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themilky-way · 4 years

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like water {din djarin}

gif credit: no-droids

pairing: the mandalorian/din djarin x fem!reader

summary: when the one person he cares about is threatened, he lets himself indulge in the aftermath of defending them.

warnings: some violence in the beginning, choking (not in the fun way), depictions of scratches, punches, and minor abrasions; the reader is hurt basically. oh and mando’s gun bc yeah❤️umm that’s it i think? nothing too horrible tho but if this thing triggers you, please don’t read !!

author’s note: not to be conceited or anything (is that even the right word for it lol?) but im super proud of how this turned out! requests are open btw for anyone who wishes to submit anything (if unsure, just ask which fandoms)!

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cyar’ika-> darling, sweetheart

nothing in that exact moment had made much sense. one minute the most precious thing to ever exist to him was snatched away, and the next his hands were gripping the treasure beneath his holster. his knuckles were lily-white at this point, holding the gun as hard as his body would allow him to without crushing underneath him, and the urge to cock it made him visibly shake. he’d been given a command, and out of all the merciless men in the filthy galaxy, he needed to follow it, so his weapon of preference stayed where it needed to.

the meager specks of emotion that still lived within him betrayed his prominent composure, the view in front of him blocked by the sudden glaze of his eyes. the small drops of saltwater puddled together in his now hazy orbs, holding on until it was nearly impossible to stay put and then rivered down his cheeks. the cause? well, you.

you were filling up the mandalorian’s line of vision, his eyes darting between you and the bounty that had gone wrong. an alienated hand was wrapped around your innocent throat, your feeble hands wrapped around its wrist in a dumb attempt to break free. the ground you were roaming on before appeared to be never ending, and in the same way, the darkened sky absorbed you whole. vertigo was now in full effect; any quick movement caused you to shut your eyes tightly and hope to the maker you’d get through it. it took a few seconds for you to regain your balance, a sharp pain pinging around your neck forcing you to find it. you half expected to be back on the mud again, to have the man you had spent the past year flying around with pulling you to safety. instead, you found din frozen in place, an instinctive action rooted in the steel handle of his pistol. he wasn’t moving, too scared to blink as if you’d disappear if he did.

perhaps you were; someone like you seemed too good to be true. in all actuality, it may be that you were a fever dream, a celestial that had come down from the sanctity of your home to finally rescue him from his burdens. amidst his frantic glances, he reminisced every second he’d spent with you since your unforeseen arrival, and that somehow worked for him. the gears in his brain started to turn again, and with every ounce of his strength, he pounced on the quarry and did what he should’ve done the instant you were taken from him. anger took over his worry, the effects illustrating themselves in a collage of mitted fists and blood. the pistol residing on din’s waist was useless compared to his hits; the softened position of his jawbone was locked firmly as a result of his gritted teeth and he was going to need more than your delicate hand on his shoulders to ground his senses.

the mandalorian never expected to succumb to anyone, nor to feel remotely joyful upon hearing someone’s laugh. the idea of kindling a relationship was ludicrous, utterly impossible if only he weren’t bound to the chains of his creed. oftentimes, he wondered if someone would one day traverse his path and make him question every moral he’d been taught. din had dismissed the thought, as any other member of his intricate society would have, but the wondrous insight depicting a different lifestyle always lingered faintly in his mind.

today, the very same visions behind his recurrent insomnia framed themselves in a frail art piece. din’s focus laid directly ahead, the fingers navigating the center controls as tight as they’d been on his gun. his eyes deserved to rest, perhaps take in the splashes of color nature was offering him, but he landed them on the same lovely sculpture adorning his cockpit.

you were seated in the chair adjacent from the pilot’s, with your knees closely tucked to your chest. one large scrape designed itself on your leg-a dull reminder of the ordeal you were involved in hours earlier-with flakes of arid blood protecting the wound. bouncing off the skin of your throat were shades of red and purple, now properly mixing into a deeper complexion that’d require you to hide it for some time. besides the scattered nicks living on your face, and the other couple dozen on your arms and legs, the outcome wasn’t as terrible as the one your attacker received. it was a rule of thumb to not mess with a mandalorian, much less with the pretty little lady clutching his arm as if it were second nature. the foolest of fools wouldn’t even have done such a foul thing, and this particular creature came to know the punishment for harming what wasn’t rightfully his.

it truly amazed him; the way you seemed to be so unphased by a traumatic circumstance. the woman beside him-the same one who couldn’t sleep unless a window was open-had endured pain, and the marks on her skin proved themselves in jagged indications of it. through the darkened screen of his visor, din could make out your hands neatly intertwined around your folded knees, your chin simultaneously resting on top. you’d been as observant as you always were, hardly missing his actions as he navigated his newfound family to a safe stop. sure, you were unaware of the loving term he considered of you and the baby, but it didn’t hurt to keep it a secret, right?

