to include~

In contrast to Amai, Zombieman strikes me as the type of guy who’s a sort of ‘Frankenstein’s Monster’ character. Unlike the book character, Zombieman is in a society that accepts, reveres, and adores him for all he does despite his questionable history and to what degree he is ‘human.’ He doesn’t seem to believe that what he is makes up for who he is, and anyone who thinks otherwise will earn his ire; but again, like Frankenstein’s monster, he knows it’s a part of him, and that it’s still a source of discomfort for him. He needs to get that skeleton out of his closet for him to truly enjoy life.

TATSUMAKI:

Honestly, I didn’t notice too much of her character until much, much later in the manga. Prior to that, I admired her ability to take care of the worst threats by herself. Soloist heroes and protagonists were always a soft spot of mine: learning to handle the worst of what life had to throw at you and being good at it, but not necessarily good at taking care of your emotional and mental wellbeing, confiding in others about that, and showing that it’s okay to be vulnerable or lost or flawed, and endeavoring to fix that?

Yesss. Good trope. One of my favorites.

So, what finally caught my attention from her?

Her fight with Psykos.

I was sort of seething with the way Psykos was chilling smugly in her underground lair. Her plan was smart, but the way she was so self-assured and the way she thinks she’s above others; human and monster alike, sipping wine all the while?

That irritated me a lot.

So, to see Tatsumaki rip her from her cozy room and into the fray of the battle, coercing her into spilling intel by twisting her limbs and body each and every way to force it out, and striking fear into her heart with that sadistic, predatory smile of hers?

I loved it. Whoo!

As for takes… I’m not sure if I have any on her to be honest! At least, not one that isn’t already canon. She believes that you shouldn’t rely on others to become strong, or to save you, and has lived up to that idea by herself. She can back up her words and I admire that.

I do feel a little sorry for her, considering what she’s gone through. As much as I agree with her, sometimes she can take it too far.

I was a little irked by her showing little to no concern for shielding her team mates from getting crushed underneath the rubble of a building, with Darkshine stepping in to protect them, but I suppose she had a point; you have to take care of yourself on the battlefield.

Still; her total lack of concern left me a little perturbed.

This was curbed a bit by her refusing to uproot the association until she knew Tareo was safe; I feel like that added more character to her in the manga, as opposed to the webcomic.

In conclusion: All of these characters are good. UoU! Murata and One are great writers, and they made them feel fleshed out and distinct from each other in almost every way possible whilst keeping them believable. And I love them for it. :3

#opm #tatsumaki #zombieman #flashy flash #child emperor #mumen rider #amai mask #king #sonic #headcanons

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unpack-my-heart · 5 years ago

Text

Acute-y

A Reddie High School Math Teachers AU

Written as a gift for the insanely lovely @constantreaderfool <3

@xandertheundead @tinyarmedtrex @eds-trashmouth @mrs-vh @violetreddie

Read on AO3 HERE

“I dunno, Sir. I’m supposed to be putting in my college applications in a few days, and I still can’t decide what to pick as my major”

“What are you choosing between?”

“Math and biology. I’m better at math, and I don’t enjoy biology that much, but I can’t think of a decent reason to put down as to why I want to study math. What did you put when you applied to college?”

Eddie sat back in his chair, face scrunched in thought.

“You know when you’re in the middle of a really hard proof, and you don’t know where you’re going, you have no idea where to start and the whole thing just feels like a waste of time?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“That’s like being in a kayak in the middle of the ocean. You’re there, you’ve got all the tools you need to get you to shore, you’ve got your oars and everything, but you don’t have a map. You don’t know which way to go. But, when you figure out which way you are supposed to go, that feeling when you haul yourself onto shore with aching arms, that feeling when you know you’ve done it, that’s why math is amazing”

“Aching arms?”

“It’s a metaphor, Jasper. Just – look. I’m not naturally good at math. I always had to work a bit harder than my peers, who just seemed to … get it instantly. I definitely cried over integration more often than I’d admit to anyone else but you. But I think that’s why I love it so much. My childhood wasn’t … let’s say, my childhood wasn’t very rational. I craved structure, order, precision, any other synonyms that mean the same thing. I craved rationality and math gave that to me. To be able to break everything down, to get absorbed into the minutia of the universe, it’s addictive. It’s breath-taking, and it eases my soul”

Jasper is staring at Eddie with wide eyes, mouth hanging open slightly, and Eddie internally facepalms, cursing himself for spooking the teenager sat opposite him, but then Jasper smiles.

“Thanks, Sir. That – that’s really helpful. Thank you”

“Anytime,” Eddie says, sending Jasper off with a wave and a smile.

Standing up, Eddie stretches his arms towards the ceiling, prompting his back to crunch loudly in three places. His classroom is a mess. Pieces of paper lie strewn all over the floor, rogue pencils and forgotten textbooks littering the desks. Eddie’s school is small, and tragically underfunded, and despite only being a permanent member of staff for a year, Eddie already feels fiercely protective over it. The school is a downtown public school, and his kids mostly come from the impoverished neighbourhoods on the outskirts of the city. Almost all of them have long, boring commutes into school, and almost always slouch into his morning classes tired and starving from never having eaten breakfast, so Eddie has become the teacher that arrives to his classes with pep in his step and a box of granola bars lodged firmly under his arm.

Eddie got the job at Southview High School six days after he’d graduated from his teaching qualification. He’d applied to thirty schools, mostly disadvantaged public schools, and three private schools at the insistence of his mother. He’d been offered interviews for all of them, but he’d only attended one. As soon as he’d walked into the interview room, and shook hands with the head of department, a fiery woman called Dr. Marsh, he knew he was home. Dr. Marsh was firm, and the interview had lasted nearly two hours, and by the time she’d put him through his paces, Eddie felt like his brain was on fire.

He was sure that he’d failed the interview, but after thirty seconds of silence, Dr. Marsh stood up, stuck out her hand, and said, “Can you be here tomorrow at half seven? You’ll be taking the AP students, I’m taking their classes at the moment but I can’t commit as much time to them as they need. God knows they need someone like you”

Eddie had jumped up and down on the spot, before composing himself and accepting the position.

“Oh, and Eddie?”

“Yes?”

“Call me Bev”

The first few weeks had been pretty rough. The kids, predictably, had put Eddie through the ringer, testing boundaries and acting out as teenagers are wont to do. It took a while, but eventually Eddie, to use Bev’s phrase, ‘grew some bollocks’, and started commanding more respect in the classroom. He achieved this, not through sending kids out of the classroom or handing out detentions like candy, but by just through the simple act of listening. The kids, Eddie was quick to realise, just wanted someone to validate, not dismiss, their teenage angst, and Eddie was more than happy to be their crutch.

Fast forward a year, and Eddie’s classroom has become more of a home to him than his actual home. It’s pretty large, and Eddie begged Bev to let him implement flexible seating, so his kids are sat on large tables that look more like picnic benches than desks, in order to encourage collaborative work. One thing that Eddie has come to realise, however, is that his class is full of genuinely talented mathematicians. When he hands back test results, it’s always the same ten students getting in the high nineties, which, gives him an idea.

He attaches a note to the most recent test paper of these ten students,

Can you stay behind after class? I need to ask you something!

[you’re not in trouble please don’t panic]

Needless to say, the kids panic.

“Sir? Am I in trouble? I swear I’ve handed in all the homework this term!”

“Mr Kaspbrak I’m really sorry, I didn’t realise I’d accidentally stolen the protector until I got home, I brought it back, though, honest!”

“Sir, what’s this about?”

“Guys! No, you’re not in trouble, but thanks for bringing the protractor back, Kim. No, I have a proposition for you. Have you ever heard of mathletics?”

The kids all shake their heads.

“Well, lemme explain …”

– X –

It takes several weeks for Eddie to recruit all of the students he cherrypicked as his dream mathletes team, but he manages it, with the promise of extra credit and no homework on heat weeks. Whilst he was a mathlete himself during his college years, Eddie hasn’t ever actually coached a team before, so he spends hours every evening reading every internet article and borrowing every book from the library he can possibly find on how to coach a mathletics team. Eventually, when he thinks his students are ready, and he manages to get them all to agree, Eddie registers them for a practice heat against a local school in their city.

Eddie and his motley crew of baby mathletes meet every Thursday and Friday after school to practice, and before they knew it, the morning of the heat was upon them. The heat was being held in the auditorium of the opposing school, so Eddie had to borrow the rusty old school bus to schlep his kids across the city. Bev, who had given Eddie an ecstatic “YES!” when he had asked for her permission to take the kids to a mathletics heat in school time, had announced the night before that she wanted to go with him. He had said yes, sort of hoping that she’d offer to drive the death-trap bus, but she’d climbed into the front passenger seat. Eddie prayed to the driving gods that they’d keep the roads clear and keep the wheels attached to the bus before he climbed in, and they set off to Faraday Technical School.

Thankfully, the journey goes smoothly. The kids chatter quietly in the back, and Bev manages to distract Eddie’s nervous stomach by discussing budget plans, and whether he thought that Iron Man would be better than her at differentiation. Eddie answered honestly that he didn’t think he would be. Soon enough, they pull into the gates of Faraday Technical School, and Bev hops out of the bus to speak to the guard on the gate. Eddie gulps. Their school doesn’t have a guard. Their school doesn’t even have gates. They just have an old caretaker called Jim who loves the kids and polishes the floor with his radio on full blast. The guard nods at Bev, and then nods over at Eddie, and then the gates swing open as if by magic, and Eddie drives through. The school looms ahead of them, and Eddie’s students all go silent. By the time Eddie has parked up, Bev has walked over to them, and she hauls the door of the bus open.

The kids don’t move.

“Dr. Marsh, I don’t think I can do this”

“Yeah I’ve … I’ve got a headache”

“Sir, we’re going to lose”

Bev claps her hands, “Hey! You can do anything these kids can do. Yeah, they go to a fancy school, but you’ve got Mr K and me on your side. You’ve worked so hard for this, don’t let the fact that this school has a pool spook you”

“They have a POOL?!”

“Why don’t we have a pool!”

“Because I want to be able to afford the latest textbooks for you, that’s why” Bev says, grinning.

After several minutes of animated encouragement from both Bev and Eddie, the kids finally filter out of the bus. They stand around looking ever the lost lambs, and Eddie’s heart bleeds for them. He knows exactly what it feels like. Imposter syndrome, feeling like you’re a fraud, like you don’t belong. Like you don’t deserve success.

Eddie and Bev herd the kids into the school, and they find the auditorium. The opponents are already on the stage, closely huddled together, with an older looking teacher with a shock of white hair and a pinched face standing in the centre of the huddle. The teacher was waving his hands wildly and speaking so loudly that Eddie could hear him at the other end of the hall.

“WHO ARE WE?”

“FARADAY TECHNICAL SCHOOL!”

“WHAT DO WE DO?”

“WIN!”

“WHEN DO WE WIN?”

“ALWAYS!”

“That’s a rubbish chant” Bev stage whispers, and their kids laugh nervously.

Eddie takes a deep breath in, squared his shoulder, sets his jaw, and strides purposefully over. He taps the teacher on the shoulder and clears his throat.

“Um, excuse me?”

“Ah, you must be Mr Kaspbrak, we spoke on the phone”

Eddie takes and shakes the extended hand.

“Yes! That’s me. You must be Mr Tozier?”

“Oh, no, no. I’m Mr Powell, the principal of Faraday Technical. Mr Tozier is sorting out the IT, you should liaise with him”

“Oh, okay. Where can I find him?”

A hand lands on Eddie’s shoulder and squeezes, and Eddie turns around. Stood behind him, and smiling at Eddie with a wolfish grin, is a man who can’t be any older than Eddie, perhaps a year at most. He’s wearing a very loud pink Hawaiian shirt, grey dickies and scuffed suede Chelsea boots, with round red glasses balanced on his nose. By all rights, he should look ridiculous. But he doesn’t. Not even close.

“Howzzit, fellow teach?” Mr Tozier says, voice crackly like autumn leaves.

“Uh…” Eddie replies, dumbly.

“I stalked your Linkedin, you know. MIT grad? Top of your class?” Mr Tozier whistles, impressed. “How’d you end up teaching sprogs if you’re some kind of hypergenius?”

“My Linkedin?”

“Yup! Wanted to check you out before you got here, see what I’d be up against. Gotta be honest, Eddie Spaghetti, you got me shaking in my boots”

Ridiculously, he starts shaking his legs, a pretence at fear that makes Eddie snort, despite his attempts not to encourage Mr Tozier’s ridiculousness.

“Eddie Spaghetti? Seriously?”

“Too informal? Would you prefer Mr Spaghetti?”

“I’d prefer Mr Kaspbrak, thank you,” Eddie says, somewhat prissily, but Mr Tozier doesn’t seem to mind, a lopsided grin still plastered on his face.

“So, Mr Tozier, how does this work?”

“Mathletics virgin, are we?” Mr Tozier says, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Not entirely. I was a mathlete myself when I was at MIT but I’ve never coached a team through a competition before”

“Aw, no shit? I was a mathlete at CalTech. What year were you on the circuit?”

“2006, you?”

“…2006. I fuckin’ KNEW you looked familiar!” Mr Tozier practically shouts, pointing a finger in Eddie’s face accusatorily.

“Do you think we competed against each other?”

Mr Tozier shrugs his shoulders, “’Prolly, your face … well, it looked familiar as soon as I stalked your LinkedIn. I’m like an elephant, I never forget cute faces”

Eddie splutters a bit, before raising an eyebrow challengingly, “well, if we did compete against each other, I wiped the floor with you. I never lost a heat. Eddie the dominator, they called me”

“Dominator, eh? We’ll see about that,” Mr Tozier says with a wink, before striding off towards his team.

“Wait!”

Richie turns around, “what’s up, Mr Spaghetti?”

“Enough with the spaghetti! I don’t think it’s fair that you know my first name and I don’t know yours”

“Richie, Richard if you’re angry with me”

“Got it, see you later, Richard”

Richie laughs, high, bright and scratchy.

“May the best team win, Mr Spaghetti”

Eddie rolls his eyes dramatically, but he can no longer suppress the smile that’s been tugging at his lips.

– X –

Eddie’s team wins the heat. As soon as the winners are announced, he bursts into tears. Happy tears, of course. His kids laugh at him mercilessly, calling him soppy and ridiculous, but they all have megawatt beams plastered on their faces. They only win by three points, 103 to 106, but the other team were smart, and there were various points in the heat that Eddie was trying to work out how to console his team when they inevitably lost. Bev picks Eddie up by the waist, and squeezes him so hard he makes this involuntary squeaky ‘oof’ noise, causing the kids to laugh at him even more.

When they’re piling the students back into the bus, with the promise of candy at the next mathletics meeting, one of the kids from Faraday Technical School runs up to Eddie clutching a folded piece of paper.

“Mr Tozier asked me to give this to you,” the kid says, out of breath and puffing.

Eddie tilts his head, “Uh, thank-you?”

The kid thrusts the piece of paper into Eddie’s hand, before running off again. Eddie opens the paper,

I’ve decided I don’t really like math. The only number I care about now is yours

Eddie looks up from the paper, face burning, and immediately locks eyes with Richie, who was standing in the window of the auditorium. Eddie waves at him, a weird jerky little motion. Richie grins, and winks at him. Eddie laughs, before shaking his head and climbing back into the bus.

Later, when Eddie’s at home grading problem sheets, he absent-mindedly checks his email, and sees that he has a notification from Linkedin.

Richard Tozier would like to add you as a connection!

Eddie accepts without much thought, and goes back to grading. Several minutes later, though, his computer pings again, this time with a message

Richard Tozier has sent you a message!

Richard: Fancy seeing you here

Edward: This … is an online message? You can’t see me?

Richard: You pedant

Edward: :-)

Richard: oh my god even your emojis are cute

Edward: :-(

Richard: Why are you sad!

Edward: did you want something or are you just trying to distract me from marking?

Richard: Both?

Edward: Not acceptable. I have to mark 34 more problem sheets and then plan a lesson tomorrow on trig identities

Richard: :-(

Edward: Now you’re just mocking me

Richard: I meant what I said, you know

Edward: … About?

Richard: Not liking math anymore

Edward: Get some better pick-up lines

Richard: You were charmed by it, don’t lie to me. I saw your face when you read that note.

Edward: No comment

Richard: :-)

It took more strength than Eddie would ever admit under oath to pull himself away from his computer, but he managed. Shutting his laptop lid with a click, he managed to lose himself in the problem sheets for several hours, before his eyes start getting heavy and he calls it a night. Before he goes to sleep, he impulsively checks his LinkedIn messages,

Richard: Are you the square root of 2? Because I feel irrational when I’m around you

Edward: You’re a nerd

Richard: ;-)

– X –

After their triumphant win at the practice mathletics heat, Eddie starts entering his kids for more and more practice heats, and even organises a few himself that they hold at their school. The confidence of his students blooms like blossom trees, and Eddie couldn’t be more proud if one of them had won the Fields medal. He’s still messaging Richie on LinkedIn. Like clockwork, Richie sends him a pick-up line at night, and Eddie always responds by calling him a nerd. It’s their thing now, and Eddie is punched in the stomach by the realisation that, if Richie stopped messaging him, he’d be devastated.

The thing that was frustrating Eddie the most, however, was the fact that their conversations had not moved off of LinkedIn. They hadn’t even added each other on Facebook, or followed each other on twitter, even though Eddie had managed to find Richie’s accounts on both sites. His mouse had hovered over the ‘add as friend’ and ‘follow’ buttons more times than he’d care to admit, but he could never quite bring himself to click. Eventually, the frustration builds up to a crescendo, and so, with his heart hammering in his chest, Eddie sends Richie a message.

Edward: Hey Rich, was wondering if you’d want a mathletics re-match? I wanna show off how good my kids have got

Edward: No pressure, of course

Richard: Name a time and a place, Mr Spaghetti

Eddie decides to throw the heat at his school, and he spends several days co-ordinating with Bev about where they should hold the heat, and then sweet talking the music teacher into agreeing to do the PA. Try as he might, Eddie can’t ignore the nerves gnawing at his stomach. he doesn’t really understand why he’s nervous because it’s not like Richie returns this pathetic school-yard crush Eddie has been harbouring since the first practice heat. Eddie rationalises it by assuming that Richie is just a naturally flirtatious person. It doesn’t work, though, and the nerves transform into butterflies.

The morning of the heat arrives. Eddie’s classroom overlooks the small parking lot, and he catches himself periodically staring out of the room, waiting for Richie’s bus to arrive. When the Faraday Technical School bus does arrive, Eddie is in the middle of explaining a particularly tricky vector problem. Eddie stares at Richie who is holding the bus door open, saluting each kid that hops out. By chance, Richie looks up, and sees Eddie staring at him from his classroom, and Richie winks at him again, causing Eddie to splutter. The student who is currently working out a problem on the board sends him an odd look.

“… so once you’ve found the dot product, you can find the angle between the two vectors,” Eddie continues, trying to regain composure.

“Uhhh Sir, the angle is acute”

“Yes, I know. You just worked that out on the board for us”

“Your answer is 116 degrees”

“…Shit”

“Sir! You swore!”

“Oh, Faraday are here, is that why you’re nervous?”

“… Yes. That is exactly why. The competition. Yes. Of course!”

The bell rings soon after, and Eddie scrambles down the hall to the cafeteria, that they’ve repurposed as a makeshift auditorium. His kids are already there, bickering between themselves about who will go first for the mental arithmetic round.

“Siiiiiiir! Jenny lost my calculator! I don’t have another one for the calculator round!”

“for fucks sake – Okay Kim! That’s fine. I’ll go and fetch you one,” Eddie says, and he sprints to the math supply cupboard at the other end of the school to get a spare one.