“hey.” it came out more hoarse than he intended it to, but the emotion behind it flowed out nonetheless. “you okay?”

not really. i don’t feel good. it was easy to say exactly that, to speak the truth, but it was even easier to lie. for the sake of his own worry, at most. your eyes were still glued to his armor, taking in the rough outline of where you imagined his skin would be underneath, or moreso the abstract idea of feeling it with your hands. reflections of your yearning came and went like the mandalorian’s missions, almost impulsively at times, and the curious, teasing tilts his helmet would bid you only encouraged that craving. much like now; the black “T” of his expressionless face leaned to the side, asking you to earnestly respond. “mm, yeah. ‘m kinda tired, though,” you mumbled.

you threw him a lie and he caught it. “don’t lie to me.” din swiveled his chair to accordingly match the peripheral of yours, his elbows coming to rest on top of his beskar-clad legs. “can you look at me?” he inquired softly. then, his intent fell on the slow shift of your head and how it turned to face him, your cheek settling on your unscathed knee. a breath fell from his lips at the doting admiration swimming in your stare. “there she is,” he confirmed with an upward curl of his lips. “is there anything i can do?” it was sincere; a genuine concern to accompany his question. you hummed in response, fearful to accidentally voice the confessions you hid from him. you blinked once, twice, until his question became a plea. “please, cyar’ika.”

reasonably, you were too busy exploring the shape of his helmet, permitting your creative imagination to paint images of the man next to you; so when your ears perceived his sudden name of endearment, there was nothing amongst the stars that you could’ve possibly denied him from. “you’ve never called me that before,” you smiled, all big and brilliant.

“i’ve wanted to,” the man replied. what resembled ages of pent up stress released with a few curated words. his muscles relaxed, something he never believed to be attainable given his vigorous profession. “god, i’ve wanted to.”

he followed it with a humble laugh. a sound so familiar and warm, so genuine that it empowered your grin to spread higher. “by all means, keep saying it.” now it was your turn to nervously giggle, and him who embraced the noise with everything he could. a mutual infatuation, so wonderfully obvious, yet it was refused acknowledgment. “i think there is something you can do, though.” silence advised you to continue, “can i sleep with you tonight?”

the misguided pieces of your minds’, maybe even your souls’, reattached themselves that very same night. as the both of you slept, hands, calloused and smooth, intimately merged against the cushions of the warrior’s bed. tender kisses planted to your forehead left electricity in their wake, and the dark ambiance of his dwelling favored the entanglement of your tired bodies.

“i wish i could see you, din,” you sighed. the manner in which it was expressed, full of sleep and everything akin, urged him to lift your weightless wrist to his lips.

“you’ll get to one day, cyar’ika. for now just let me hold you, yeah?”

#not me writing fanfiction better than ap literature essays #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #star wars #pedro pascal #my writing!

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faetxlity · 3 years

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Here’s A Health To The Company

@save-a-witcher-bingo Prompt: At Sea Characters: Witcher Gerd, Togeir the Red, Jerome Moreau

Torgeir was looking up at the ruins of what had once been his home. What was his home. Is. The flames were spreading quickly, Fort Tuirseach was all but destroyed. Like the Jarl who had filled its halls with laughter and mead- ruined.

At his side, stained in blood, sat the Witcher Gerd. His jaw was tight, his hands were fisted in the fabric of his own filthy shirt, but his eyes were clear. He did not watch the ruin of his adopted home, rather he watched the blood seep from the bandages that he had wrapped around Torgeir’s leg. Already they were in need of changing but they had no fabric with which to do so, his original job had been so hasty... Unless they ripped apart the sails there was nothing to be done. But to do such a thing as that was a death warrant.

The little ship they had taken was not meant to go much further than around the cape but they had set out for sea with no choice. They had with them five men and a woman, of whom only two were well enough to take up oar, not counting the Witcher who had rowed them the first half hour from shore nearly on his own with eyes blacker than coal.

The Witcher rested now though, so much as he could with his life burning on the shore.

“We will die out here.” The Jarl said, voice was devoid of emotion. Gerd looked to his friend’s face then, to his lover’s eyes. The anger, the grief , all the emotions he had expected were nowhere to be found.

“No.” Gerd replied, “we will live. We will see them pay for this and you will see it rebuilt.” He received no answer, no acknowledgement as the jarl’s hand did not return the gentle pressure that he put upon it. Gerd looked at the island they were sailing from, the land they may never get to set foot on again.

They would live; he would accept no other outcome.

~seven days~

For seven days the ship rocked, sailing for some imagined safe haven on the mainland but without hope or half a crew. One man had succumbed to his wounds on the first dawn and another had followed two evenings after. Torgeir had said nary a word since his ominous assertion of their fate, his leg had steadily grown worse over the days and it left him with little ability to do more than lay down and sleep. When awake he stared across the sea as if expecting death to appear to him with an outstretched hand.

Gerd had taken over easily enough, tucked Torgeir into the captain's quarters and spent both days and nights looking for either a miracle or their end.

On the seventh day it came to them in the form of a ship thrice their size. No man aboard their own was fit to fight but still Gerd drew his steel and braced himself. The dark hull of the incoming vessel felt like an omen and he was flanked by Andrea and Koll, the only two who remained in good health- though weak from hunger they would die on their feet. Of that they were sure.

A figure leaned over the edge of the ship above, their back was to the sun and so Gerd could not discern any features. “Are you in need of assistance?” The voice was, clearly, not Nilfgardian and that alone was enough for the man on Gerd’s left to sag. Andrea looked to the Witcher, her eyes wide and hopeful.

Please, let this be a mercy.

“Yes!” He called up. “We are!”

The ship called itself a merchant’s vessel though a pirate’s den is what it looked. They had been pulled aboard with canvas and rope, the men of the ship quick to provide them with fresh water and food while their medic checked each refugee for wounds. If the crew were upset to have a witcher in their midst they did not voice it. Their captain was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh dear.” The medic said, in his hands were the bandages that Gerd had re-applied to Torgeir’s leg on the third day of their voyage, made from scraps of a shirt found in the captain’s chest.. The odor once they were removed turned even the Witcher’s stomach. “I need a knife.” Gerd tensed but produced his own blade, edging closer to see what was going on.

Torgeir was sweating, his skin deathly pale and feverish as he had been for the last day. In that moment though the jarl’s eyes were wide open- “Where’s Gerd?” It was slow and slurred but clear enough.

“I’m here, Torgeir.” He sank to his knees and took one scarred hand in his own. With his other hand he brushed the tangled mess of the jarl’s hair back from his forehead. The infection was nasty, but it hadn’t spread far. He smiled though surely it was more of a grimace, “Just here.” It took all his strength not to snatch the medic by his throat when the knife began to cut away flesh. It took nothing at all to blame himself for the state of the wound. He was a witcher, he should have known better.

You had nothing on hand to help. You did what you could. He reminded himself. It could have been much worse, the beam that had splintered and slashed the jarl’s thigh had nearly taken his head instead.

Green eyes rolled back and the man’s labored breathing evened. “Witcher?” The medic hedged, “I’ve patched what I can but he will need someone to keep an eye on the wound. We’re still some ways away from the next port but we’ll find a proper healer there.”

“I’ll look after him. Thank you…” he pushed himself to his feet. “Where is your captain?” The men pointed him across the deck to where a slight man was coiling rope, seemingly unconcerned with the new arrivals. He was dressed in a loose fitting shirt and a pair of garish calico pants.

“Cap’n.”

The supposed captain turned and Gerd’s first impression of the man was ‘pretty’. He had light brown hair and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was handsome in a plain sort of way, surely a charmer in any tavern he wished. The bear’s second impression was Witcher. Which couldn’t have been right.

There was no such thing as a blue eyed Witcher.

“Jerome Moreau.” The man-maybe witcher introduced himself as he passed the rope off to a deckhand. At the silence he continued, “Maybe we should speak somewhere private.” Gerd followed him across deck, listening to the slow beat of his heart. The captain’s quarters were decently large and Gerd had the ability to put space between himself and ‘Jerome’ once the door was closed and the lantern lit.

“As I said, I’m Jerome School of the Griffin.”

He wasn’t sure why he snapped. Perhaps it was the time at sea, trying to hold together men on the brink of death while the only one who he could have turned to for help laid on a cot in pain. Perhaps it was how long it had been since he’d seen another of his kind. Perhaps he simply needed to hit something to keep his meager sanity. Perhaps, it was because there were no witchers with blue eyes.