He darts into the cupboard, grabs a calculator, opens the door again and promptly screams because directly outside the door, leaning on the opposite wall, is Richie. Richie laughs at him, a proper belly-laugh, and clutches his stomach as he doubles over. Eddie huffs at him, and starts walking back towards the school hall, comically slow, allowing Richie to catch up with him

“Hey, Mr Spaghetti,” Richie says, breezily, walking sideways like a crab so he’s facing Eddie.

“Hello, you pest”

“You ready to get your ass handed to you?”

“I wouldn’t be so cocky, dude. My kids have been working super hard since the last meet, plus … we thrashed you last time so … it’s you that’s gotta be scared,” Eddie counters, poking his tongue out at Richie, childishly.

“You won by three points”

“We still won”

Richie leaps in front of Eddie, blocking his way, before standing up on his tip-toes and clasping his hands together, “care to make this interesting?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Are you a betting man, Mr Spaghetti?”

“Is it ethical to bet on our students?”

“Ethical Schmethical. We won’t be exchanging money if that’s what you’re worried about,” Richie says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

He’s wearing different glasses frames this time. They’re blue, and they match his eyes.

Eddie shakes his head, distracted.

“… Go on”

“If my kids win, you gotta let me take you out”

“Hmm…,” Eddie muses, in mock consideration, “what if my kids win?”

“You gotta take ME out!” Richie says, eyes sparkling.

“But… that works out the same”

“Oh, so it does! What a clever little spaghetti you are”

“You gotta quit it with the spaghetti stuff!” Eddie scolds, but Richie just laughs at him.

“You gonna put me in detention?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “obviously not”

“What a shame. So, Eds, do you agree to our little wager?”

They’re nearly back at the hall now, and Eddie can hear Bev’s voice filtering through the PA system, instructing everyone to take their seats.

Eddie holds his hand out for Richie to shake, “deal”.

Richie takes his hand, but instead of shaking it, he presses a sloppy kiss to the back of Eddie’s hand.

“You must be an asymptote, because I just find myself getting closer and closer to you,” Richie whispers into Eddie’s ear, and before Eddie can call him a nerd, he’s gone.

– X –

Eddie’s kids lose the heat. They lose quite badly, actually, as Richie’s kids function like a well-oiled machine, and Eddie’s kids freeze when a particularly tricky integration stumps them. Eddie feels awful, especially because this was the first time they’d lost by a significant margin. His kids surprise him though, and they all shake the winners hands, looking upset but not angry. Eddie’s heart threatens to leap out of his chest, each beat a cacophony of proud, proud, proud.

Eddie also shakes the hands of all the kids, congratulating them on their speedy mental arithmetic and their teamwork. Bev yells something to him about the PA system not turning off properly, and Eddie turns his head to tell her that he’ll be there in a minute, but then another hand is in his. It’s larger and rougher than the others, and Eddie turns his head and, of course, it’s Richie.

“Well done, Mr Kaspbrak. You guys put up a good fight,” Richie says, no longer shaking Eddie’s hand, just holding it.

“Thanks, Mr Tozier. Your kids are quite impressive”

“Heh. They’re good eggs, all right. I’m proud of ‘em”

One of Richie’s kids screeched loudly for Mr To-zi-eeeeerrrhhh!!, and Richie’s head snapped backwards, before he turned back to look at Eddie, rolling his eyes, “they may be smart, but my God they’re demanding little sprogs”

Richie gives Eddie’s hand one last squeeze, before striding off towards the back of the hall, collecting his kids, and disappearing through the door.

Eddie looks down at his hand, and sees a tiny piece of paper folded up nestled in the center of his palm. It had a phone number scrawled on it in teeny tiny chicken-scratch scrawl, along with the words your new favourite number.

Eddie saves the number in his phone under ‘you nerd’, with a rolling-eyes emoji next to it.

– X –

To: You Nerd:

Very sneaky.

From: You Nerd:

Whatever do you mean?

To: You Nerd:

You know exactly what I mean.

Richie doesn’t respond immediately, and Eddie’s hands begin to itch.

To: You Nerd:

So where are you taking me?

From: You Nerd:

Ah-hah! A certain Mr Spaghetti hasn’t forgotten our wager

To: You Nerd:

Of course I haven’t

From: You Nerd:

Well, I’ve got a very exciting evening planned, but it’s a surprise so I can’t tell you. Are you free on Friday? Say, 6pm?

To: You Nerd:

Yeah, I can do Friday. Can you at least tell me what the dress code is, though?

From: You Nerd:

It doesn’t matter what you wear, you won’t be wearing it for long

To: You Nerd:

I’m not gonna put out you know

From: You Nerd:

I never insinuated such a thing

To: You Nerd:

… but you said I wouldn’t be wearing my clothes for long?

From: You Nerd:

just wait and see, Eds, just wait and see

Eddie doesn’t text back after that, getting lost in marking test papers. When he’s lying on his couch later that evening, knocking back a large glass of red wine, a thought suddenly pops into his booze-hazy brain … that fact that he just might have a picture of college-age Richie Tozier lurking in his scrapbook from his mathlete’s days. Eddie balances a chair in front of his wardrobe, and manages to pull the scrapbook off of the top using the pad of his index finger, sending it clattering to the floor. He flips through his college scrapbook, looking for the pictures of the mathletics heats he’d competed in, and he finds the one he’s looking for almost instantly. He’s standing there, holding the trophy, a stupidly big grin on his face (and those damn braces!) but in the corner, Eddie spots him. Richie. Richie’s standing in the corner of the shot, staring at Eddie with what look like, if Eddie didn’t know better, a sort of lovestruck expression on his face. Eddie grabs his phone and takes a picture of the photo, and sends it to Richie with the caption, you’re such a nerd.

Richie texts back almost instantly.

From: You Nerd:

I can’t wait to take you out Eds

Eddie’s sort of stunned by Richie’s reply. He’d expected Richie to make a joke about his braces, or the ridiculous sweater he was wearing, or even some corny pick up line. Not … this. After twenty minutes of fighting with himself, Eddie eventually sends, I’m excited, too.

– X –

The rest of the week flies by in a blur of standardised testing, broken protractors and departmental meetings. By the time Friday rolled around, Eddie was exhausted. He’d woken up and spilt his coffee all over his crisp, white suit trousers, and then his car wouldn’t start so he’d popped the hood, and oil had spurted all over his sweater. One quick change later, and he’d finally made it to school. Only then, much to his chagrin, and after bumping into several tiny Dracula’s in the hallway, he remembered. It was Halloween. The worst teaching day of the year. By the end of the school day, the oppressive smell of fake blood had turned Eddie’s stomach, and if he never had to look at someone wearing Frankenstein’s monster bolts in their neck again, it’d be too soon.

Richie had text him earlier in the day with a house address, and when Eddie had sent back pensive looking emojis Richie had reassured him that, whilst that was his home address, he did actually have plans to take Eddie out, and it certainly wasn’t a Netflix and chill kind of situation.

Eddie drives to Richie’s house, parks up outside. Eddie is surprised to find that Richie lives in a very nice suburban neighbourhood, like something from a storybook. White picket fences, jack-o-lanterns, ghosts hanging from trees, the whole deal. Just when Eddie had worked up the courage to get out of the car and knock on Richie’s door, it swung open and Richie marched out. He was dressed as a ghost, draped in a huge sheet, which had two comically small, wonky eyeholes cut out of it.

“We’re going trick or treating!” Richie yells, and whilst his face is obscured by the sheet, and the eye holes are far too small for Eddie to see his face, he can just tell that Richie is looking very pleased with himself.

“Aren’t we a bit old for trick or treating?” Eddie asks, sceptical. He walks up to Richie, who bounds back inside his house. Eddie follows him.

“This isn’t all my house, it’s two apartments. I live on the first floor,” Richie explains as he walks up the stairs, beckoning Eddie to follow him.

“I thought you said we were going out?”

“We are! I just need to check on the child”

“… The child? You have a kid?”

“Me? Naw. She’s not mine. I borrowed her”

“… You borrowed a child?”

“Yup”

“… is that legal?”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure an uncle can take his niece trick or treating without informing the authorities, you silly spaghetti,” Richie laughs, pushing the door open.

Richie’s apartment is small, but cosy. It’s fairly messy, books scattered on every available surface, posters littering the walls, five mugs of half-forgotten coffee on the coffee table. Eddie is surprised by how similar Richie’s apartment looked to his own house.

Whilst Eddie is browsing Richie’s expansive book collection, a small child bursts through into the living space. She can’t be more than six or seven years old, but Eddie still screams.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Uncle Rich! That man said a bad word!”

“Oh hush, you demon. Your father says worse when he sings you lullabies at night. But… Jessica you look … really quite horrifying”

“Thanks!” Jessica beams. She’s dressed in a grubby clown costume, complete with Jacobean ruff and breeches. Her face is painted white, with red lines that look like deep welts running from her eyes down to her mouth, and her hair is obscured with a violently orange wig. In short, she looked uncannily like the sort of clown that appears to Eddie in his sleep paralysis nightmares.

“Did – did you choose her costume?” Eddie asks, looking at Richie with wide, terrified eyes.

“No… she chose it herself, I would have dressed her up as a bee or something not,” Richie gestures helplessly to his niece, who is making scary faces at herself in the reflection of the coffee table, “this”

The oven dings, and Richie pulls out a plate of roasted vegetables and sausages that look suspiciously like the morning star ones Eddie eats on a Saturday morning.

“Is she veggie?”

“Naw, but I am. I refuse to cook her dead carcasses as much as the little carnivore might beg me,” Richie says, ruffling Jessica’s hair, who is sat on the kitchen counter, shovelling food into her face at lightning speeds. “I told her she couldn’t have any candy unless she ate some real food first. Plus, while she’s distracted, I can show you your costume!”

“My … my costume?” Eddie asks faintly.

Richie nods vigorously, and skips into his bedroom, before emerging clutching a small package wrapped in paper decorated with pumpkins and cats wearing witches hats.

“It’s not my birthday, Rich”

“Yeah, but I don’t know when your birthday is, so I wanted to have all bases covered in case it happened to be today”

“… you’re cute,” Eddie says, before ripping the paper off the package, and revealing a Jack Skellington costume.

“Are you serious?!”

“As a heart attack,” Richie says, solemnly.

“Why aren’t you dressed as Sally then?!”

“I don’t have the legs for it”

Eddie scoffs, “uh, yeah you fuckin’ do,” before he can catch himself. He slaps a hand across his mouth when he realises what he just implied.

“Been checkin’ out my pins have we, Mr Kaspbrak?” Richie lisps, stretching out his leg in a hilarious display of faux-coquettishness.

Eddie throws the wrapping paper at his head.

Eddie disappears into the bathroom, and tries the costume on. Staring at himself in the mirror, adjusting his bowtie, he has to admit to himself, he makes for a good pumpkin king. He sweeps his hair off his face, and secures it under the bald cap, and emerges from the bathroom with a flourish.

Riche clutches at his heart, “Oh sugar, ain’t you the sexiest skeleton I ever did see”

“I don’t really look like a skeleton yet. Did you get facepaints?”

“sure did, c’mere, lemme …” Richie sweeps Eddie under his arm, and guides him to the couch.

Richie crouches between Eddie’s open legs, and starts covering his face in white paint. Eddie holds his breath. Their faces are close enough that Eddie can feel the rhythmic puffs of breath coming out of Richie’s mouth, and he can see the flecks of green in Richie’s aquamarine eyes. Richie smells like smoky sandalwood and a little bit like mint. Toothpaste. Eddie tries to breathe it in without Richie noticing.

All too soon, Richie sits back on his heels, eyes scanning Eddie’s face, admiring his handiwork, “There!”

Eddie stands up, and walks over to the mirror hanging over the mantlepiece of the filled-in fireplace. He looks .. incredible. His entire face is sheet-white, with black rings around his eyes and lips.

“Holy shit, Rich…”

“He said another bad word!” Jessica yelled from her place on the counter, where she was now pushing a lonely piece of broccoli around on her otherwise empty plate.

Richie looks at the plate, and shrugs his shoulders, “good enough!”

After several minutes of highly concentrated pestering from Jessica, all three of them are out of the door into the quickly darkening night. They hop from house to house, Jessica scaring more than her fair share of other kids and even other adults. Eddie surprises himself by how much he enjoys wandering around the streets, admiring all of the costumes and sharing swigs of a bottle of hard cider Richie has hidden under his sheet.

Richie soon realises that the holes he cut in his sheet were far too small to walk normally, so he latches onto Eddie’s hand, threading his fingers through Eddie’s.

“You gotta be my eyes, spooky spaghetti. I can’t see a fuckin’ thing. Keep an eye on the clown, would ya”

Eddie squeezes Richie’s hand in reply, not trusting himself to speak.

Half way through the night, though, Richie takes off his sheet.

“The damn thing is too hot and I probably shouldn’t leave you in sole charge of the clown,” he reasons, shoving the crumpled up sheet into his bag.

“Put the damn thing back on!”

“Nope! You’re in costume enough for us both,” Richie laughs but he takes Eddie’s hand again.

After a few steps, Richie starts singing.

“And does he notice, my feelings for him? And will he see? How much he means to me”

“That’s a sad song, Rich,” Eddie whispers in response, watching Jessica roar at, and terrify, yet another small child. The kids mother glares at them, and Richie just shrugs at her, whatcha gonna do?

“Maybe. The movie does have a happy ending though,” Richie says, and Eddie just nods.

They drop Jessica back at Richie’s brothers house just before nine, and she’s so hyped up on candy and sugar that Eddie is sure that she’ll never sleep again. Richie’s brother looks almost exactly like him, and Eddie is about to ask if they’re twins, but Richie interrupts him.

“The night is young, spooky spaghetti! Follow me for the next step of the surprise”

Eddie is sceptical, mainly because the last surprise resulted in him being dressed as Jack Skellington and paraded around the neighbourhood by a plain-clothed Richie, but he figures it can’t get any worse, so he follows.

– X –

“I’ll have the mushroom bourguignon please, waiter!” Richie announces, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

Eddie, mortified and wishing he could fall straight through the floor and be devoured by the jaws of Satan himself just mumbles, “I’ll have the same.”

As soon as Richie had stopped outside the door of the fancy French restaurant, Eddie had wanted to cry. Richie hadn’t let him go home to change, assuring him that his costume would be perfectly fine attire for wherever they were going.

Richie was a liar.

Eddie had gone into the bathroom of the restaurant and fiercely scrubbed the make-up off his face, but it hadn’t quite worked, and his face now just looked sort of grey, where all the white and black face paint had blended into each other. He comes out of the bathroom, and stalks over to the table where Richie is sat, looking entirely normal in skinny black jeans and a deep purple button-up.

“I look like a dollar store Beetlejuice,” Eddie groans as he sits back down, trying to hide as much of the costume under the table as he can.

“You look ravishing, my darling,” Richie says, fluttering his eyelashes. Eddie is sure that it was supposed to be a joke, but the way Richie said it, all deep and sincere and … it certainly didn’t sound like a joke.

“Why the fuck did you buy me this costume?

“Well, I wanted you to be a pi pie, y’know, write the all of the digits of pi around the crust, but I thought you’d take it off”

“How many digits of pi do you even know?”

“Like 300��

Eddie raises his eyebrow, and Richie rolls his eyes.

“Fine, I know … 4”

“… You went to CalTech, and you’re a high school math teacher, and you only know four digits of pi!”

“There’s a pi button on the calculator, I don’t need to know it!”

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” Eddie says through his laughter, and Richie grins at him.

The food arrives promptly and it’s good, the best food Eddie had eaten in a long time, and he wolfs it down embarrassingly quickly. As is expected when two teachers spend more than four minutes together, the conversation turns to why they decided to become math teachers.

“I went to MIT on a scholarship, and I graduated top of my class as you know, and when I graduated I was pressured into taking a doctoral programme in fluid mechanics, but I lasted only two months before I dropped out because I hated the bureaucracy of it all, y’know, and I wanted to make a difference in kid’s lives, as cheesy as that sounds,” Eddie says between slurps of his soup.

Richie nods, “Yeah, my reason is pretty similar. I had ADHD, or, I guess I still do, but I take meds now so it’s easier to cope with, but yeah, all my teachers fucking hated me and didn’t have any patience with me. They didn’t bother spending more than two seconds trying to work out the best way to teach me, so I was sort of on my own all through my education, and I couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to anyone else, so I put myself through the torturous teaching degree and here I am!”

Eddie looks at Richie, really looks at him for the first time. Richie’s sat opposite him, shovelling mushrooms into his mouth and there’s sauce on his chin and he’s got red paint on his arm and he looks beautiful.

– x –

They both get far drunker than they meant to. They’re not catatonic, and they can still walk in a straight line, but Eddie knows there’s no way in hell that he’ll be able to drive home safely. He tries to get a cab from the restaurant, but Richie insists that Eddie stays with him. Eddie uhms and ahhs about it, stranger danger stranger danger! echoing in his drunk brain, but he throws caution to the wind and agrees to stay. He does, however, insist that he’s sleeping on the couch before Richie can even mention alternative sleeping arrangements.

Richie tries anyway, “we can top and tail, or you can have my bed, honest, I’ll sleep on the floor I don’t mind,” but Eddie’s having none of it. They hail a cab, and both clamber into the back seat. They sit in comfortable silence for the duration of the journey, but at one point Richie’s hand finds its way to Eddie’s knee, sending Eddie’s heart into overdrive.

When they get back to Richie’s, Richie rushes into his bedroom to grab Eddie some stuff to sleep in, sweatpants and a t-shirt with Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man on it. After calling Richie a nerd, and then asking if he could have a shower, and then having to ask Richie to show him how the shower works, Eddie stands under the boiling torrent of water and sighs, but before too long he can hear this odd scraping noise, accompanied by the occasional BANG. He puts it down to him being drunk, and finishes up in the shower. He towel dries his hair, running his fingers through it a few times to get rid of any knots, and puts on the clothes Richie leant to him which are, predictably, far too big. When he emerges from the bathroom, he’s greeted with the sight of a vaguely sweaty looking Richie leaning on the couch, which is now on its side, lodged in the doorway of Richie’s bedroom.

“It’s stuck”

“I can see that”

“Gimme a hand, Eds?”

Eddie leans on the sofa and gives it an almighty shove, and after a fair bit of effort from both of them, the sofa slides through the door and into Richie’s bedroom.

“Care to tell me why the couch is now in your bedroom and no longer in the living room?”

“Halloween magic!”

“… I literally helped you shove it in here two seconds ago”

“Like I said, Halloween magic!” Richie says, already flitting around his room, picking up rogue shoes and pairs of jeans and throwing them into the already overflowing laundry basket.

Richie ends up shoving his bed right over into the corner of the room so he can position the couch next to it, so when Eddie lies on it he’ll be facing Richie. Eddie finds all of this unbearably cute, but he’s exhausted so he falls onto the couch and makes grabby hands for the blanket Richie’s holding. Richie drapes it over Eddie with this dopy expression on his face that Eddie would have ribbed him for if he hadn’t been so sleepy.

“Thanks for taking me out, Rich. I had a really great day”

“It was my pleasure, Mr Spaghetti”

“Rich?”

“Hmm?”

“You were a cute ghost”

“Aw shucks, sugar, you’re making me blush”

Eddie smacks his lips sleepily, before stretching out his legs, “ghosts can’t blush, they don’t have any blood”

Richie laughs, and says “so fuckin’ cute” under his breath, and Eddie guesses he didn’t mean for him to hear, but he does hear, and it makes his heart skip in his chest.

Several minutes pass, and Eddie guesses Richie has fallen asleep, and he’s on the very brink of sleep himself when Richie breaks the silence.

“Eds? You asleep?”

“Yes”

“Sorry, sorry, go back to sleep”

“You gotta tell me what you wanted now, that’s the rule”

“The rule?”