It was a laughably short fight. An embarrassingly short fight that Arnaghaf himself would have thrown Gerd from the highest mountain peak should he have witnessed it in his youth. Seven days at sea with limited water and only small bites of food to stop the hunger pains had done him no favors: against a man he would have been fine, perhaps even against two or three by sheer luck of size. But against a witcher? He hadn’t stood a chance. The Griffin-turned-pirate ducked his blow and tripped him backwards, before he could hit the floor a strong hand pushed against his chest and slammed him against the wall, pinned him there on the floor while the stranger watched him with those blue eyes. Jerome bared his teeth and Gerd found himself far too close to fangs unlike any he’d seen before, a feral snarl tore from the other’s chest like a beast. It was a sound that the bear could do without hearing ever again. But, just as quickly as the anger came, it left and the Griffin spoke softly,

“I am not your enemy. Do not bring such strife onto my ship or I will not hesitate to feed you to the first kraken that threatens us. You and your men have been through a lot; I can see that.” Jerome shifted back on his heels and eased the pressure on Gerd’s chest. “If I cared about having another Witcher on board I would have left you to die. We Griffins are not quite as fickle as your lot.” he smiled as if sharing a joke. “Well, you are here, so tell me your name.”

“Gerd.”

“And your friend is Torgeir the Red then.” The Griffin moved away so that they were both sitting on the floor, Jerome with crossed legs and Gerd with legs akimbo from his fall. “Don’t worry, your safety on this ship is assured so long as I’m alive. We’ll reach a port in a week’s time, you’re welcome to go ashore and we won’t expect any payment for our help; though we’ll discuss other options later. For now, I think it best if you have a meal and rest. You can answer my questions once things have settled.” It was a very one sided conversation but Gerd had both too many questions to begin with and not near enough energy to ask them. If most of them were about the captain himself? Well,

He was a strange thing, even for a witcher.

Gerd was given a water skin for himself and Torgeir and the captain put them in a private room that was used to store trade cargo. It was empty for the next weeks, as had been explained to him by a young lad, and therefore made for a good place to rest. An extra cot had been dragged within. Torgeir’s fever broke after some hours and in the darkness Gerd watched him crawl from his heavy slumber. He hadn’t allowed him to get a word out before pressing the water skin to his lips.

“Drink.” He urged and the skin was nearly empty by the time Torgeir pushed his hand away.

“Where are we?” The room was black as pitch once the sun went down. “A ship came through to help us. We’re a week from port. Your leg… we’ll get you medicine for it soon.” “What?” Torgeir asked. “Fucking thing got infected. They’ve got a decent healer on board though. Stitched it up fairly nice.”

“Fucking great-” the red head pushed himself up and Gerd was quick to move closer and support him. “The others?” “We lost Ragnar and Beorn. The others are having dinner and resting. No sign of Nilfgaard chasing us so far.” With his lover awake and clear eyed Gerd felt the weight of the last week and a half hit him in full force. His eyes drooped and he began to list to the side like a sinking ship.

Torgeir shifted and pressed their shoulders together more firmly. “Come on, y’ bastard. Lay down.” “Can’t.” “You said we’re as safe as we can get. When’s the last time you slept?” Torgeir’s hand squeezed his thigh, kitten weak compared to what it should have been. When Gerd didn’t have an answer for him the jarl sighed. “Tha’s what I thought.” Gerd let himself be poked and prodded until he was reclined against the hull of the ship with rags and old feed bags piled behind him as a comfort. One leg stretched out in front of his while the other hung over the side of the cot, Torgeir laid between them. It was a familiar enough position even if the environment around them was not. He had planned to meditate again, afraid that if he slept then he would not wake for quite some time, but the moment that he had Torgeir’s weight against his chest his eyes closed and sleep dragged him under.

He woke when light spilled across his face, feeling only half as rested as he should have and mortified that he hadn’t been able to fight off the slumber.

Jerome was standing in the doorway, a white shirt half open across his chest and a look on his face that was far too soft. “Your crew demanded that I bring you something to break fast with. Andrea, I believe? She said that if you didn’t take it, I should send her in here in my place.” Again, that smile graced his lips. “I can leave it here and let you sleep.” It sounded good, to be able to close his eyes once more and sink into slumber. Perhaps to wake only when they were docked. He extended a hand instead.

“I’ll take it.” They were hunted men for all he knew. They would need their strength.

“Good,” as witchers they did not need to light an oil lantern and Jerome closed the door behind himself, some sunlight crept in from above. “While none here should voice any judgement, I would advise you to keep any overtly forward displays within this room or in my study should you need it. My men are good but they have loose lips in port, drunkards are not half as lovely.”

Gerd was handed bread and a bowl of thin porridge. It was meager for a man his size and even more so for two. But, they were a week from port and The Hawksea, as the Griffin’s ship was called, had not been prepared for five more bodies on board. Particularly not those of warriors and witchers.