“The rule that goes, ‘when you wake someone up to tell them something, you can’t then not tell them’. It’s a sacred, ancient rule,” Eddie replies, knowing he’s not making much sense, but finding it hard to care.

“Ah okay,” Richie says, solemnly, “I won’t break your ancient rule. I just wanted to ask if you were free next weekend?”

“Nope,” Eddie responds, immediately.

Silence.

“…Oh”

“Are you free next weekend?”

“What?”

“It’s my turn to ask you out. So, are you free next weekend?”

“… What just happened?”

“Just go with it! Are you free?”

“…Yes?”

“Good! I’m taking you out”

“You’re a strange little spaghetti, aren’t you”

“I’m tired leave me alone,” Eddie yawns.

Richie leans out of his bed, and presses a chaste kiss to Eddie’s forehead.

“Sleep well, Eds”

– X –

Eddie wakes up the next morning with a pounding head and a dry mouth. He panics initially, not recognising the room but he soon remembers that he’s lying on a couch in Richie Tozier’s bedroom and then he’s … still panicking a bit. Richie isn’t in his bed, and Eddie can hear singing coming from the kitchen, so he pads out into the kitchen, Richie’s too-long sweatpant legs covering his feet.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes in the morning, Mr Spaghetti,” Richie sing-songs, scraping something burnt and bad-smelling into the bin.

“Hullo, Rich. What’s cooking?”

“It was an omelette but now … sad, burnt eggs,” Richie says, staring sadly at the black mess coating the bottom of the pan.

“Cereal?” Eddie suggests, and Richie beams at him.

“Cereal!”

Richie pours them bowls of cereal, and they sit in comfortable silence.

“Thanks for letting me stay last night,” Eddie says, droplets of milk spilling out of his mouth.

“Oh, no problem. You might have to help me move the couch back out here though”

Eddie snorts into his bowl, “you’re such an idiot, Rich”

“It’s endearing though, right?” Richie asks, sending a pantomime wink over to Eddie

“Eh, you say endearing, I say ridiculous”

“Tomayto, tomahto”

They finish up their cereal and Eddie helps Richie haul the couch back into the living room. Eventually, Eddie remembers that he has to go home to grade papers and make arrangements for the next practice mathletics heat, so he gets changed back into his own clothes, and leaves the clothes he borrowed from Richie in a neat pile on the bathroom counter.

They both stand awkwardly at the front door, Eddie’s hand on the door-knob, neither moving, neither saying anything. Eddie breaks the awkwardness with a hug, and they stand there for a while, Eddie’s hands wrapped around Richie’s neck, before Eddie reaches up on his tippytoes and presses a kiss to Richie’s cheek. It makes him feel like an idiot schoolgirl, but the way Richie’s face flushes scarlet makes him feel a bit better.

– X –

Eddie takes a big risk, and enters his kids into the qualifying heat of the Mathletics Olympiad, a state-wide mathletics competition. They win their first qualifying heat by a significant margin, and Eddie cries again. Richie phones him in the evening;

“I hear that Southview won their qualifier!”

“We did!”

“Did you cry again?”

“…”

“… No”

“You did, didn’t you?”

“… maybe”

“You’re so cute”

“Shut up”

“Never. I’m proud of you, y’know”

“Eh? I didn’t do anything, it was all their hard work”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think a lot of teachers woulda’ taken a chance on kids from a school like yours”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I meant, Eds, I just meant that I can’t imagine many math teachers from struggling schools would have bothered running a math club, let alone pushing their kids to mathletes”

“Well … they’re bright kids”

“I know they are, and they’ve got you cheering them on from the side lines. I hope they know how lucky they are”

“I didn’t realise you were such a sap”

“I’m getting mushy in my old age”

They talk on the phone for hours, and Eddie ends up falling asleep with the call still connected. When he wakes up, he sees that he has a text from Richie;

From: You Nerd <3:

Are you a 45 degree angle? Because you're acute-y.

To: You Nerd <3:

I was wondering when you’d break out the acute jokes

To: You Nerd <3:

Running out of material?

From: You Nerd:

NEVER!

Eddie’s school keeps winning the mathletics heats, and soon enough, they win the semi-finals by a ten point lead and Eddie cries down the phone to Richie, who immediately demands that they go out to celebrate. Eddie gets the subway in because he knows he’ll probably get drunk again, and they go to a cocktail bar that has a lively atmosphere, with Lo-Fi beats wafting through the air like smoke.

Eddie sits down at a booth at Richie’s insistence, who then disappears off to the bar to order their first drinks. Richie comes back carrying two glasses, having bought himself an old fashioned, and he orders Eddie a Tequila Sunrise. Richie manages to get half way through it, but as he drinks more, he starts looking visibly sickened by it, making involuntary faces of disgust.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks, knowing exactly what’s wrong.

“This is disgusting”

Eddie laughs, an ugly honking sound that makes Richie double-take, “why did you order it?”

“… I thought it’d be cool and I wanted you to think I was sophisticated”

Eddie, who had been toying with his sickly sweet drink, wordlessly swapped the glasses in front of them, and sipped at the old fashioned with a quirked eyebrow.

“How emasculating,” Richie said, voice cracking in the middle, a wry smile appearing on his face.

“So, I heard on the grapevine that we’ll be going toe to toe in the mathletics final?” Eddie asks, downing the last of the bitter cocktail.

“Talking shop on a date? Very disappointing, Spaghetti”

“Is that what this is?” Eddie challenges, locking eyes with Richie, who shuffles closer on the sofa.

“… Was it not obvious?”

“It was, I just wanted to make you squirm”

Richie gasps, scandalised. “You’re a scoundrel, Mr Spaghetti”

“Do you wanna make another wager?” Eddie asks, Dutch courage flowing through his veins.

“Mayhaps, what do you have in mind?”

Eddie gathers up their empty glasses, and stands up to head to the bar. As he walks past Richie’s chair, he leans in to whisper in his ear, “If you win, I’ll let you go on top”

He walks off to the bar, cackling to himself, and orders two more of the same drinks. When he returns to the table, Richie looks whiplashed, and stares at him with wide, owlish eyes

“Were you serious?” Richie asks, voice low and gravelly, like Eddie had punched him in the throat.

“… No, maybe, no, I don’t think I was, I’m very drunk”

“You’ve had one drink”

“I am very drunk”

– X –

Eddie goes back to Richie’s again that evening. He justifies it to himself with the fact that it’s too cold to walk all the way back to his apartment. It’s a shitty excuse, because really he isn’t ready to say goodnight to Richie yet. When they get into his apartment, Richie nudges the couch with his foot coyly.

“I guess we have to move the couch again?”

“Naw, c’mon, we’ll top and tail it,” Eddie responds, nodding at the door to Richie’s bedroom.

Eddie borrows the same clothes as before, which Richie admits that he washed and stored in hope that Eddie would come and stay again.

Suddenly, they’re hugging. Eddie isn’t sure who initiated it, but they’re standing in the middle of Richie’s bedroom, the lights are off, and Eddie’s face is nestled in the crook of Richie’s neck. Richie is humming, a soft sort of melody that Eddie vaguely recognises, and he’s swaying them back and forth slightly. When Eddie feels like he’s falling asleep standing up, Richie guides him over to the bed, and guides him down so his head is on the pillow.

Richie pulls the duvet up around Eddie’s chin, and when he moves away, Eddie murmurs “fuck it” and surges up and kisses Richie. Richie doesn’t kiss back at first, and Eddie feels the oh fuck deep in his gut, but just as he’s about to pull away, Richie’s hands come up to cradle Eddie’s face, and he starts kissing back.

There was no pretence to the kiss, no pretending to take it slow or act reserved, as Richie pushed Eddie backwards against the pillow until he was supine with Richie bracketing his head with his arms. Eventually the kisses organically grow less heated, and they roll over onto their sides, and Eddie falls asleep with Richie pressing small clandestine kisses to his nose, cheeks, forehead.

– x –

When Eddie wakes up, Richie is still in bed with him, perhaps because Eddie has trapped Richie underneath his body sometime in the night. After Eddie stares at his face for a while, watching his nostrils flare with each inhale and exhale of breath, Richie wakes up.

“G’morning, sleepy,” Richie mumbles, grabbing Eddie’s hand and pressing a dry kiss to it with chapped lips.

“Pretty sure you’re the sleepy one, I’ve been awake for ages”

“And who is the one who fell asleep in the middle of the smooch session last night?”

“What?” Eddie questions, playing at confused.

“… um... y’know, when we were kissing last night and you fell asleep in the middle of it?”

“We kissed?”

“Do you – do you not remember?”

“No!”

“Uh… I don’t know what to tell you, Eddie” Richie says, panicked, and Eddie starts feeling cruel.

“I’m fucking with you, of course I remember”

Richie growls and flips Eddie over, and cages Eddie’s head with his arms, “you’re such a little shit”

Before Eddie can answer, Richie kisses him. Eddie buries his fingers in Richie’s hair and gives an experimental tug, smiling around the moan that Richie sends rocketing into this throat.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot, Eds, Jesus,” Richie moans, before clamping his teeth down on the junction between Eddie’s neck and shoulders.

Eddie’s cock jerks in his sweatpants, and his hands fly to Richie’s shoulders, knuckles white.

“Ahhh – fuck Rich – don’t – make sure it’ll – ahhhh – be covered by my shirt”

“When I saw you on that first day, in your loafers and your dress pants and that fucking sweater looking all prim and proper I just wanted to mess you up”

Richie bites at Eddie again, but he pulls off, and stares down at Eddie. Eddie knows he looks wrecked, his hair is probably a mess, and his eyes keep rolling back when Richie shifts against him, but the way Richie is looking at him, an oxymoronic predatory yet soft look, suggests that Richie doesn’t mind too much.

They kiss like touch-starved teenagers for a while longer, until Eddie’s school alarm blares from the bedside table.

“Cock-block” Richie growls, batting at the phone with the hand that wasn’t wrapped loosely around Eddie’s neck.

Eventually, they manage to haul themselves out of bed. Eddie asks to use the shower again and wildly thinks about asking Richie to join him, the promise of Richie’s body, warm, wet and soapy against his overwhelmingly tempting, but he chickens out at the last minute. Eddie puts on the clothes he wore last night, and prays that Bev won’t mention it, even though he knows that she will.

“I can pick you up later, if you like … since you don’t have your car and all,” Richie offers, hopping on one foot as he tried to lace up his boot.

“I can ask Bev to drop me back, it’s all good”

“Naw, I – I wanna do it. I don’t think I wanna wait that long to see you again,” Richie says, putting his booted foot down and crowding Eddie against the wall.

“You big sap”

Richie wraps Eddie in his arms, and presses a kiss to the top of his head, “I told ya, mushy.”

Richie drives Eddie to his school, and Eddie hops out of the car. He walks around to Richie’s side and taps on the window, Richie rolls it down, Eddie shoves his head in through the window and presses a hard kiss to Richie’s mouth, but skips off before Richie can respond.

Richie hollers after him, “HAVE A GOOD DAY AT SCHOOL, MY LOVE!” and Eddie flips him off over his shoulder.

School passes quickly, it’s the week before the finals of the Mathletics Olympiad so basically all of Eddie’s time is taken up with that.

Richie picks him up from school as promised, but Eddie is disappointed to hear that he can’t come into Eddie’s apartment.

“I actually have to go back to school, I snuck out of a meeting to drive you home but I have to go back to my mathletics group”

“Rich! You should have let me ask Bev!” Eddie scolds, but his heart sings like a sparrow in his chest.

“But then I couldn’t have done this,” Richie says, and he surges over the gearbox and presses his mouth to Eddie’s.

They kiss until Richie starts shifting uncomfortably, gear stick poking into his ribs.

– X –

The next week is unadulterated chaos. Both Eddie and Richie are really busy, and can’t see each other before the competition. Eddie can’t help but feel really weird about the fact his school will be going up against Richie’s for such an important competition, and he wants to talk to Richie about it but Richie has been so hard to reach the past few days bc he’s been so busy so Eddie leaves it. He occupies himself with booking transport to the venue, reassuring his kids that they do deserve to be there, and trying not to neglect the rest of his AP classes.

The day of the final comes not a moment too soon, as Eddie is sure that his heart would give out if he put it under any more stress. The final is being held in the auditorium of a local university, so Eddie drives the shitty little school bus over there with his kids who are terrified. Bev works hard to keep their spirits up, as she’s taken over the role of chief motivator as Eddie is stupidly nervous, and he can barely concentrate on driving, let alone motivating 10 terrified kids.

They get to the university, and Eddie immediately notices that Richie’s school bus is already in the parking lot. They go in, they register, they go backstage and sit in the room designated to their school to prepare in. Eddie works hard to calm down his very panicked kids, whilst Bev simultaneously tries to calm down a very panicked Eddie.

Suddenly, Richie’s head appears around the door.

“Mr Kaspbrak, can I talk to you for a second?”

Eddie follows Richie out, “Rich, it really is so lovely to see you, but I’m also terrified to see you, so I think it’s best if you–”

Richie cuts Eddie off with a kiss, and Eddie can’t help but melt into it, tension draining out of his bones like water. Sadly, as soon as the kiss begins, Richie is pulling off again.

“Sorry, babe. See you ringside, coach!”

Richie darts off, and Eddie just has to lean against the wall and breathe.

– X –

Eddie’s kids win.

Eddie immediately bursts into tears.

Jasper, the team gives a rousing acceptance speech when he accepts the trophy, “we’re really proud of ourselves, the other team were amazing and we feel so honoured to be here today, it’s a privilege.”

To Eddie’s horror, they bring the mic over to the coach, announcing that “we will now a word hear a word from the coach of the championship team.”

Eddie has to stumble on stage, puffy and red faced, and he’s tries his best to speak through his tears, but all he manages to do is sob something incomprehensible, loud and sort of proud sounding into the microphone. The audience looks bemused and vaguely concerned, but Richie, who was standing on the other side of the stage with his team, is crying with laughter.

Soon after the presenting ceremony, there is the refreshment reception for the winning team. The kids all mill about, hyper on candy, sugary drinks and triumphant victory. Eddie manages to drag Richie into a secluded corner, where they can talk without risk of being overheard. Richie grasps Eddie’s hand and squeezes it.

“I’m so proud of you, short-stack”

“Short-stack?!” Eddie replies, incredulously, “I’m five-foot-nine thank you very much!”, but then he sees Bev waving to him frantically, so he sends a quick “see you later” to Richie over his shoulder as he runs off towards her.

– X –

Eddie sleeps like the dead that night, and he finds himself recruited into a celebration pep rally for the mathletics team the next day so doesn’t have time to think, breathe or eat or even text Richie.

Finally, when he gets home, he’s half way through texting Richie --

To: Short Stack:

Hey Rich, sorry I had to run last night,

-- but he doesn’t manage to get any further than that before he can hear shouting coming from outside of his window.

“I fear that I will always be a lonely number like root 3, a three is all that’s good an right, why must my 3 stay out of sight, beneath this vicious square root sign”

Richie is standing on the grass beneath Eddie’s window, swaying slightly, with a megaphone clasped between both hands, and he’s screaming into it.

“I wish instead I were a nine, for nine could thwart this evil trick, with just some quick arithmetic,”

“Are you really doing this? The Harold and Kumar thing?” Eddie yells out of his window, in disbelief.

“I know I’ll never see the sun as 1.7321, such is my reality, a sad irrationality, when hark, what is this I see?”

“So you are doing the Harold and Kumar thing”

Richie, undeterred, carries on yelling, “another square of a three, has quietly come waltzing by, together now we multiply, to form a number we prefer, rejoicing as an integer”

“I never thought I’d be serenaded with a maths poem, oh, you’re shouting over me, okay, please do continue”

“We break free from our mortal bonds, and with a wave of magic wands, our square root signs become unglued, and love, for me, has been renewed”

“Are you done? You’re done. Richie, are you okay?” Eddie asks, openly laughing now.

“I’m sorry if I said something bad!” Richie yells, still talking into the megaphone. Eddie can see the lights of his neighbours houses begin to flick on.

“For fucks sake, you lunatic! I have neighbours! Neighbours who probably hate me now!”

Eddie runs downstairs and opens the door, and Richie practically launches himself at Eddie.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” Richie whines, and Eddie is shocked to realise that he’s practically on the verge of tears.

“You do know I was crying about my kids, right? Not anything you said?” Eddie responds, voice serious.

“But I called you short!” Richie wails, looking so devastated that Eddie finds it so hard not to bark out a laugh.

“… I know I’m short?”

“But you ran awaaaaaay”

“One of the kids had eaten too much and had thrown up, Bev needed me to clean up the vom!”

Richie’s face shifts from sorrow to confusion to realisation to embarrassment at the speed of sound.

“so you don’t hate me?” Richie asks, tentatively.

Eddie pulls himself out of Richie’s arms and strokes his chin thoughtfully, “I mean … I don’t hate you but my neighbours might”

“Neighbours schmaybors, so you really aren’t offended that I called you short?”

Eddie lets himself laugh at that, “how drunk are you?”

Richie shrugs. “I had some wines. I was drowning my sorrows! I honestly thought I’d offended you and I was ready to scream apologies into this thing for hours,” he says, waving the megaphone for emphasis

“You’re such a nerd,” Eddie teases, prodding at Richie’s chest with an extended finger, and Richie sweeps him up in his arms.

“Yeah, but I’m your nerd”

“I guess you are”

Richie ducks his head, and Eddie closes his eyes in anticipation but their lips never connect.

“Hey! I have a great line for this situation”

“Oh Jesus Christ”

“I wish I was your derivative so I could lie tangent to your curves”

“You NERD”

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak #acute-y #math teacher au #school au #teacher au #thefutureisbright #ao

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dxmedstudent · 6 years ago

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How to Date a Doctor...

(Or med student, nurse, physio, pharmacist, etc)

I remember discussing this on tumblr a while back, and occasionally someone asks a medblr for some advice, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to bring up some suggestions on how to deal with medics in your life.

Going out:

Our timetables can be awful. We’ll be busy at times you’ll want to meet; it’s really not a sign we’re not interested, we just physically can’t be there when we’d like to be. Ditto if our jobs involve rotating to different places. Believe me, we find it as frustrating as you do.

Work can be emotionally, mentally and physically draining. We spend some of our free time tired, sleepy, grumpy or indisposed to meet. If we’re sleepy or not much fun sometimes after a run of horrible shifts, it’s not personal. I’m not advocating putting up with a medic who spends most of their time being an antisocial jerk, but please bear in mind that sometimes we’ll just be exhausted.

So when it comes to going out, we might need to do things that are low effort; sometimes it’ll be dinner instead of something that involves walking, or even netflix rather than going out at all. Or... we might want to do things that are more active particularly because we want to make the most of our time and we’re finally out of the hospital so we want to live our entire life at once.

We might be used to eating or sleeping at weird times. If we turn up to a date and we’re not hungry, it’s not personal. Likewise if you notice that we’ve forgotten to eat/been too exhausted to eat, we appreciate when somoene reminds us to take care of ourselves, too. We’re often so fixated on taking care of others that we really can forget to take care of ourselves.

Because we work strange hours and are generally busy, you will have to be good at enjoying your own life, too; with or without us. Dating a doc isn’t for someone who feels like they need a partner to always be around every evening, and who needs their SO to accompany them to every event; we just physically won’t always be able to be there.

On the plus side, this means that we’re usually very accepting of SOs having hobbies and interests. Dating a doc is great for people who are more independent in themselves, because you can bet we’ll probably be too busy with our own lives to smother you in yours.

However, it does mean that if your timetable is also busy, you’ll both need to work extra hard to make things work. Unfortunately, drifting apart or struggling to find time to be together can be a real problem, particularly if you are both shift workers. It’s not impossible, though; lots of docs and nurses end up with other docs and nurses, and they make it work!

As I said, we end up staying late, or having to cover for colleagues. It’s a pain for us to organise leave or holidays, and our timetable can dominate our life. Having a doc or nurse in your life means living around complext timetables.This can be really trying for us as well as for you.

If you can, try to take some of the organisational burden from them, particularly if your job is less busy or time intensive than theirs. When your working life is already a massive, never-ending to - do list, it makes a big difference when somoene does their bit to make your personal life a bit less exhausting. You don’t need to become their PA, just be considerate.

Conversation:

I hope you like medical anecdotes. Because you’re going to hear them.

Our work is full of life and death stuff, and there’s a lot of ‘work’ stuff we have to do outside of work, so it can dominate our lives. Sometimes we need to get that off our chest. You don’t have to understand, but it’s nice if you can listen.

That said, you may have to gently remind them that there is more to talk about than just work. Whilst being with someone means talking about things that are important to them, it’s important that the person you are with doesn’t bore you constantly, either. We need distraction from work for our sanity, and you need to talk about things that are not our work, too. And it’s only fair that we don’t bore you to death.

Most of our friends are probably medics. Apologies for all of the medical conversations you’ll be stuck listening to because you’re hanging out with an entire group of medics.

If our work talk is too gory for you, please let us know. You’re seeing a person who’ll probably certify someone dead, stick a finger up someone else’s butt, look at several necrotic ulcers and lots of people about their bowel habits all before lunchtime, so we tend to lose our sense of what is appropriate dinner conversation. No matter how strong your stomach is, we’ll probably stray into conversations that’ll test your tolerance, without even realising it. We spend so much time talking to other medics, that we can forget what normal people consider appropriate for casual conversation.

You think that we might always be into really intellectual entertainment (and we are, at least some of the time), but every doctor I know also needs to chill with really brainless entertainment once in a while because sometimes you just need to watch something that doesn’t make you think at all.

Don’t let their being a doctor or nurse intimidate you. If I had a pound for every guy who said “well, my job’s a lot less important/exciting/etc”, I’d be living somewhere a lot nicer. Healthcare professionals are normal people just like you; we’re really not some kind of class apart. We’ve got a dorky side or a quiet side or a goblin side, and we’ve got plenty of insecurities, too. If you put us on a pedestal, it makes it hard to have a genuine relationship.

Equally, if you date a doctor who makes you feel inferior, ditch them. You deserve to feel like an equal in any relationship.You have every right to expect courtesy from whoever you are seeing.

We are secretly dumbasses. People expect us to be smart all the time, but we’re human. We have weaknesses just like everyone else. It’s another reason you shouldn’t put us on a pedestal; we want to be loved for the dorks we are, rather than for some kind of intellectual ideal we can’t live up to.

Please don’t call us at work. We really can’t talk at work, though messaging is fine as we can respond to those if free. But be understanding that your medical paramour is probably super-busy at work to the point that checking their phone is not an option. Please don’t be offended if we take a while to reply.

Being a part of each other’s lives /Living together:

We may be super organised to an anal-retentive degree, or we may be completely scatterbrained when it comes to having non-work stuff together. If we’re having a particularly bad time at work, we might need a bit of patience or prompting regarding shared life stuff. That’s not to say that the non-medic should do everything, but be on the lookout for when the medic in your life is overwhelmed with stuff and when you can give them a hand. If that’s not something you’re good at spotting, you can always just ask.

People will often think you are lucky (”aren’t doctors, like, rich?”) and that it’s prestigious (”oh, a doctor, wow! lucky you! Free medical advice!”), but that’s not entirely fair on you, because dating doctors or nurses can be hard work! I think the people who put up with us (or rather the effect our work has on our entire lives) deserve a ton of credit. It’s not easy, and not everyone can do it (nor should anyone have to). And besides, you are a smart and interesting person in your own right, not defined by the job your SO does.

We deal with emotionally draining crap; sometimes we see some horrible stuff that we struggle to deal with. It won’t be easy for you to see someone you care about struggle with this, particularly if it’s not something that you can relate to. The way we deal with it can vary, and we may not always be able to cope, or deal with it in a healthy way. It’s not your fault if we’re struggling, and you shouldn’t feel like you’re expected to be a counselling service.

You might get pretty familiar with the signs of aniety and depression; a lot of medics can suffer from burnout or mental illness. The strain on your partner might also put a strain on your mental health. Look after each other and get help if needed. You absolutely shouldn’t suffer alone, and neither should they.

In the long run, you have to be able to trust your partner. We work silly hours, but you need to get to know someone well enough to trust that if they say they have a late shift, they aren’t playing around with someone else. That doesn’t mean you can’t have suspicions if warranted, but dating a doctor might be difficult for someone who is still getting over being cheated on, or who tends to jealousy and suspicions easily. We tend to have odd hours and stay late at work a lot, and we’ll always have plausible sounding reasons for not being around. So it helps if you aren’t someone who feels insecure or jealous easily.

If we wanted our nursing colleagues/fellow doctors/whoever at work, we’d be with them. It’s not uncommon for partners to feel a little jealous of the time their partner spends with work colleagues, but you are no less of a catch than any of their colleagues. And if they wanted their colleagues so much they would have already been with them.

That said. Don’t assume that doctors are all nice; there are plenty of people among us who aren’t necessarily good or honest. Trust a person’s actions over their words. There are players amongst us, so don’t assume that just because someone is a doctor that it makes them a nice person; evaluate us according to the exact same criteria you’d use for anyone else. You absolutely deserve to be treated with the same level of respect and honesty from one of us as you do from any other partner; there are no excuses for hurtful behaviour. Being a doctor or nurse is not a free pass to be a nasty person.

Don’t let a medic treat you like a servant or someone who is beneath them. No matter what you do, if you are dating them then you deserve every bit the same level of respect and courtesy that you give them. No matter how much of a hotshot your friends or family might think them, they are just a normal person to you, equal in every way. I remember an interview with some eminent doctor, in which the interviewer asked something like “What’s it like being married to someone like you?” and the person replied something like “At home I’m just ‘dad’ or a husband, like anyone else”. And that sums it up; we’re just normal people to those in our lives.

Anyone got more tips to add?

#medblr #dating a medblr #dxdates #dx dates #romance #i guess

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acourtofsnakes · 4 years ago

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Haalur - Rogue, Chapter 17| The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader (f)

Summary: Din begins the frantic race for your life, desperate not to lose you.

Warnings: Swearing, injury, drowning, talks of death, brief mention of suicide, angst, fluff

AN: The good times start from here, folks. I’ve put you all through enough ♥︎

AN: I highly recommend listening to Bruises by Lewis Capaldi for this chapter for the vibes 🖤

Credit to whoever owns the gif 🖤

Word count: 5.5k +

Rogue Taglist: @snipskixandbeskar @weirdowithnobeardo @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @jackgrzs @sarahjkl82-blog @boomtownboy @goldielocks2004 @seninjakitey @what-iwish-you-knew @queenofthefaceless @rosiefridayrogersunday @greeneyedblondie44 @itsnottilly @welcometothepedroverse

Mando’a Translation: Haalur - Breathe

As soon as you were sucked into the water, Din felt a terror so potent that he was sure he had just died. It gripped his heart, pulverising it in his chest and making it hard to think, breathe or even see.

He was rigid, unable to comprehend what was happening, before Grogu’s repeated warning cry jolted him awake.

Din hesitated no longer.

He sprinted across the surface of the lake, going too fast to worry about the huge cracks forming under his feet.

The stretch to where you had fallen seemed like miles, like you were getting further and further away despite the closing distance.

By the time he made it, the hole had already begun to freeze back over, and Din frantically smashed at it with the heel of his boot. He couldn’t risk shooting at it, in case he caught you in the firing line.

With a suitable hole made, he turned on the flashlight on his helmet, sucked in a deep breath, and then dived straight in.

Immediately, the sub-zero temperature of the water gripped his ribs like a vice, a cold so intense it felt like his bones would snap under the force of it.

Glacial water immediately gushed in under his helmet, choking him with the bitter taste, burning his eyes and rendering him blind for a moment.

He choked, thrashing around for a moment as he struggled to breathe.

“Calm down.” He snapped at himself, “Stop panicking. Breathe. This isn’t about you.”

Saving you, that’s all that mattered.

Din allowed his body to relax, to will his heart to slow down.

He moved his head around, searching the cloudy, pitch-black depths for any trace of you.

The weight of your clothes and the force of your drop would have sucked you down quickly, and Din felt the clock begin to tick down, the timer of your life being thrust into his hands.

He shifted his body around, using the ice above his head to push himself down and begin to swim for you.

It was just so dark down here, like he’d gone through the ice and emerged up into space, blindly navigating the cloudy abyss whilst searching for the one person he wanted to give everything to.

Panic and terror fuelled his strokes, the weight of his armour aided him in sinking deeper.

It might have been hours; it may only have been seconds.

Din’s lungs burned, and his head throbbed with the pressure of the arctic water.

Every pound of his heart reminded him that your own may have stopped -

There!

Sinking slowly to the bottom of the water, looking like you were plucked straight from the stories the elders used to tell him, there you were.

Eyes closed and lashes brushing your cheekbones… like this, in the dim light from his helmet, you could simply be asleep.

He nearly sobbed in relief, scrabbling in the water and he tugged you gently to his body, holding you against him and he started to kick toward the surface.

But it was harder, more of an effort this time.

He was graceful on land, able to move with the ease of a shadow even with the armour but underwater, his beloved protective shell made him cumbersome, the weight combining with your limp body threatening to drag him down.

He kicked his legs harder, keeping his head focused on the ice above. He was desperate to open his mouth, to suck in air, even though it would only be a mouthful of bitter, icy water.

Din didn’t have the time to worry about his own rapidly clouding vision.

Your clock was nearing its end, the thread of your life fraying and unwinding from his own.

Just when he thought he might simply pass out, that the pair of you would sink back down, maybe be devoured by the creatures that he had luckily avoided so far, he saw it. The opening.

Though it had begun to freeze, it was just visible with the strange light filtering through. He fumbled for his blaster, shielding your head and he shot at the ice, quickly rushing up to the gap it opened.

He hauled himself up, depositing you gently onto the side of the ice and then he dragged himself over the edge, sodden fingers scrabbling on the ice as he collapsed next to you.

Din sucked in a few deep breaths for a moment, coughing and spluttering but then he turned his attention back to you.

He rolled you gently on your back, and his heart constricted at what he saw.

Your lips were already a purple-blue colour, like a bruise. The water on your skin had already frosted over, giving you the appearance of being encased. Your hair crackled as it froze together in matted knots and you just looked… well, dead.

He fumbled with his gloves, willing his numb fingers to cooperate and he eventually yanked them off, pressing them against the soft, cold skin of your neck.

Nothing.

Din blinked a few times.

That’s not possible… You’re just unconscious, you’re just… you’re not-

He shook his hands out, trying to get the blood flowing in them again, that’s all it was. His hands were too cold.

He pressed them to your neck again, but… your pulse that usually beat so strongly, so familiarly… it wasn’t there.

You were dead.

“No, no, no, no, no-“ He burst into a frenzy, ripping your cloak out of the way and he begun to do compressions on your chest, remembering the movement from battles far and wide. When all the tech failed, when the sprays and med-kits didn’t work, this was the last resort. Manually encouraging a heart to begin to beat again.

But what if it didn’t want to?

No.

He couldn’t think like that.

He kept the compressions in time with the counting in his head, pausing every now and then to pinch your nose shut and blow air into your lungs.

Except the more he did, the more he heard the bubbly sound of the air hitting water.

Your lungs…you must have somehow swallowed the icy water, which was stopping you from being able to breathe.

“Okay, okay... lift her up. Get rid of the water.” He whispered the instructions to himself, and then followed them.

He braced your chest against his arm, leaning you forward so your head was tilted and then he delivered a harsh smack between your shoulder blades.

The movement jolted your body but did nothing to remove the water.

So, he tried again, and then again harder.

He heard it shift, and a small trickle of water just slightly dripped form your lips, so he began a frantic routine of compressions, mouth-to-mouth and then smacking the water from your lungs.

It might have been hours, or only minutes, but his instinct was telling him what his heart couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

It wasn’t working.

He couldn’t lose you.

He just couldn’t.

You were everything he needed, every single possible thing. You both slotted together, the cracks and dents in your souls fitting and securing each other.

This couldn’t be it.

The relentless hand of the clock was slowing, each tick becoming heavy and tolling, taunting him.

Din sobbed, gripping you against his chest, rocking from side to side, “You can’t leave me. You can’t do this.” The tears that slid down his cheeks were hot, almost stinging against is frigid skin, “You promised me you wouldn’t leave me. It was supposed to be me, you and the kids remember? A clan of three. Clans don’t just leave each other.” He rested the forehead of his helmet on the top of your head, his chest aching, everything in him just hurting as he held the dead weight of you against his body.

Grogu’s sniffling sobs, and Duru’s broken yowling provided the only other noise in this barren, frozen land of death. A heartbreaking symphony to the scene unfolding.

Over and over, Din mumbled to you, “You promised, you promised, you promised-“

How could you do this to him? How could he have let you be ripped out from under him?

He was going to do it. He was going to tell you how he felt when you’d left this planet.

It was all planned in his head, exactly what he wanted to say.

He’d even splashed out some extra credits and bought the sweet treats you loved, storing them safely away so they’d stay fresh.

He didn’t even get to show you his true face…

A frustrated, desperate growl slipped from his clenched jaw, and he braced you over his arm again, delivering one final blow to the middle of your back that he knew would leave a bruise, that even stung his hand.

Silence.

Din closed his eyes, feeling his entire being split in two, everything he had built and hoped for shatter in front of him like the ice that had stolen you.

What was he supposed to do now?

The clock had stopped ticking.

~~~

You were floating.

It was quiet here, peaceful.

There wasn’t a darkness, so much as an absence of light and… things. It wasn’t warm and it wasn’t cold… and there was noise yet… silence, all at the same time.

You don’t know how long you floated for, just being at peace, but you felt a warm breeze wash over your face, smelling of flowers and something sweet.

It was a smell from your childhood, one you hadn’t been near in… too long.

Your mother.

“Hello, my sweet darling.”

“Hello, mama… I’ve missed you so much...”

“I know, my dear. We’ve missed you too. We’ve always been watching… So, so proud of you.”

“Proud of me? Mama, how can you be proud of me? The things I’ve done… the people I’ve hurt... you didn’t raise me to hurt people, mama. You shouldn’t be proud.”

A new scent suddenly appeared, rich, earthy and a little spicy almost, “We raised you to take care of yourself, starlight. However, you need to. You’ve grown, sweetheart. You’re a warrior.”

“But papa… I don’t want to keep hurting people. I… I hurt people every day by lying to them. By putting them in danger-” You felt your throat close, tears springing to your eyes even though you were both everything and also nothing in this floating world.

You felt a phantom caress over the top of your head, the same feeling you used to have when your father brushed back your hair, “My sweet starlight, you do not bring danger to people. You are a joy to them; you help them see the world through a different set of eyes. Through eyes that see wonder and beauty even in the darkest of places.”

You felt the brush of your mother, stroking her fingers on the back of your cheek, “You have always been such a wonder, darling. You feel everything so intensely. Such happiness that shines from you like sunlight, sadness that drowns you like a wave, anger that burns as fierce as the brightest flame in the darkest night… I know it’s hard sometimes, sweetheart, I know that sometimes you want to give up… But there are people that need you.”

Your heart ached in your chest, feeling both heavy and light, “But… I can’t help but feel…”

You might have seen your mother smile in the darkness, her head resting on your father’s shoulder, “You feel that you are a burden… Darling, you’re not. I assure you. People need you in their life… The Mandalorian needs you...”

That surprised you. “Din… needs me?”

A gentle, rough chuckle that belonged to your father, “Of course, starlight. He needs you far more than you know. Do not let go of him… The threads of your life are so tightly entwined... you have belonged to each other since the Maker and the stars decided it.”

“Okay…”

“It’s time to wake up now, sweetheart…” Your mother’s voice was sweet, fading a little.

“Can’t I stay here with you and papa? It’s been so long…”

Your father’s voice faded as well, “I know, starlight… But we’ll see you again. There are other people that need you more now… We love you, starlight..”

“I love you too, mama, and you too, papa..”

“Goodbye, my love...”

~~~

Awareness came rushing back to you with complete and utter sheer intensity.

The biting cold wind, the ice beneath your limp body.

You could hear frantic sobs, mumbling in a familiar deep baritone, “Haalur, haalur, haalur, haalur. Come on, princess, please… Please. You promised me.” The voice was tight, leashed emotion barely restrained.

There was a sharp thud on your back, and then another, right between your shoulder blades.

Something inside your lungs shifted, and then exploded as you erupted into deep coughing, choking up the bitter water.

That power inside you seemed to me forcing the water up as well, pushing it up out of your chest, aiding in helping you breathe.

It came pouring out of you, coming out of your mouth and your nose in a vast torrent, choking you and burning like fire despite how cold it was.

Dimly, you heard a strangled noise of relief, “Oh.” And arm leaning you even further forward, supporting your body and rubbing your back, over the bruise already forming, “Easy, princess…”

Everything hurt.

But it wasn’t “I’ve just been punched whilst fighting for my life” sort of hurt.

This was… so much deeper than that.

This kind of pain lived in every weak thud of your heart.

The frantic shivering of your body only jolted each broken part, but you couldn’t stop shaking. You were just so cold.

It ravaged your lungs raw with each gasping breath, but you were unable to slow it down, because you needed the oxygen now that you had emptied half of the lake from your body.

You needed more.

There simply wasn’t enough, you were drowning again, sucked under into that deep abyss and trapped beneath the surface, your lungs filling up and freezing –

“Easy, easy, darling.” A hand rubbed your back, coaxing your airways to open up, “I’ve got you. You’re safe now… Haalur…”

Of course, it was Din… who else would dive headfirst into a frozen lake to save you.

You became aware of his arms, one supporting your chest to lean your limp body forward, and the other across your back. His hand continued to rub soothing circles on your back, mumbling, “Haalur…” softly, over and over. You had a feeling he wasn’t just doing it for you, but for himself as well, like he was using the rhythmic motions to hold back some kind of flood of emotion.

You forced your sluggish brain to focus on the parts of him you could feel, your eyes still a little too blurry and just… so heavy. You were so tired. And so damn cold.

You tried to speak, to ask him if he was okay, but your aching throat cracked and gave out on the first syllable of his name. A soft whimper escaped your lips, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks and you tapped at his hand.

Din understood, because he gently eased his arm under your legs, scooping you up into his arms and keeping both sodden capes around you. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.” His voice sounded all funny, all bubbly and full of static, presumably from the water.

Guilt wracked through your body, and you tilted your head up to look at his helmet. You wanted to touch it, but your arms felt too heavy to move. You swallowed, managing to barely croak, “Y-your helmet…”

Din shook his head slightly, whistling for Duru and Grogu and he began to carefully and quickly make his way across the lake toward the bank, “Don’t worry about it.”

Ice sparkled on your lashes as you blinked, dancing across your vision like little sprites lulling you to sleep, “But...”

Din shook his head harder, helmet focused forward, not looking at you, “Helmets can be fixed. You cannot.” Below the static, his voice was hoarse, from the crying you’d heard before you fully came back to yourself.

But… there was something else. An underlying note of… anger?

You decided to keep silent.

The gentle sway of Din’s body didn’t help the internal struggle you were having not to fall asleep.

With his footsteps as a steady ambience, you allowed yourself to succumb to the darkness, where there was no pain. Only peace and the scent of leather, metal and something woodsy that was distinctly him.

“Cyar'ika?”

That familiar voice was reaching through the darkness again, pulling you back toward the surface.

“Hey, open your eyes…”

A gentle tap against your face tugged you upward, and you struggled through the veil for a moment before it all came rushing back in at once.

The fuzziness cleared and you saw that Din was looking down at you, the planet too dark to allow you to see your refection in his visor.

His shoulders seemed to slump in relief when he saw you awake, and he looked away quickly. He fiddled with something and then you heard the ramp open, “Keep your eyes open.” There was a trace of command in his voice, enough that it riled you just a little.

You had just died after all.

“Why? I’m freezing and I’m tired.” Your voice was still hoarse, but the rest he had dragged you out of seemed to have helped.

Din walked up the ramp, closing it behind him, “Because I don’t want you dying on me again. That’s why.” His voice was thick, a little ragged. He propped you up on a low crate, leaning your back against the wall of the Crest. He reached into a box, and then removed the two sodden cloaks, and replaced it with a thick, dry blanket.

Duru jumped up opposite, with Grogu in her mouth and pair watched you with large, worried eyes.

The warmth surrounded you, making you audibly sigh in relief and it perked you up just a little, despite the shivers that still wracked your body – and the strange atmosphere coming off of Din. You tugged the blanket a little higher, leaning into the wall.

Little did you know, now that you were… somewhat okay, his fear had turned into absolute seething frustration. Not directly at you, more the situation.

You watched silently as he rummaged in the med-kit for something, the line of his shoulders taut beneath the frosty armour that was slowly beginning to thaw.

Din turned to face you, holding a bacta-injection in his hands, “Show me.” He motioned to your side, where Haran had driven his lightsaber through you.

A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of your chest, “You’re kidding, right? There is no way you’re coming near me with that.” You would have crossed your arms, if you’d had the energy. But you didn’t, so you settled for raising your eyebrows at him in a disbelieving manner.

He walked over to you, stopping in front of you. “I need to make sure it isn’t infected. I know it’s already cauterised but who knows what you picked up in that lake. Show me.” His voice was firm, no room for argument.

You swallowed, watching the frost on his armour melt and roll down the armour in rivulets. “We might need it some other time. It’s expensive… I don’t need it. I’m fine. Truly.” You shivered again, a wave of cold washing over your body as water ran off of your hair and down your back.

Din sighed, “You’ll face off against a creature four times the size of you, but you won’t face one tiny injection?” That strange, clipped tone was back in his voice and you started to realise he might be mad at you.

Still avoiding his stare, you nodded once, still watching those water droplets.

Din muttered something you didn’t hear from the static in the modulator and made as if to turn around.

You relaxed, closing your eyes but then suddenly, you felt a sharp stinging just under your ribs and then a push of liquid being forced into your body.

That bastard!

A snarl worked its way up from your chest and your eyes snapped open. “Hey!” You glared at him, eyes spitting fire and a little hurt, “What the hell did you do that for! I said no!”

Din growled himself, pointing a finger in your direction, “You don’t get to make the decisions tonight. I do.” He threw the empty syringe to the side, and then scooped you back into his arms.

Struggling slightly, you made a noise of dissent, “So, you’re going to lock me up somewhere now, are you?”

He practically stomped through the levels of the ship, making his way to the living area, “No.” He walked down the hall and opened the door to the ‘fresher, “I’m warming you up considering you’re still shivering so hard I can hear your teeth grinding.” He swiped the small collection of cleaning supplies off of the ledge, and then set you down inside, leaning you against the wall and the small ledge.

Okay, so he had a point there.

But that didn’t mean he had to be so… Din about it.

“I can get myself in here you know.”

Din turned his attention to the taps, “Mmhm. I’ll believe you when you can take off your tunic.”

Your cheeks coloured just slightly at that, but ever the stubborn one, you reached down and fumbled with the ties that held the outer tunic together.

It was just a simple knot holding the lacing together, but your hands were still numb and uncooperative, and you couldn’t gather the strength to grip the string.

You clenched your jaw, knowing Din was watching you and you absolutely hated it when he was right.

Almost as much as you hated being this weak and helpless.

Gloved hands gently pushed yours out of the way, and within seconds, he had freed the laces and tugged the tunic off of your body, leaving you in the long-sleeved undershirt. He threw it out of the shower with a wet thump, “You were saying?” He fiddled with the taps again, and then warm water cascaded down over your body.

Despite Din’s frustration with you, you sighed in delight. The water probably wasn’t even that warm in reality, but compared to your icy body, it felt like absolute heaven.

After a few moments, you couldn’t bear the tense silence.

Peering at Din, you saw that he was leaning against the wall watching you, overly tense and you realised he was trying to hide the fact he was shivering himself. The armour would have been like cubes of ice on his body, trapping the cold in the damp underclothes that clung to his skin.

You cocked your head, feeling coming back into your body now, “You should be in here too… You must be as cold as I am.”

He shook his head, “I’ll wait.”

Stubborn.

“Din, you and I know both know the hot water won’t last. Stop being a stubborn ass and get in here.” You pointedly closed your eyes, to show you wouldn’t look.

You heard him hesitate, but a few seconds later, you heard the sounds of metal on the floor as he shed his armour, and then felt his presence as he stepped in with you.

A soft sigh escaped his lips, and you couldn’t help the smile that just tugged at your lips, “See, I told you.”

Din snarled again, very quietly, “Shut up.”

Surprise filtered across your expression, making you raise your eyebrows, “Excuse m-“

“I said, shut up. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to make jokes after what just happened. Not this time.” There was something behind his words, the sense of that breakdown that he had been holding back on the ice.

But still, how was this your fault? “Why am I getting the blame? What could I possibly have done wrong? I didn’t ask to be stabbed with a lightsaber, or fucking drown! If you have a problem, go and sort it out with Rena, Haran – whatever the fuck his name is. Not me!”

Din laughed, but it was cold, almost somewhat hysterical, “Oh don’t worry, princess. I plan to.” He moved closer to you, creating a darker shadow across your darkened eyelids. “But I am mad at you. I am… furious with you.” He stopped just in front of you, the slight raggedness of his breathing audible, “I warned you not to call him, or get involved with him. And you didn’t listen to me.”

You opened your mouth in protest but felt his bare finger press against your lips.

“No.” There was that tone from that night, in the kitchen when it was all command and pent-up emotion. “You talk when I say.” He removed his finger, but stayed close, “You went ahead and called him anyway. I don’t know why, and I’m not going to ask, but how could you not think something would happen? All I knew, was being in this damn shower, and then everything exploded. I felt the Crest go down, I heard you scream. By the time I got my armour back on and got out of here, I didn’t even know which way was up. I couldn’t get to you.”

His words were slowly getting a little quicker, and it floored you because in the entire time you had known him… this was the most he had ever spoken.

That was the only reason you bit back your retorts and stayed silent.

You heard him suck in another breath, “When I woke up, I searched this whole ship, this whole fucking ship three times over. I couldn’t find you, or Grogu, or even Duru. You were all just… gone. I didn’t know if any of you were alive, if you’d been hurt, if you were stuck somewhere, if someone had taken you.

I went out straight away, and all I could think was… what if I couldn’t get to you in time?” His voice was choked a little, still mixed with frustration and you heard him pace across the tiny area of the refresher. This had really shaken him, allowed him to feel a fear so potent he didn’t think it was possible.

If you opened your eyes, he would still have his helmet on, but you would see the rapid rise and fall of his armourless chest, see the way he held his body, like he was preparing for battle as all of these emotions and words tore out of him, like he could no longer stop them.

The water still poured down over the pair of you as all of this emotion cascaded out of him, “When I saw your arrows on the floor and the dead Trooper, I knew you were alive.” He paused for a breath, or maybe to try and stop his outpouring?

Either way, you took the advantage, “How? How could you know I’m alive just from arrows and a dead Stormtrooper?”

You felt him look at you, his voice softening for a moment and sounding sort of… proud? “Because if you were killed, there would have been a hell of a lot more mess. You wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. It was too clean, so I knew you were hurt. And then… Then I felt it. A pull toward you. I ran, so hard, so fast and when I saw you, trapped on that lake-” He cut off with a soft noise, “My entire world stopped. He had you. He had you there and I couldn’t do anything to stop It without risking you or the kid. And I shouldn’t have hesitated like I did, I shouldn’t have sat there and let him dictate his terms. I should have just killed him as soon as I saw you and none of this would have happened.”

He was starting to spiral into guilt, you could feel it, and it physically pained you to hear him blame himself, “Din, stop. Please. None of this was your fault, none of it at all.”

“No! It is my fault!” His cry was so different to his usual lower baritone, that for a moment you thought he was someone different. “The only reason you went to him, is because I haven’t made you comfortable enough to trust me. To trust me with… whatever it is you went to him for.”

He carried on too quickly for you to register where he was going with that. “You were kidnapped by him, because of me. He hurt you, and did Maker knows what to you, because I couldn’t protect you. You went into that lake, you nearly died… because of me.” His voice cracked on the word ‘died’ and broke to a whisper at the end.

It tore straight through you, and you pushed off from the wall, stumbling the few steps to him blindly and you rested your hands up onto his helmet, “Din…”

His hands flew up, grasping your wrists by instinct but then they softened, holding them gently, “Please don’t tell me otherwise.” You could barely hear him over the sound of the water.

Ignoring him anyway, you forged on, willing him to understand with your words since you couldn’t let him read your eyes, “None of this was because of you. You have made me feel comfortable and safer than I ever have before, in my entire life. I trust you, completely. What happened to me, today, it was my fault. My foolishness, so please, please stop blaming yourself.”

It was like Din didn’t even hear you, like your words floated in one side of his helmet and dropped out the other, “Do you know what I would have done? If I hadn’t been able to save you on the ice?”

Tightness gripped your heart, and you shook your head, “Don’t.”

He grasped your wrists a little tighter, “I would have hunted Haran down and killed him and then I would have taken Grogu and Duru to Peli. And given her the Crest, she’d look after it. Or sell it for parts. Either way, it would have been in good hands. And then I would have lain you to rest, somewhere beautiful and peaceful, like you always talked about.”

You tried to pull your hands away, but he held fast to you, gently, “Din, stop. Please don’t say it, please-“

“And then I would have laid down next you, taken off all my armour and I would have driven a blade into my own heart.”

A hard flinch ran across your body, and you shook your head fiercely even though the action made your head swim, “Don’t you dare say that again. I don’t even want to think about you doing that, Din. Why would you even do that? Why wouldn’t you just live out the rest of your life in peace? Go to that Sanctuary planet you talked about and be free? Don’t throw away everything you’ve been through because of my own stupidity.” You yanked your arms free, backing up a few steps and stumbling up against the wall again.

The shadows shifted and you knew Din was following you forward, “Because I would have failed you. I do not deserve to live after it’s my fault you died. Grogu shouldn’t be brought up by someone who can’t save the people he lo – cares about.”

You made a noise of frustration, turning away so your back was to him, opening your eyes and you glared at the wall, tears stinging your eyes, “Just stop!! I don’t deserve that! How can you talk so easily of throwing your life away for someone like me! Just stop, Din – it’s ridiculous.”

Even though your parents words echoed in your mind, you just… couldn’t believe them.

Din’s hands rested on your shoulders, “It’s not ridiculous, cyar'ika. It’s the truth.” He said it so simply, so easily and that just made you even more frustrated.

“No!” You shook your shoulders, ignoring the bolt of paint hat ran through your side, “It’s not the truth. You can’t just leave the kids without a father; you can’t just lay down and die just because I’m not here. I don’t mean that much to you, Din, honestly. I’m a pain. All I’ve done since I came here is cause you more grief. So, if you say one more time that you’ll die for me, I’ll – I’ll..”

“You’ll what?”

You swallowed, a tear rolling down your cheek, “I’ll leave.” The words stung, low words that hit below the belt, but Din had to understand. “You have to understand, Din. I am not worth that.”

He remained close but didn’t touch you. His words were in that rumbly baritone again, the one that shot straight through you, “You have to understand, princess, that I can’t stand here and listen to you talk about yourself like that. You are worth everything. All of this, all these people after us, the old and the new, it doesn’t bother me. I don’t care.”

You groaned, raking your fingers through your knotted hair in frustration, “You’re not listening to me!!”

Din’s voice rose, equally as riled up again, “No, you’re not listening to me! I’m trying to tell you what I’ve been thinking about for… fuck, for months. And you’re not hearing it, you’re not listening to what I’m saying!! Just like always.”

Without thinking, you spun round, eyes blazing, and you waved your hands in the air, even if it did make the floor feel like it was swaying, “Then what do you have to say, Din? What are you so desperately trying to tell me? Huh?”

Din didn’t react to you seeing him in his helmet and black underclothes. It was like he didn’t care.

His hands were shaking at his sides, curling and uncurling into fists, “I’m trying to say that – that I..”

You rose your eyebrows, “Well? Come on, spit it out if it’s bothering you so much that I won’t understand. The floors all yours, Din. You have something to say-”

Before you’d even finished speaking, he cut you off, shouting above you and the water,

“I love you.”

Previous| Next

#good times are on their way friends #the mandalorian x force sensitive! reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin x force sensitive! reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin #pedro pascal #star wars #rogue

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autumnslance · 5 years ago

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Prompt #29: Trust II (Extra Credit)

((Captain Lyna, second person POV for some reason, uses a couple lines of dialogue from early Shadowbringers but most of it is me.))

At 0500 get up, brush hair, brush teeth, wash face, get dressed in lighter gear. By 0515 be out the door headed for the training yard. Grab a cup of coffee and skim reports and listen to the laughably-labeled night watch, find out who is sick or injured, any incidents while you slept.

From 0530 to 0700 is the time for physical fitness and training. Yesterday was cardio and endurance, today it is strength and flexibility. Every day involves weapons training. Keep a reflexive eye on the newest recruits, most of them green refugees from smaller settlements wiped out by the ever-encroaching sin eaters, settlements too far away to save, even if not for the risk of turning your own soldiers. Note a young viis recently arrived from the depths of the Greatwood, a girl trying a little too hard to prove herself, that she has not made a mistake in abandoning her ancestral home and duties.

Wonder, not for the first time, what that is like, having never known the Wood--or had been too young to remember, if your parents had left after your birth, before their deaths.

Signal an experienced galdjent sergeant with a similar preference in weapons to oversee the girl. You cannot afford a child’s stubborn pride.

By 0730 you are showered, in armor, and on a second cup of coffee as you take more time over the reports. Make decisions on guard rotations, leave requests, sign off on supply orders and requests to the Mean after giving them a critical review and asking plenty of questions. It is a long morning. You drink two more cups of coffee, but probably should have stopped before the last one.

1100 comes around and you take your turn on watch. It’s important to continue to do even the basic duties alongside your troops. Besides, there are not nearly enough of them for officers to not handle those duties on top of all else there is to do. You’re used to taking lunch later, if you grab any grub at all.

It is 1110 when you see her walk out of the woods along the road, looking around like a lost doe. You don’t recognize her, and you know all the Crystarium residents, all the regular peddlers and traders, all the soldier families. You have to; shared tragedies have etched them all into your bones.

“Halt,” you call as she approaches, surprised by your presence, utterly distracted by her surroundings. “Every face in this city I know. Yours I do not. This is the threshold of the Crystarium, stranger, and I am its gatekeeper. If you would enter, you will answer my questions.”

Her responses seem puzzled, or glib. What reason could there be to conceal from whence she came? Perhaps she is a spy from Eulmore; if so, a poor one--

Sin Eater! Move without thought, decades of training taking over. It’s young, or weak, or both, and so falls quickly. It must have been stalking the stranger, and she was so distracted by her surroundings she never noticed.

She seems bothered by the trinket it dropped, signifying its last meal.

The sound of familiar, swift footsteps make your ears twitch. Much as you wish to smile, you are on duty and must remain professional.

Ah. One of his strange friends from far away. Nevermind there are no other lands beyond the bounds of the Floodwall. The Exarch has always kept his secrets. Watch him lead the woman into the perimeter, headed for the city. His stride is different, almost...giddy? Perhaps it is simply imagination; he has always behaved strangely when one of his odd countrymen appear out of thin air.

It certainly explains her strange answers. She must be as learned but as ignorant of Norvrandt as the rest of them had been.

At 1600 you are still wondering about the newest arrival. The guards inside the city say the Exarch took the newcomer on a tour, let her explore on her own, meet people, and even did something with that one pesky pixie that hangs about. But now the new guest is resting, and it is time for your afternoon report.

He listens attentively as always. “Very well, Captain. Is there aught else?”

You hesitate. “This newest...countryman that arrived today. Is there anything I ought to know?”

He ponders that for a moment, then shakes his head. “Not as of yet, but I am hopeful her presence shall finally put paid my long work. Speaking of my countrymen,” he continues, before another question can be asked. “Have we any word of Thancred and Minfilia’s current whereabouts? Our new arrival is certain to ask, when I inform her of the others.”

So she is their companion as well. “No, my lord. He has not checked in for some time, nor have there been any recent sightings. I will inform you the moment I hear word.”

“Thank you, Captain. I believe that is all for today, then.”

Salute, begin to turn.

“Lyna…”

“Yes?” Pause, look back at him. Wonder again when he had become so small, when he once seemed to tower as tall as the crystal spire itself.

“Do you trust me?”

What an odd question. “Of course.” He is not speaking as Lord to Captain. “I know there is much you do not--cannot tell me. I know there must be reasons.” Ask the question you want the answer to. The moment may not come again. “Do you trust me?”

Caught him off guard. That happens more often than it used to. He smiles, though, and pulls back his hood--not the Exarch, but Grandfather, with his ruby eyes and white-streaked hair. “With my life, and the lives of our people,” he replies. “Which is why I ask you to keep these secrets for me a little longer--and know that the ones I keep from you are for good reason, my dear.”

Take a breath. Nod. “Very well then.” Turn to go, but pause again. “...One more question, my lord.”

“Of course, Captain.” He replaces his hood.

“Will any more of your countrymen be arriving in the next year or so?”

He laughs, shakes his head. “No, Captain, I believe this is the last we shall see--and all we need.”

The knowledge that Norvrandt may not have another year hangs heavy between you, unsaid. There is no need. That is one secret which he has entrusted to you in a rare moment of despair, and you swore you would never repeat it.

---

The days are less routine, now that she has arrived.

It is not an immediate thing, as she leaves for Amh Araeng and Kholusia, bringing the twins back to the Crystarium. The elven youths are grieving and angry over what they experienced whilst on their missions; you are not sure yet if that is a good thing, but there is no time.

Holminster is under attack by a large number of eaters. The town may be lost, but the sinless cannot be allowed to sweep further south and into Lakeland proper.

You fight the panic when the Exarch takes the field himself. It is not the first time, but you cannot help be afraid--not for your lord, master of the Crystal Tower--but for Grandfather.

“Trust me, Captain,” he says again, a hint of a devil’s smile on his broad lips. His smiles too have changed, since his countrymen began arriving, five years past. As if he were a younger man, or at least remembering what that was like.

When the Lightwarden falls, you expect the worst--you know how this is supposed to work, and as much as you like the twins and even this newcomer, you will sacrifice them in a heartbeat to save him--

And then the newcomer does the impossible.

You stand under the sunless sea. There are stars, just like in the stories he used to tell you as an orphaned child.

The Exarch is keeping secrets again. Things he said to the Warrior of Darkness, to the twins, all odd, all nonsense--things to ask about later.

He asks you to keep secrets again.

“As you wish, my lord. Your penchant for mystery is nothing new, and I will encourage folk not to question this either.” Your answer is automatic and proper. “...Although I expect to be told the whole truth of it one day. About all of you.” You stare at him, at the ruby eyes you know lay under the hood. He smiles.

There is a strange feeling that he does not expect to tell you all--that there may not be opportunity. Especially not once, as Alphinaud fears, Eulmore learns what happened here today.

Tonight. The walk back to the Crystarium is under an endless glittering trail of diamonds against a black so deep it seems impossible.

He keeps his secrets, as do his friends. Part of you fears the answers to them.

But looking up, tears burning your eyes, hearing the joyous songs and prayers of your people, despite the change and the hardship you know will come, they have earned that requested trust.

#FFXIVWrite2019 #Final Fantasy XIV #Shadowbringers #Lyna #Crystal Exarch #Warrior of Light #Lyn Writing

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live-love-laugh-lesbian · 5 years ago

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Choose Me Again

(I posted this on ao3 like, a month ago or so, but not on here-)

Summary: Emile Picani is born without a soulmate mark, a "Spare". Thankfully he meets someone who doesn't care about the rules, and has enough overconfidence to pull off a fake soulmate mark for far too long. Emile can't help but fall in love with that sort of person. Maybe his brother was right, Deceit really is a bad influence.

Words: 5,643

Emile Picani was born without a soulmate, just a blank wrist.

His parents were a typical love story in their world. They met young, their names burning bright on their wrists, shock and awe and excitement as they realised they’d found their soulmate. They stayed together through high school, of course, and got married as soon as they finished university. His mother wore a pretty mermaid tail white dress, his father had gushed over how lucky he was to have such a beautiful soulmate, and two years later they’d had Emile’s older brother Logan, who was born with the name Roman Prince on his wrist in deep red. It sparkled in the sun, and Emile swore there were flecks of gold within it.

But then Emile was born, pale blank wrists, a doctor reassuring his parents that many people don’t develop their marks until later. That he had one patient who got it at “the cut off mark”, and how lucky they were, how close they were to not having one!

So his parents relaxed, assumed he’d develop one in due course.

He was three when he first realised he was “different” than his family. Logan was only two years older than him, and really didn’t understand as much as he’d like to pretend. So when Emile traced over the curves of the R and asked why he didn’t have a name, Logan had said they were still looking for someone good enough for him.

Emile found it funny, had blushed, made some high pitched squawking noise, and continued playing. His parents overheard, and used it as the reason whenever the question came up. Anything to make their son feel normal.

Emile went to playgroup, met a variety of children with a variety of names. Only a couple didn’t have theirs yet, but they were too young to really understand why it was such a big deal. Em ile met Remy there, a boy with pitch black letters scrawled over his wrist, deep and inky.

“October,” Emile reads proudly, “I don’t know anyone named after a month though...”

R emy shrugs, picks up a pen and starts doodling over a sheet of paper, as blank as Emile’s arms.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s a dumb name. Yours is cooler.”

E mile smiled, gap toothed and rosy cheeked, looking forwards to the day he met someone with his name on them. He liked to imagine it as pink and bubbly, maybe with a sparkle like his brothers. He started looking at his wrist more often, imagining the name that would appear.

B y the time the year ended and he had to start school with Remy, he was the only person he knew without a name. Just a blank wrist.

“It’s ok,” his mother reassures him, “my grandmother didn’t get hers until the cut off point. She was thirteen! A day later and she’d have been a Spare!”

Spare. Emile doesn’t understand the word as an insult, but Logan does, and he understands that it’s bad the day Logan comes home complaining a kid called Emile a Spare.

“Like a spare pencil?” Emile asks, almost hopefully, “you know, in case you need an extra one!”

H e was young, but old enough to recognise pity. He sees it in how his mother smiles sadly, his brother runs a hand through his hair, and his father nods.

“Yes, Emile. Like...a spare pencil.”

R emy works it out before him, of course, the two sat under a tree reading when Remy blurts out that his mother thinks Emile’s a Spare.

“She says you’re not gonna get a mark,” he says, “but she’s wrong. You’re not a Spare, don’t worry.”

“What’s a Spare?” Emile asks, “people keep saying the word, but I don’t get it.”

“Just means someone without a name. They used to believe it was the universe making sure there were people left over in case of death or something,” Remy says it like he’s been told it a million times, “it’s sad. I’ve never met a Spare before though. Maybe they don’t exist.”

“Maybe,” Emile agrees, and closes the book he’s reading. He finds himself drifting to books and shows without romance in them. He knows he’s not a Spare, but it doesn’t hurt to take his mind off things.

H e likes cartoons, he discovers. Where he can ignore romance, if there’s any, and focus on the action, the characters. He likes Steven Universe. He likes that even though Sapphire and Ruby are in love, he doesn’t have to focus on it. Besides, most cartoons didn’t have soulmate marks. Most of them.

“You’ve got time,” his mother reassures him when he mentions this, “and we can take you to see a doctor if you’re worried.”

He doesn’t like that, the idea that he should see a doctor, that something is wrong with him. He tells this to Logan, who presses a kiss to his forehead and tells him he’s perfect, that nobody deserves their name on his wrist anyway.

“Soulmates are a ridiculous concept,” Logan tells him, emphasising the large words proudly, and Emile giggles because he’s seen Logan pondering dictionaries in his spare time.

( He giggles a little less when Logan comes home talking about the new kid at school, about how he’s called Roman Prince, about how Logan’s name looks like a galaxy on his wrist and it’s beautiful.)

“Yeah, well, you’ve always got me,” Remy says with a grin, “romance sucks. You’re safe from hearing about it with me.”

“You can talk about it if you want,” Emile replies, but is grateful nonetheless.

T hey spend their days complaining about their teacher, doing homework in thick coloured pen, then playing Crystal Gems in the local park. There’s no expectations, and nobody looks too long at Emile’s blank wrist for it to be a bother.

H e’s eight when he sees a Spare for the first time. An elderly woman with a bright spotted walking stick, a pink shawl around her shoulders. He stops to fanboy over her Pearl keyring, talking about how much he loves that show, talking about cartoons and fantasy novels.

“Such a bright boy,” she tells his parents, and he puffs his chest out proudly, “though he’s wrong, the best fusion is definitely Opal.”

E mile is so busy spluttering and trying to argue that he almost misses the sight of her bare wrists, no names written on her dark wrinkled skin.

“Mummy, she was like me,” he says.

“Yes, you both liked your cartoons!”

“No, mummy, she had a blank wrist!”

L ogan tells him he shouldn’t have said it, that it was rude to point it out. His mother starts crying, saying that the woman was different, that Emile wasn’t a Spare . Later his father tells him to be careful with what he says, even though Emile is confused.

“Why is being a Spare so bad?” he asks.

( He sees an announcement that a cartoon loving woman is dead three weeks later in the newspaper. A funeral is arranged by her estranged brother, but when Emile goes past the funeral that day he notices the only people to turn up are the brother and his soulmate.)

H e hears more people say the word now he’s getting older. He’s half way to the “ cut off” point, and there are whispers. The other kids talk behind his back at school, and the whispers follow him home, where he lies awake at night hearing his parents sob about how they have a Spare as a son.

“Ignore them,” Logan tells him, “you’ll get there when you get there.”

He watches Logan laugh at Roman’s jokes, watches Roman listen to Logan’s music choices, the two watching musicals and sci-fi films on YouTube at every given chance. He’s happy for his brother, and agrees that his name looks like a galaxy against Roman’s wrist. Purple and black and blue, but shining brighter than any star he could name.

E mile dives further into cartoons and fantasy, away from the love of his parents, his mother’s name s carlet and bold, his father’s milky and bright as the moon. Away from the love of his brother and Roman, red and galaxy mixing beautifully when they link arms. Away from the world of soulmates, so he can pretend he’s normal.

R emy is always there, always arguing with people over whether Disney should s top using soulmate marks in their shows. Does it matter who Moana is destined to be with, after all? But Emile doesn’t mind so much, content to watch fantasy people have fantasy adventures, content to imagine that the concept of soulmate marks is just part of the fantasy.

R emy meets October in the summer before they start middle school.

They’re playing on the swings, excited to be moving up in the world. And then a boy with wild black curls comes up shyly, holding out his wrist, where Remy’s name is scrawled in messy capital letters, the colour of ground coffee beans.

“October?” Remy asks, and Emile knows he’s the second choice from then on out.

T o his credit, October – or Toby, as he likes to be called – is lovely. He passes no judgements on Emile’s blank wrist, never mentions the concept of Spares , and turns out to be a Disney fan. He fits into their group seamlessly, as natural as the rise of the moon, and Emile knows Remy’s never been happier.

M iddle School is a nightmare. Emile quickly realises he’s the only one in the building with a blank wrist, and finds himself hiding it under cardigans and bracelets. He pretends to be shy, changes topics from soulmates to cartoons, and makes sure to clap and respond politely when people around him start meeting their soulmates.

“I get it, it’s a big deal for them,” he assures Logan, who looks so concerned these days, “if they’re as happy as you and Roman are then that’s all that matters!”

“I’m happy if you’re happy,” Logan tells him, and hugs him tightly.

B ut Emile’s thirteenth birthday approaches quick, and Emile’s parents are on edge, each day checking his wrist, sometimes subtly, sometimes just grabbing it outright.

“He’s a Spare,” he hears his father sob, “was it something we did, do you think? I read that too much sugar in infantry-”

“Maybe I ate too much fish whilst pregnant with him?” his mother suggests, “some people say-”

T hey don’t know Emile can hear them, and Emile feels bitter when they pretend to be happy the next day. He wants to call them out, but fears their reactions too much. What if they’re angry with him? What if they decide it must be his fault?

H e’s crying a week before his thirteenth birthda y alone in the toilets at school. He’s supposed to be at Band, but instead he’s wishing he had a name instead of just a blank wrist.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks up at the voice, vaguely recognising the kid looking at him. They share a few classes, he’s pretty sure. A boy with dark hair, dark eyes and vitiligo across his dark face. If not for the flashes of yellow in his clothes he could blend in with the night better than Lapis Lazuli with the ocean.

“I’m a Spare,” he whispers, wiping his eyes, “I turn thirteen next week and I don’t have a name. My parents are going to be so disappointed.”

T he boy hums, and Emile sees the name Virgil Knight flash across his wrist, patchy purple and swirly.

“Parents suck. Does it matter that much that you have a name?”

Emi le shrugs. “Logan says it doesn’t, but my parents d isagree.”

“Logan Picani, right?” the boy tilts his head, “he’s the kid dating Roman, the drama club guy?”

E mile nods. “My brother. I’m Emile Picani.”

The kid hums, then grins, walking over and grabbing Emile’s arm before he can protest. Out comes a pen, and then Emile has Deceit Hart on his wrist.

“Well, Emile, looks like you have a name. And yes, that’s my real name. My mother was angry because dad cheated on her, and I got the lifelong reminder.”

He says it dryly, but also tiredly, as if he’s had to explain this a hundred times. And if he’s telling the truth, then he probably has.

“Later, Emile.”

H e rushes home to show them his “soulmate mark”. Logan looks suspicious, but plays along, whilst his parents gush, too happy and relieved to question why it looks a little more inky than the average mark. Roman is there, and leans over. The drama club guy.

“Hey, Deceit. I know his brother!”

Remy insists that Deceit start joining them at lunch. After all, Toby did, so Emile’s soulmate should as well! And Emile is certain that Deceit is going to spill the beans, out Emile as a Spare, but instead he grins and accepts the invitation, fitting in with the group so casually that Emile is almost convinced he really is his soulmate.

Deceit goes over the lines every day, and his own sleeves get longer, covering the name Virgil Knight, so nobody can argue that the two are soulmates. Emile feels bad for Virgil, whoever he is. He tries bringing it up with Deceit, pointing out that he can’t lie to his future soulmate.

“Virgil can deal with it,” the boy says dryly, “you can’t be the soulmate of someone called Deceit and not expect a few lies, can you?”

Three months later his parents insist on meeting Deceit, wanting to know what their son’s soulmate is like. Roman talks about Deceit’s brother, a kid in his and Logan’s year called Patton, who Logan speaks fondly of as well.

“I admit, I didn’t know Deceit had you as his soulmate,” Roman says, “I would’ve thought I’d noticed!”

Emile tries to laugh, but the lie still tastes bad on his tongue.

It doesn’t stop him helping to cover up Deceit’s soulmate mark with make up, then going over the now-blank wrist with a pink sharpie, his own name now looping over someone’s wrist.

“Pretty,” Deceit comments.

“I guess.”

Emile introduces Deceit to his parents, and Deceit is perfect, on his best behaviour, smiling and cracking jokes and showing interest in everything his family says. Emile wishes Deceit really could be his soulmate, and wishes he could be sure that Deceit isn’t lying about, well, everything.

“See? Not so bad. And now your name is on someone!” Deceit grins afterwards, holding up his wrist, the pink still as bright as it was when Emile first applied it.

“I feel bad lying though,” Emile mutters, “and what are you going to do when you meet Virgil?”

“I’ll just discuss it with him. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Deceit says it confidently, and Emile thinks that’s his favourite part about Deceit. The confidence. Deceit never hesitates, never backs down, never hides how he feels. He’s chosen to represent their year group in a debate competition, along with Toby, and the two go to the finals against Logan and Patton.

(Brother versus brother!)

Logan reassures Emile that it’s ok if he wants to support his soulmate rather than his brother, and Emile can’t help but resent the statement.

But he supports Deceit regardless, because he’s convincing. He’s loud and convinced from the start that his side is right.

It’s a silly debate, really. The school have tried to keep it light, so two thirteen year olds are arguing that you should skip a wedding to go for an interview for your dream job, whilst two fifteen year olds argue that you should go to the wedding and support your friends.

“He believed in egoism – or, acting in your own self interest,” explains Deceit, smirking because he’s got everyone’s attention.

“But that’s wrong!” Patton protests, whilst Logan looks annoyed at having to reign in someone so emotional.

“No. You’re wrong.”

Emile’s heart flutters a little at how confidently Deceit can say such a bold statement – and to his own family member!

Deceit and Toby win, though really all Toby did was agree with what Deceit was saying. It was to be expected, in a way, because Deceit manages to get Mr Sanders, who is supposed to be the neutral judge, to agree with him.

“You’ve got a talent,” Logan says afterwards, whilst Patton hugs his brother tightly, “you should join the debate club. I’m happy to put in a recommendation for you to be Captain next year.”

“Nah, I’m not that fond of debating,” Deceit says, and they all know it’s a lie, because he accepts Logan’s recommendation, and the next year takes over the position.

“You’ll be in High School too soon,” Logan points out to Emile, “make sure you let them know Deceit’s your soulmate, that way you’ll be put into the same classes.”

(Emile shifts awkwardly, and Logan considers mentioning that he knows Emile isn’t Deceit’s soulmate. But he lets it go, because if his brother’s happy then that’s all that matters.)

Deceit and Emile keep up the lie throughout middle school, going on double dates with Remy and Toby in their final year, two pairs of fifteen year olds arguing over which Disney movie to watch at the cinema. Emile likes it, likes holding hands with Deceit, likes the kiss on the cheek he receives at the end.

“We’ll still be friends after you meet Virgil, right?” he asks timidly one night.

The four at at his house for a sleepover, Remy and Toby having fallen asleep during Lilo and Stitch two hours ago. The make up has smudged enough that the purple letters are just visible, and Emile’s heart aches at the idea of losing his wannabe-soulmate.

“Best friends,” Deceit promises, and kisses Emile’s forehead, “forever.”

It’s the summer before they start High School, Remy and Toby finally making themselves official, and celebrating with a week away at Toby’s grandparents’ house, a pretty cottage by the sea.

“Have fun!” Emile hugs Remy tightly, “I’m so jealous of you guys, find a pretty seashell for me, would you?”

Toby laughs as Remy returns the hug. “We can manage that,” he assures Emile, “text us if you reach your growth spurt whilst we’re gone, ok?”

“I hate you,” Emile snaps, but laughs nonetheless when his three friends crowd around him, knowing he’s easily two inches shorter than them all.

“Use protection,” Deceit teases Remy, nudging Toby in the ribs, “try wait until Wednesday.”

Emile smacks him lightly around the head, and Deceit laughs. Deceit had already turned sixteen, whilst Remy and Toby shared a birthday. Emile still had two months to go.

“Watch it, or I’ll keep you filled in,” Remy warns, but his eyes sparkle.

“Ooh, fill me, yes please-”

“Dee!”

And then for a week it’s just the fake soulmates, starting each day redoing each others’ names and planning what to do.

“I think I might dye my hair when my parents go for their anniversary this weekend,” Emile says, “what do you think?”

“What colour?”

“Pink.”

“You’ll look fantastic. I was thinking of keying our local politician’s car.”

“That’s illegal.”

“And?”

Roman walks in on them dying Emile’s hair, and calls to Logan, saying that Deceit’s clearly a bad influence on his little brother, smiling nonetheless.

“Oh yes, a terrible influence,” Deceit says dryly, running pink through the tips, “after we dye his hair pink we’re going to get our ears pierced and spray Trans Rights over our headteacher’s car.”

“That’s illegal,” Logan points out, and doesn’t understand why Emile and Deceit burst out laughing.

The pair do both things. They go to the local Claire’s to get piercings, knowing it’s not the best place but doing it anyway. The lady coos over their soulmate marks, talks sadly about how her niece is a Spare, and Deceit loudly proclaims that his brother is a Spare, and how rude it is when people use the word.

“It’s just a blank wrist,” he snaps, and pays half what he’s meant to, despite Emile trying to convince him.

“I didn’t know Patton was...”

“Oh, he’s not, I just didn’t want to out you.”

They go over to Deceit’s home to get spray paint, and Emile sees the faint chicken scratch on Patton’s wrist, decorated with drawn-on flowers. Patton sees him looking and hides his wrist.

“I think there’s more in my room,” he tells Deceit, who hurries off, then turns to Emile, “...I know you’re not my brother’s soulmate.”

Emile almost throws up, a deer caught in the headlights. How are you supposed to react when you’re called out on a three year long lie? “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be, I’m sure it was Dee’s idea. But I hope you two know what you’re going to do when he meets Virgil.”

Virgil Knight became Emile’s nightmare. The idea of someone who would walk into his best friend’s life, reveal the lies, and walk away with everything Emile wanted.

He began to resent Virgil, tried to imagine him as someone particularly ugly, or stupid, or nasty, someone that Deceit wouldn’t want. He knows Deceit knows his thoughts, because when deep in his hatred of the mystery soulmate he finds Dee squeezing his hand gently, thumb tracing the fake soulmate mark.

Toby and Remy return from their trip with three sacks of shells, and lie them out on Remy’s bedroom floor for Deceit and Emile to enjoy.

“Take as many as you like,” Remy tells them, and Deceit picks up a translucent pink one, feeling the spiral and the perfectly smooth interior.

“Emile, this one’s almost as beautiful as you,” he says, and Emile flushes as he takes it.

(He puts it up on his bookshelf at home, and gently holds it to his chest every night before he sleeps.)

Deceit flirts a lot with him over the summer, and he knows it’s intentional, because Deceit grins at him every time, sly and mischievous.

“You can’t do that,” he protests one day towards the end, “what would Virgil think?”

“No idea, never met him,” Deceit replies breezily, “more importantly, what do you think?”

“Huh?”

“What do you think? Like...say I kissed you, what would you think?”

Emile goes red, changes the topic, and tries to ignore the way Deceit’s face falls for a fraction of a second.

They don’t bring it up again.

And then Virgil Knight makes his appearance two weeks into their High School life.

“Deceit?”

The four look up at a tall gangly emo kid, smudged mascara and almost entirely hidden underneath a band hoodie.

“Whatever it is, I probably did it, and definitely don’t regret it,” Deceit says instantly.

“No – I mean...you’re Deceit Hart, right?”

Deceit nods, taking a bite out of his sandwich, and Emile knows what’s about to happen before the words are out of the emo’s mouth.

“I’m Virgil Knight. I...I’m your soulmate.”

Emile’s life falls apart in slow motion.

First, Remy tells Virgil he’s wrong, because Emile is Deceit’s soulmate, and shows Virgil his wrist.

Then Remy sees the name is smudged, because for the first time in three years Emile’s fake soulmate mark has smudged, as if it knew what was about to happen.

Next, Virgil rounds on Deceit, demanding to know why his name is on someone else.

Toby is in shock, staring as the scene unfolds.

Remy is yelling, Virgil is crying, people are watching.

And Deceit is silent throughout, looking thoughtful, as if debating on what to say, as if anything could make this situation anything less than humiliating and painful.

“Nice to meet you Virgil,” he says finally, “this is Emile, he’s my best friend.”

Virgil explodes, and Emile later compares it to when Pearl gets popped and her clone goes nuts.

Virgil is screaming, grabbing Deceit’s wrist, seeing the make up cover up his name, demanding to know why Deceit doesn’t want his actual soulmate.

Emile, Deceit and Virgil are sent to the headteacher, who takes Virgil’s side, pointing out that lying about your soulmate is a crime in some countries. He asks Emile who his real soulmate is, and realises a moment later that Emile just has a blank wrist.

“It was my idea,” Deceit says quickly, seeing the tone of the headteacher change rapidly, “please don’t get mad at Emile, this whole thing is because of my actions.”

Emile is sent home nonetheless, and his parents alternate between being furious and being distraught. He can’t tell if they’re upset he lied to them, or if they’re upset because he’s a Spare.

“I can’t believe you’re blank,” his mother sobs, “you’re a – how could – my own son is a Spare!”

His father comforts his mother, and Emile quickly realises where the two stand. There’s anger inside him, boiling up, bitter and dark. It wasn’t fair that they were crying over his blank wrists, it wasn’t fair that everyone’s ideas of him changed when they found out he was a Spare.

“Everyone at school thinks it’s your fault,” Remy tells him down the phone, “...you could have told me you were lying, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” whispers Emile, “I didn’t think it’d get so...like this...”

“We’ve been friends forever, Em! You shouldn’t have hid this from me!”

“I’m sorry.”

He hates having to tell Logan, and cries as he does,

“I’m not angry at you,” Logan reassures him, “though it was a reckless decision to make. Is it really so bad to have blank wrists?”

“I don’t want to be a Spare,” Emile snaps, “you don’t know what it’s like, Lo, when everyone makes a thousand judgements at once because part of your skin is blank. It doesn’t feel good! I hate it! I hate everyone! I hate myself!”

(He cries late into the night.)

Remy and Toby approach him the next day at school, wrapping their arms around him gently.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“We’re not angry at you,” Toby says quickly, “or Dee, really. It was a dumb thing to do, but...yeah...”

“Just tell us next time,” Remy says gently, “it hurt, Em, no lie. But we still love you. Just...be honest with us in future.”

Emile is grateful for his friends, because Deceit has been removed from his classes, placed into ones with Virgil. He hears nothing from Deceit for three days straight, and he’s so convinced that Deceit has dropped him now he has Virgil.

Then Deceit breaks into his bedroom late at night, looking worse for wear, with dark circles under his eyes and a bruised cheek.

“Surprise!”

“Dee, breaking into places is illegal.”

“I know.”

Emile hugs him tightly, and cries softly when Deceit pulls him close, soft and firm and warm and perfect.

“Why didn’t you message me?”

“My brother took my phone,” mutters Deceit, sitting down and pulling Emile onto his lap, “says I need to learn to be responsible.”

“Your cheek-”

“Yeah, turns out my mum considers the whole lying about your soulmate thing to be a lot like cheating. Virgil agrees, so I’m kinda outnumbered. I, uh, don’t think Virgil expected her to react so badly though.”

Emile presses a gentle kiss to Dee’s bruise.

“What’s Virgil like?”

“Annoying. I mean, he’s cool and all, but being forced to spend all your time with an emo whose life revolves around My Chemical Romance is a pain. Plus he’s really angry with me, and we have nothing in common except for a love of Harry Potter. And he doesn’t even know what house he is!”

Emile laughs, because out of everything Deceit could be annoyed about, the Hogwarts House seems to have gotten him the most worked up.

“-And I said, maybe he was a Hufflepuff! But nope, he rejected that too!”

“Tell him he’s a Hufflepunk,” suggests Emile, “he might prefer that.”

Deceit pouts. “No way, there’s only one Hufflepunk in my life.” And he runs a hand through Emile’s pink hair, smiling softer than Emile’s ever seen.

“...I wish you really were my soulmate,” Emile confesses.

“I don’t,” mutters Deceit, “the whole thing is stupid, being made to be close to someone just because you have their name on you...”

“My name’s been on you for three years.”

“That’s different. You were a choice.”

Later, neither would be sure of who kissed who first, but Emile likes to think he made the first move, clumsy and awkward, lips meeting Deceit’s in a silent declaration of love.

“Then choose me again,” Emile whispers, pleads, and Deceit kisses him back.

To say Virgil dislikes this turn of events would be an understatement. Emile can’t blame him – to be told your whole life that you would meet a person who would love you forever, and then that person turns around and says no?

“I’d still like to be friends,” Deceit tells him quickly, “you seem great, and I’m happy to have met you, I just-”

“I can’t believe that between me and a Spare, you chose the Spare.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“I’m meant to be your only choice,” mutters Virgil, “not second to some...blank wristed nobody.”

Deceit rolls his eyes. “I can choose who I like. And I choose Emile, blank wrist and all.”

Virgil makes his dislike of Deceit and Emile obvious from then on, and does his best to avoid them, but destiny forces soulmates together one way or another, and within a year Virgil gives up on avoiding them, instead calling a truce of sorts.

Remy and Toby are silently thankful throughout that their own lives have a lot less drama in them.

Roman is happy for Deceit and Emile, simply stating that he finds the choice a lot more romantic than a typical soulmate meeting.

Patton comes around eventually, but it puts a rift between the brothers, and Virgil becomes closer to Patton pretty quickly.

“What university are you applying for?” Deceit asks Virgil when the time comes, “I want to make sure I’m applying elsewhere.”

“Fuck off,” snaps Virgil, “I’m not sharing anything with you.”

(So of course they end up applying to the same places, and Virgil goes to Patton in distress, complaining about how the universe hated him and that destiny was out to get him.)

“We’re just doomed to keep running into Virgil,” Deceit tells Emile, Remy and Toby, “I hate it.”

“Maybe you guys will be friends, eventually,” Toby suggests.

“Maybe.”

Emile’s parents never quite get over having a Spare for a child. They get Emile to specialists all over the country, as if that could do anything, until Logan puts his foot down, demanding they stop putting so much pressure on him to be “normal”.

Emile goes to the same university as Logan, eagerly telling his friends about his plans to study psychology there.

“I’m thinking of becoming a therapist,” he says, “I think I’d be good at it.”

“I think so too,” Remy says, smiling.

“You’re good at lots of things,” Deceit comments, and winks, “but does this mean I’ll be able to call you doctor and get you to-”

“Dee, if you end that how I think you’re going to end that, I’ll kill you,” Toby says seriously.

“Kinky,” Emile and Deceit say at the same time, and Toby gets up and leaves.

“That makes no sense!” they hear him yell, and Remy just shakes his head.

Deceit gets a snake tattooed around his wrist, covering up Virgil’s name. In response, Virgil gets a band of music notes over a galaxy sky, covering up Deceit’s.

“Want me to get your name tattooed?” Deceit asks Emile one day, the pair lazing about on a hot summer day.

“Not really. I’ve had enough of names,” Emile holds up his own blank wrists, “besides, then I’d get yours done, and I’ve come to like my blank wrists.”

“I like them too,” Deceit says, capturing them lightly and kissing Emile, “though they’d look even more pretty wrapped up in rope...”

Emile shakes his head, mutters that Deceit has no chill, and kisses him back. And if he deepens the kiss a little and mentions where Deceit might find some rope, then, well...that’s just a bonus.

There is no ending to their story, of course not.

Emile is a Spare, and every time someone sees his wrists they do a double take, look at him in sympathy, or offer him the number of a doctor that definitely knows how to “cure” that sort of thing. As if having no name was equal to an illness.

(Emile eventually starts explaining to these people that he is a doctor, and he knows better than to trust any that claim they can cure the lack of a soulmate mark.)

Deceit’s name is covered up, and someone will always whisper about it, expecting some sort of story behind it. And there is, yes, but Deceit has a dramatic flair and prefers to give over the top excuses every time.

(Eventually Emile convinces him to start writing his stories, and his books become world famous.)

Logan and Roman get married, a typical soulmate story, and Emile begs to be a bridesmaid.

Patton meets his soulmate, and Virgil ends up joining them in a polyamorous relationship of sorts. There’s never any real forgiveness between Virgil and Deceit, but the two can’t stop running into each other and eventually create their own terms of peace.

Remy and Toby don’t get married, but stay friends with the pair throughout their life, because as Deceit and Emile know, sometimes it’s the people you choose that you’re closest to.

“I’m glad I chose you,” Deceit tells Emile each morning, waking him up with kisses and a squeeze of the hand. Emile smiles every time, knowing exactly what he means.

“I love you too.”

#emile picani #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #...what is the ship name #demile #i think #soulmate au #implication of abuse at end #virgil is understandably a dick #angst #angst with a happy ending #remy sanders #deceit is a bad influence #deceit has too much confidence #listen to my bad excuses for not giving dee a normal name #human au #deceit says fuck destiny

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cyabae · 6 years ago

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TOP-10 Naruto Eurovision Characters

No one asked for it, but this is what the world needs right now. I’m going to list top-10 characters who would perform well in Eurovision. And to the person who’s asking: “Is this post cursed?” - no, it’s blessed with sparkling vibes, love, love, peace, peace. ♡

10. TSUNADE

Look, I know, I know… When you think about burning pianos and sparkling outfits, Tsunade isn’t the first person who comes to mind. However, you can bet that she’s the one who found some extra money to support the broadcast, made sure that the safety standards were met and bought some champagne (out of her own pocket) for the Raikage to convince him that Kumo doesn’t fall apart even if it shows this glitter feast to its citizens. Probably made all the confetti herself, yes, the whole stadium of it ‘cause everyone else was too distracted. Sure, she passed out 15 minutes before the show began but she’s the one who’s behind of it all and therefore should win. But since we want more sparkles, we’ll give her 1 point.

9. SHISUI

Every good song contest needs a ballad. Fear not, Shisui is the right man for the job! His beautiful sad red eyes will capture your chakra and make you sob like no tomorrow as he begins to sing a song about blindly falling into a swirling abyss. No one knows whether his best friend is able to save the day. It’s possible that Shisui’s early demise was in vain. That’s depressing, people conclude, as Shisui smiles softly for one last time. A tragic death is something that everyone can relate to – we’ve all been there. However, the jury is kinda awkward ‘cause there are speculations that this song has Danzō references, 2 points but in our hearts, the ballad boy is the true winner of the night.

8. DEIDARA

Oh, wow, the atmosphere got kinda sad after those heartbreaking melodies. It’s time to lift up the mood with a big, big BOOM! Deidara will steal the show with his self-made clay bombs. The rumor has it that someone else was going to take care of the fireworks before our favorite pyrotechnic took the matters into his own hands (quite literally). His high-quality standards were too much to chew for the art director. Deidara’s performance will absolutely bombard you with fleeting beauty of explosions and 2007 nostalgia, 3 points!

7. KISAME

Ballads and groovy rock hits are essential. However, there’s a beautiful middle ground to be found between the two. Enter the sharkman Kisame! There’s something so chill about him that it puts the audience in a good mood. When he steps on the stage, you can almost feel a light sea breeze and hear a distant cry of seagulls. And oh boy, what do we have here? A Samehada? That’s so wicked, just like those geysers that extinguish the fire from the previous performance, possibly saving dozens of lives. Wherever Kisame goes, good luck follows. Except for that one time in Kumo. This unfortunate occurrence doesn’t require any attention right now. This night is all about peace and love, all that morbid talk about sharknados can wait. 4 points.

6. MADARA

Go big or go home! It’s Madara’s turn. He’s prepared for his moment of glory for decades and won’t be afraid to spice up things with some meteor showers and hundreds of copies of himself. Those clones may seem invisible but they’re conjuring meteor showers, too. We may never know whether the lord First himself is impressed. He probably is. At least the rest of the world is in awe. Technically, Madara is banned from the event due to multiple violations of the rules, but even the jury is too amazed to care. They want to acknowledge the persistent work and grand him 5 points before anyone realizes that banned performances are banned.

5. GAI

The Green Beast of Konoha is about to hit the stage. He was absolutely made for quality content like this. His jumpsuit has been a song contest classic ever since the dawn of time, not to mention that this dance-friendly outfit allows him to move smoothly. The dress is a killer, youthful like a lunchbox. Gai’s presence sets every piano in the world on fire, and you can bet that those flames are also emerald green. 6 points.

4. JUUBI

Once you think you’ve seen it all, it’s Juubi’s turn! The jury thinks that a gigantic chakra monster isn’t an appropriate singer but whatever. Their killjoy attitudes won’t stop people from loving the roars of their very favorite annihilator. Magnificent! Bravo! 7 poäng!

3. RIN

Pheww, what a show! Hearts are racing. A good old ballad will cure our chest pains. Now, let’s hear about that one time when Rin needed to get an assisted suicide. Naturally, everything went horribly wrong and now she’s doomed to watch over her friend from afar, thinking to herself that this wasn’t what she signed up for. Her only joy in life is knowing that once a year, there’s this one day of peace. Even her idiot friends seem to respect that. But it’s a small console given that she’s still kinda dead and now everyone thinks that she’s super against the Infinite Tsukuyomi whilst all she ever wanted to do was to start a revolution along with her best friends. Her story is the greatest tragedy of all times, 8 points.

2. KAKASHI

Looks like the next performer doesn’t believe in glitter. Kakashi is dressed in his standard jōnin outfit. He has 5 of them just in case. Sometimes he can muster enough motivation to do laundry, and that’s a little miracle. Laundry days are the good days. Life’s treated him roughly. Still, this man took over when Tsunade passed out and personally prevented 900 deaths behind the scenes. He doesn’t want any credit for it, he just did what had to be done. The strength of this man is his sense of duty. It’s unbreakable. When the world is falling apart, Kakashi is your last hope. He isn’t kidding around, and if he must attend to this madness, he will do it. One could argue that Kakashi isn’t very wholesome, but something about him pleases everyone. The jury loves him, Konoha council loves him and the opposing side of those state marionettes loves him. After all, he’s becoming Tsunade’s successor but no one has asked their Sharingan back, just saying… Love for Kakashi is universal. 10 points for love’s sake.

1. OBITO

A good song contest is made out of ballads, quirky outfits and meteor showers. With that being said, you can’t have a real show without the walking, talking shitpost. When Tobi takes over, the whole world will gasp. Some think that the kitsch lollipop mask is too much and rightfully so, whilst the others think it’s ingenious. They are right in their own way. Tobi is a good boy and a fashion icon. You know who else is both of those things? Obito! He’s prolly not impressed by the concept of the competition. He doesn’t think that mere individuals should represent the prisons that are their nations. But he’s here. It’s time to put an end to this misery and let the world rest in peace. No more pain, no more suffering. The jury tries to protest. That’s their problem. Obito will create a new world, a better one. Admit it, this plan is THE BEST, and no bans and boycotts can prevent Obito from giving the world a… Good. Fucking. Show. Sure, the plan wasn’t his idea, but he did all the hard work – and therefore he’s the winner. LONG LIVE FREEDOM, 12 POINTS!

#eurovision #esc #eurovision 2019 #esc 2019 #naruto #tsunade #shisui #deidara #kisame #madara #gai #juubi #rin #kakashi #obito #toetally not a shitpost #meta

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dustedmagazine · 5 years ago

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Dust Volume Five, Number 8

Graham Dunning and his mechanical techno rig

Our occasional survey of records we might have missed continues with a late July edition of Dust. This time around, our hot and hazy listening spanned localities and genres from Norwegian folk to Black Dirt jam to Swedish dream pop to Ohio noise-electronics, Kashmiri war metal and well beyond, with the usual stop-over in Chicago for free-improv jazz. Writers included Bill Meyer, Justin Cober-Lake, Ian Mathers, Jennifer Kelly, Jonathan Shaw, Andrew Forell and Nate Knaebel. Stay cool.

Erlend Apneseth Trio with Frode Haltli — Salika, Molika CD (Hubro)

Salika, Molika by Erlend Apneseth Trio

This project unites two musicians who have set themselves the task of reconciling contemporary means with Norwegian folk music materials in the 21st century. Erlend Apneseth plays Hardanger fiddle, a violin variant with sympathetic strings that give it a striking resonance; his trio includes a drummer with a feel for Norway’s pre-rock popular dance grooves and an acoustic guitarist who doubles on sampler and other electronics. Frode Haltli is an accordionist who has shuttled between the worlds of folk and free improvisation. Their collaboration scrambles lucid memory, which is represented by archival field recordings of folk songs and dances, with a mildly feverish dream of a trip through ambient textures that somehow detours every now and then through beats that’d earn you an extra beer if you played them in a Nordic country dance hall. The field recordings exert a gravity that counteracts the lightness of the spacy passages, and Haltli tucks his virtuoso command of the squeezebox into hiding spots, ripe for discovery.

Bill Meyer

Hans Chew & Garcia Peoples — NATCH 10: Hans Chew & Garcia Peoples (Black Dirt Studio)

NATCH 10 - Hans Chew & Garcia Peoples by Hans Chew & Garcia Peoples

After a few years off, Jason Meagher's Black Dirt Studio has resumed its NATCH series of releases, with volume nine (ignoring the prefatory release) coming from Wednesday Knudsen and Willie Lane in June, and the latest pairing Hans Chew and Garcia Peoples. The series offers artists the freedom to collaborate however they please to create freely available releases. Chew and Garcia Peoples make for an ideal match on paper, and the actual pairing pays off.

Garcia Peoples started their cosmic psych just last year, with two albums out in short order. Pianist Chew has been putting in his time for longer, taking his roots-of-rock and Southern rock sound into increasingly spacey places, turning more and more toward a jam sensibility without sacrificing his songwriting. His Open Sea started taking hints from Traffic, so it's no surprise that this release includes a Dave Mason cover, “Shouldn't Have Took More Than You Gave.” Chew fits effortlessly into Garcia Peoples' jams for a couple tracks, and they meet him in his bluesy-ness for “No Time.” In the middle we have the acidic meditation of “All Boredoms Entertained,” the hinge between the two more rocking segments. The partnership works best when everybody takes off, and the 10-minute opener “Hourglass” burns as hot on record as it would at a festival.

Justin Cober-Lake

Death & Vanilla — Are You a Dreamer? (Fire)

Are You A Dreamer? By Death & Vanilla

On their third album, this trio from Malmö, Sweden show a devotion to making the most gossamer strain of dream pop without ever losing sight of a knack for peppily compelling song structures. Two of those four earlier albums may have been live soundtracks for movies, but none of these eight deceptively sharply-written songs fade into the background for a second. Singer Marleen Nilsson may be swathed in gauzy atmospherics throughout, but whether on the swooning opener “A Flaw in the Iris,” the foreboding thrum of “Mercier” or the orchestral surges of “Nothing Is Real,” she effortlessly commands center stage here. The music deserves the obvious comparisons to Stereolab and early Broadcast, but Death & Vanilla manage to put their own spin on the influences they share with those earlier acts, and the result is a good reminder that there more than enough room on that territory for multiple bands.

Ian Mathers

Graham Dunning — Tentation LP (White Denim)

Walk Tentation down on the turntable without foreknowledge of who made it or how it was made, and you’re likely to think that you’re hearing a bit of in sync but off-kilter techno. It sounds like some lost Kompakt release got shaken up and dubbed out with a bag half full of Lego pieces. But the truth is stranger than that. Graham Dunning plays a real time mechanical techno with a homemade, eternally changeable set-up that can simultaneously play a stack of records whilst affording him the means to fuck with individual sounds. True to his techno ambitions, this stuff bumps in ways the kids won’t question. But his willingness to get hung up on a sound and play with it, and then play with it a bit more, mark him as an experimenter with a feline sense of play. “Do I put a bit more reverb on this bit of echo,” one can imagine him musing, “or do I just knock it under this bump in the rug?”

Bill Meyer

Erin Durant — Islands (Keeled Scales)

Islands by Erin Durant

Erin Durant has a lovely, old-fashioned country voice, flute-y with vibrato at the top-end, rich with emotive sustenance in the mid and lower ranges. It’s the kind of voice that careers are built on, yet Ms. Durant, born in New Orleans now living in Brooklyn, refuses to take the easy road of relying on in-born talents. She brings into complication, depth and contradiction into her songs with a sharp, modern writer’s pen and an idiosyncratic cast of supporting musicians. Her crew on Islands is headed by TV on the Radio’s Kyp Malone and includes percussion-centric composer Otto Hauser, the boundary pushing pedal steel artist Jon Catfish DeLorme, at least once on harmonica, the eccentric folk singer Kath Bloom, and a large ensemble of brass and reeds. So when on opener “Rising Sun,” she playfully dabs at the Animals’ blues-rock chestnut (verses begin with the phrase “There is a house in New Orleans”), it’s within a precise lattice of country guitar, of multi-tonal percussion, of flickering bits of flute and woozy surges of trombone and trumpet. It lighter and more delicately structured than the song it references, yet built out elaborately with complex layers of instruments. The title cut, likewise, lifts off in airy weightlessness from the gospel chords of piano, as tied to tradition as it needs to be for resonance, yet fundamentally self-determined. There is nothing lovelier than Durant’s massed, multi-voiced choruses here, but the prettiness isn’t everything, far from it.

Jennifer Kelly

Four Letter Words — Pinch Point (Amalgam Music)

Pinch Point by Four Letter Words

The Chicago-based trio Four Letter Words comes full circle on its second album. Pianist Matt Piet, tenor saxophonist Jake Wark and drummer Bill Harris first convened to play a night of trios at the venue Constellation, but then pursued an investigation of written material before returning to spontaneous music making for this nicely packaged, short run disc. You can get a lot out of this music by focusing on Harris’ inventiveness and humility, or Wark’s angular impetuousness or Piet’s astonishing capacity to pick the best ideas of a half century of jazz practice and put them in just the right places. But you might get more from listening to how the trio collectively imagines musical environments, realizes them, and then pushes off to the next idea at just the right moment to leave you wishing they’d stayed a little longer.

Bill Meyer

Jake Xerxes Fussell — Out of Sight (Paradise of Bachelors)

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Guitarist Jake Xerxes Fussell has a knack for curating old music, but his first two albums were more than simple collections of reworked folk music. His sharp playing and intelligent production (give William Tyler some credit here) have turned old tunes into something a little more vibrant. For Out of Sight, he adds a proper band to his presentation, and the presence of Nathan Bowles on drums is worth noting, even if that sympatico artist largely keeps in the background. In expanding his lineup, Fussell also expands his sound; he no longer just mines particular folk traditions, but instead he inserts himself into a larger Americana conversation.

The move, intentionally or not, puts more of Fussell himself into the album, to its benefit. If anything held back his previous releases, it was this sense at the edges of the sound that Fussell had tied his own hands, his traditionalism tending toward that curator impulse. The songs on Out of Sight come from a variety of places (though if you plotted most of them on a Seeger-Lomax axis, it would make sense), but they're put into Fussell's current vision. “Three Ravens” builds a broad frame for a singular meditation, the sort of moment his work has hinted at without maintaining. Fussell sounds like he's deep in tradition, but committed to pushing it forward in his own way know, and it's a wonderful step for a gifted artist.

Justin Cober-Lake

Halshug — Drøm (Southern Lord)

Drøm by Halshug

“Kæmper Imod,” the first track on Halshug’s new LP Drøm, could easily fit onto the second side of Black Flag’s The First Four Years, which chronicles the singles and EPs the Flag released during Dez Cadena’s tenure as front man. The Danish hardcore band hits all the necessary notes, channeling Greg Ginn’s ugly guitar tone and the vicious, overdriven quality of Southern Cali hardcore, c. 1981. The song might be a love letter, but the first side of Drøm doesn’t move far beyond the established sounds of a style now nearly 40 years old. On second side of the record, Halshug does some more varied stuff. “Tænk På Dig Selv” shifts in and out of competing rhythms and makes a winning ruckus. Most interesting are the industrial racket of “02.47” and the extended instrumental “Illusion,” which moves from hard rocking groove, to thunderously exuberant crusty riffing, to arcing drone, and then back again. It’s a hugely fun, sonically engaging song, which makes you wish Halshug would ditch the Hermosa Beach vibe that dominates much of the record.

Jonathan Shaw

DJ HARAM — Grace (Hyperdub)

Grace by dj haram

Philly based producer DJ Haram (Zubeyda Muzeyyen) builds the tracks on her Hyperdub debut Grace on darbuka rhythms in homage to her Middle Eastern roots. The album also reflects her involvement in the experimental scene as a DJ and half of noise/rap duo 700 Bliss (with Moor Mother). Over the delicate percussion she layers flutes, big slabs of synth, heavier beats and disruptive stabs of noise. “Candle Light (700 Bliss Remix)” introduces vocals with an impressionistic poetic rap over a purely percussive backing. There is an urgency here driven by the restless, relentless rhythms which makes Grace is a disquieting and claustrophic listening experience. Fans of Muslimgauze and Badawi will find much to admire. DJ Haram uses a limited palette to full and focused effect building atmosphere and impressively drawing a line between middle eastern and western electronic music.

Andrew Forell

Tim Hecker — Anoyo (Kranky)

Anoyo by Tim Hecker

Tim Hecker may make music that envelops the listener with beatless, thickly textured sound, but don’t call it ambient. For while ambient music holds at least the possibility that you can get lost in its drift, Hecker likes to short-circuit comfort. Soft sounds turn grainy, plush clouds disappear and if you catch him in concert you’ll feel the music as much as you hear it because it’s that loud. Anoyo is a companion to last year’s Kanoyo, and like its predecessor originated with some collaborative sessions between Hecker and an ensemble of gagaku (Japanese traditional ceremonial) musicians. He mixes their sounds up with warped and reversed strings and squelchy synthetic bass, and shapes the resulting amalgam into aural vignettes that are less extravagantly mobile than the tracks on Kanoyo but equally dislocating as national traditions and diverse equipment collections swirl and meet on uncommon ground.

Bill Meyer

Kapala — Termination Apex (Dunkelheit Produktionen)

Termination Apex by KAPALA

By its very nature, war metal is retrograde stuff. The fact that the bands most strongly associated with the subgenre (Proclamation and — yes, seriously — Bestial Warlust) hailed from nations that haven’t experienced much by way of war-related trauma for decades doesn’t help. Does it make a difference that Kapala live and record in Kolkata, and that India and Pakistan have effectively been at war in Kashmir since Partition, and have been in a U.N.-mediated ceasefire (sort of) since 1965? And that both nations are nuclear powers? And that India is led by a fiery Hindu nationalist? And that the cover art for Termination Apex features a stylized mushroom cloud? Yikes. Aesthetically, war metal has its appeal. It features simplistic riffing, technical primitivism and hammering percussion, all taken to sonic extremes. But its romanticization of industrially scaled destruction and nihilism is repugnant and culturally corrosive. Kapala will attract some attention just through exoticism — metal from India? Sure, I’ll check it out. But a reactionary artwork is a reactionary artwork, wherever it comes from.

Jonathan Shaw

Khaki Blazer—Optikk (Hausu Mountain)

Optikk by Khaki Blazer

“Mothafucker ain’t nobody playing grooves in 13. You can’t get paid for playing grooves in 13. Ain’t nobody gonna shake their booty. That’s why you’re fucking broke,” observes an uncredited voice in the spikily difficult “4/4,” a typically intricate rhythmic concoction of electronic squeaks, blurts and rattles for this Kent, Ohio-based outfit. Pat Modugno who heads up Khaki Blazer, as well as Mothcock and Fairchild Tapes, constructs giddy, multilayered rhythms. In “Conga Line” sampled, altered voices do battle with rackety bursts of drumming and urgent, antic whistle of a melody. The parts work every which way, throwing elbows, stepping on toes, in furious conflict that somehow resolves itself into slinky rhythm. Whether in four, in six, in seven or in thirteen, Khaki Blazer cuts never take the easy way, but they are grooves all the same.

Jennifer Kelly

Lambchop — This (Is What I Wanted to Tell You) (City Slang/Merge)

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Fourteen albums in and Nashville’s increasingly sui generis Lambchop, led as always by Kurt Wagner, is doing something that feels unusual, at least for them. 2016’s digitally-enhanced FLOTUS was a sprawling statement of a record, and given the restlessness that led to the processing Lambchop used there it wouldn’t be a surprise if their new record went off in a totally new direction. Instead the focused, somewhat more straightforward This (Is What I Wanted to Tell You) could almost be a hefty postscript to FLOTUS. It doesn’t boast anything with the majesty of the two ten-plus minute tracks on the previous album, but all the songs here sound even more comfortable in their own hybrid skins, and as always Wagner is in fine lyrical form. It remains to be seen if this constitutes as Lambchop settling down, but if so it’s in a richer and more bracing way than most bands half their age can manage.

Ian Mathers

Régis Renouard Larivière — Contrée (Recollection GRM)

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Régis Renouard Larrivière was born in 1959. But if Discogs is a reliable reporter, despite having been involved in music as a student, instructor, and composer of musique concrete, this is only his second album. Presumably his works are intended more for the multi-speaker listening environments available to the Groupe de Recherches Musicales; certainly it’s not hard to imagine this LP’s three pieces caroming from speaker to speaker, elevating the listener into a mind-altered state induced more by unfamiliarity than sensate distortion. The way they leap off the vinyl of this 45-rpm LP is a trip in itself. No substance, prescribed or otherwise scored, will get you where this stuff takes you. Even when a sound seems familiar — there’s some identifiable drumming amidst the synthetic twitter and boom — it behaves in ways that are unconcerned with the laws of music. Despite its unnatural sound content, Larivière’s music moves more like some force of nature. “Esquive,” for example, evokes leaves in an updraft, circling and dispersing. Like those leaves, each sound has tactile identity that invites you to deal with his compositions at the atomic as well as meteorological level. Strap in, enjoy the ride.

Bill Meyer

Gabriele Mitelli / Rob Mazurek — Star Splitter (Clean Feed)

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The recurrent astronomical imagery in Rob Mazurek's music makes this much clear; his horizons are farther off than most. A restless multi-media artist (his work includes sound and light installations, painting, and composed and improvised music performed with various brass and electronic instruments in the company of musicians from at least three continents), he nonetheless has certain modes that he revisits. In Gabriele Mitelli, he has found an astute companion to follow him into the realm of ritual. In 2018, the two men stepped into the Mediterranean and blew their horns in the direction of the African refugees trying to cross the sea in untrustworthy vessels. No one showed up while they played, but the energy they projected took wind and you can still get a taste of it on Youtube. On Star Splitter, which was recorded on dry land in Florence, they add electronics, voices, and unidentified objects to their brass (Mitelli: cornet, soprano sax, alto flugelhorn; Mazurek: piccolo trumpet) to stir up four sonic maelstroms in celebration of planets from our solar system. Direct our ears in their direction and see how far your own horizons recede.

Bill Meyer

Tony Molina—Songs from San Mateo County (Smoking Room/650 Records)

Songs From San Mateo County by Tony Molina

Tony Molina is a master of concision. No sooner have his songs stated their killer riff or indelible melody than they’re over, and damned if you wouldn’t like to hear them again. His blistery guitar and way with tunefulness evokes Teenaged Fanclub, and here, on a collection of unreleased and unfinished material from 2009 to 2015, it becomes clear that he doesn’t have to work that hard to hit that sweet spot. The odds and sods are as fetching as anything on his last three albums. Sure he plays fast and loose with some baroque guitar licks on “Intro” and “Been Here Before,” and maybe that’s a little bit off center for power pop genre. But he weaves them in, at least in “Been Here Before” in a way that reinforces the doomed romantic vibe. He rocks a little harder than usual, too, on cuts like “Hard to Know,” with a sidewinding guitar break worthy of Brian May in his prime, but as usual, any hint of rock star excess is limited: the cut is less than a minute long. “Separate Ways” layers sublime dream pop hooks over an incendiary racket, like J. Mascis stepped in to a Raspberries session. The whole collection is so catchy and so satisfying that you have to wonder what else Molina has languishing in his hard drive. Let the songs out, man. We can always use more of these.

Jennifer Kelly

Mark Morgan — Department of Heraldry (Open Mouth)

The rise and fall of the guitar in popular and critical esteem relates directly to the fact that a lot of people play the thing, and a lot of them sound like lesser imitations of someone doing something that you never wanted to hear done with the thing. If this is your problem with the guitar, Mark Morgan is not part of your problem. The former member of Sightings makes a case for the instrument as a vehicle for creative sound manipulation that cannot be refuted by lazy reference to the dozens of records in your collection, or memory, or once-clicked, never closed browser pages. This music sounds like it is being chewed and digested during the passage from his amplifier to your eardrum. Molars indent twangs, incisors gnash chunks of fuzz, and acids strip off the crusty coating and lay bare the jagged bones of sounds that you really, really shouldn’t be swallowing, but that you really need to hear.

Bill Meyer

Private Anarchy — Central Planning (Round Bale)

Central Planning by Private Anarchy

Titular intimations of both anarchy and planning suggest internal tension that is born out by the music on this album, which is the inaugural vinyl release by hitherto cassette-oriented Round Bale Recordings. Private Anarchy has a bit of an identity crisis; shall one emulate the petulant, gotta get this off my chest delivery of David Thomas c. 1979 or the twangy stride that the Fall hit around the same time? Since the combo is really one man who is acquainted enough with the 21st century to put a laptop computer on the LP’s cover, Clay Kolbinger has taken the time to figure out how to do both at once. The admittedly derivative sounds are well executed, with enough apprehension to suggest that he is similarly motivated by a discomfort that cannot be assuaged.

Bill Meyer

Rodent Kontrol — Live (Fuzzy Warbles Casettes)

Rodent Kontrol Live (FW13) by Fuzzy Warbles Cassettes

Delivering post-Meatmen teenage punk knuckleheadedness at its explosively deranged best, the short-lived Ann Arbor high-school band Rodent Kontrol played this impromptu live set on the University of Michigan's WCBN in 1987 following a performance by the Laughing Hyenas. The latter were one of the toughest acts to follow, but Rodent Kontrol's calamitous, search-and-destroy assault is so gleefully unhinged, and full of the kind of ill-defined yet apoplectic animosity that can only be mustered by the young and the reckless, they truly give Brannon and co. a run for their money. While Live is on the one hand an amusing artifact, it is on the other a true gem of a release in our current era of archival overabundance. Make no mistake, this is rough, sloppy, perhaps offensive stuff, and Rodent Kontrol didn't break any new ground musically or aesthetically. But the nearly sublime agitation exuded by these guys here is truly something to behold, creating a genuinely unnerving sense that something very bad about is about to happen, and when it does it will feel absolutely good. If that's not the point of this kind of thing, I don't know what is. In addition to the 1987 live performance, this cassette release (also available as a download) adds a 2012 reunion show featuring a slightly tighter, slightly more "mature" version of the band, but certainly no less nihilistic.

Nate Knaebel

Sail into Night — Distill (self released)

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In the three years since this Dubai-based Pakistani duo’s very promising debut, it feels like if anything they’ve pared down their already elementally satisfying, nocturnal variety of post-punk slowcore to its simple, direct, powerful essence. Zara Mahmood’s harmonium, Nabil Qizilbash’s guitar, a drum machine and their vocals continue to be enough to generate surprisingly heavy music; although you’d be hard pressed to fit the music stylistically anywhere in the heavy metal realm, emotionally and tonally it exists somewhere between the “stonegaze” of a band like True Widow and the stark grandeur of early Low. From the chiming “Lighthouse” to the closing grind of “Apart,” Distill packs a lot of dark energy into a compact 30-minute run time.

Ian Mathers

The Schramms—Omnidirectional (Bar/None)

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You might know Dave Schramm as an original member of Yo La Tengo or for his guitar work for a whole slew of artists ranging from The Replacements to Freedy Johnston. You might even remember a string of clever, understated country-pop albums from the early 1990s through the turn of this century under the nom de guerre The Schramms — though it’s been a long time. But this seventh Schramms album, the first since 2000, will take you right back to all that’s wonderful about Dave Schramm: quiet intelligence, unshowy but impressive skills, an alchemical way of slipping abrasive rock sounds into soft pop melodies, quality over flash, but still a bit of flash. Take, for instance, the way that “Faith is a Dusty Word” opens up from a rambling piano ballad into swoon-y Pet Sounds-worthy vocal counterpoints, or how contemplative “New England” blossoms from wispy indie pop into a bitter sweet rock anthem, a la American Music Club. Schramm plays with long-time drummer Ron Metz (their partnership dates back to the 1970s Ohio cult band The Human Switchboard) and bassist Al Greller, an original Schramm, so it’s all very burned in, with the easy, unstruggled-for precision of people know what will happen next. Subdued, well-thought-out guitar pop is definitely not the flavor of the month these days, but who cares about fashion when it’s this good?

Jennifer Kelly

Slow Summits — Languid Belles (Hundreds and Thousands Records)

Slow Summits come jangling out of Linköping, Sweden like the keychain on a building supervisor’s belt. Their debut EP Languid Belles presents four tracks of perfectly rendered, chiming and literate indie pop. The foursome of Anders Nyberg (vocals, rhythm guitar), Karl Sunnermalm (lead guitar, harmonica, keyboards, glockenspiel), Mattias Holmqvist Larsson(bass, keyboards, percussion) and Fredrik Svensson (Drums) enlists Amelia Fletcher (Tender Trap, Talulah Gosh, Heavenly) on backing vocals on two tracks. If these guys worship at the altar of Postcard-era Scotland their songs pay more than just homage to Orange Juice, The Pastels and international contemporaries The Go-Betweens, Beat Happening and Felt. Sunny melodies and kindly sarcastic lyrics driven by a tight and swinging rhythm section hit every serotonin and dopamine center of the musical brain. Slow Summits are the latest Scandinavian band to keep on your radar; Languid Belles is irresistible and will leave you “simply thrilled honey”

Andrew Forell

The Way Ahead — Bells, Ghosts and other Saints (Clean Feed)

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Peel back one layer of the Scandinavian jazz scene and you’ll find another layer. If you’ve spent much time paying attention to Cortex, Friends & Neighbors or Paal Nilssen-Love’s Large Unit, you’ll recognize most of the members of this horn-heavy, piano-free octet. André Rolighten (tenor saxophone, clarinet) and Tollef Østvang (drums) write the tunes, and as you’d surmise from a band that finds three ways to pay homage to Albert Ayler in the album name, those tunes owe a lot to his ecstatic/anguished sentimentality. But they aren’t locked into Ayler’s modes; there are also passages that have a distinctly European brass band feel, and some brusque, almost boppish moments. The band might seem ironically named if you take the title literally; this music is rooted in the 1960s, a time before most of the band’s members were born But if you recognize that name comes from an Archie Shepp session with a similar line-up, their sincerity comes into focus. These guys are just trying to blow some life into music much like the stuff that first made them want to play the kind of jazz they’re playing, and they’ve got the wind power to do it.

Bill Meyer

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