“Thank you.” The words were rough.

“Don’t mention it. I’ll be putting you to work before long. Lots of things to do here that could use a witcher’s strength.” Jerome sat on a crate, one leg pulled up to his chest with his arm draped over it. “Can’t have any freeloading going on, might start talk of mutiny.” His eyes crinkled at the edges as if he’d spent a lifetime laughing rather than fighting monsters. Maybe he had, with a face like that.

“I thought you Griffins were supposed to be chivalrous bastards.” Gerd grunted.

“Chivalrous? Yes. Bastard? Most certainly.” Those fangs were flashed at him again. “I was under the impression you bears were the loner sorts.”

“We are.” Gerd didn’t miss the way Jerome’s eyes lingered on the redhead asleep on his chest. Caught even longer on the scarred arm wrapped around the human like a shield.

The Griffin hummed, “I see.”

The witcher left them alone with their breakfast and somewhere above them a man began to sing.

#witcher #witcher gerd #fic #my writing #sawb

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 4 years

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In a Parallel Universe

Could it be... fluff? The happy, uplifting tone of this can entirely be credited to Mustafa as a muse. I truly believe the man should be held up as an example of how to be a good human and how to be masculine without it becoming toxic. (The way he is treated by WWE, much like that other paragon of positive masculinity Sami Zayn, is something I can angrily rant about another time.)

Pairing: Mustafa Ali x reader (platonic)

Word count: 2,659

Content advisory: Racism/ racist language

“Did you ever have a thing for me?”

Your eyes widen in shock as you look back at Mustafa, your best friend, wondering if you’ve heard him correctly. He’s looking at you with those big, ingenuous eyes, as if he’s just asked you if you’ve decided what you want for dinner. In all the time you’ve known each other you’ve never once brought up the subject of romantic interest or physical attraction and yet here he is, just throwing it out there.

You’re watching your daughters collaborate on a colouring project that might as well be “Guernica” for how seriously they’re taking it.

The bell-like laughter of his wife and mother-in-law is drifting in from the back patio where they’re taking some much-needed time alone together.

You’re waiting on your husband Jake, who’s already sent four apologetic texts about how the Saturday he’s been called into work keeps dragging on, promising that he’ll be there as soon as he can, but that he doesn’t expect you to hold up the barbeque just for him. (Even though he knows you will.)

You laugh a little and squint at him, as if what he’s asked is somehow ridiculous. But it’s not ridiculous. Two heterosexual people who’ve been close friends for so long… it would almost be weird if there hadn’t been any sexual tension. Nevertheless, you think of just rolling your eyes and blowing the subject off. It would be easy enough to do. But his unwavering earnestness has always demanded respect and honesty and it’s possible that he knows the answer already. You certainly do.

“I guess,” you begin, aware that your voice is wavering a little, “early on. I had a bit of a crush.”

Is that the truth? In as much as feeling can be summed up in so few words, yes. It wasn’t like you’d been pining and crying yourself to sleep at night, but sure, you’d felt it. You’d approached him to ask if you could train with him after the two of you had worked a few of the same local shows where the wrestlers outnumbered the audience members. Yes, you’d been beyond impressed with his skills but you’d also noticed how very, very cute he was.

“I mean, everyone did,” you assure him. “All the girls liked you.”

Not all the girls had your confidence or your desire to really break in to the wrestling world, though. So you’d been the one to steel yourself and walk up to him at the gym one night and ask if he’d help you. It was a calculated risk, you figured: he could refuse, he could give it a shot and get bored or irritated and walk away, he could help you become a better wrestler even if he wasn’t interested in more, he could feel your skills were hopeless but also decide you were attractive enough to pursue, or he could want to be both a training partner and something more. Five possible outcomes, three of which worked in your favour. You’d always been clever with numbers and the numbers clearly gave you a better than even chance of a positive result.

He laughs shyly and looks down at the idea that “all the girls” had found him attractive. It’s not that he’s ever been insecure about his looks and charm, exactly, but he’s never been the sort of arrogant prick who’s assumed everyone must be in love or lust with him. And that’s always been part of his charm; confident enough not to seem needy but humble enough to appreciate the attention.

Of course, you’ve always been a little surprised that he doesn’t have more of an ego. The luscious mane of black hair, the smile that could power a small city, the toned body that never crossed into that lumpy, bulgy look that too many of your counterparts developed, and most of all those huge, soulful eyes… The man was infuriatingly flawless and even now it’s not like you are immune to the occasional whisper of desire.

“Shit. I never did anything to hurt you, did I?”

And then there was the personality. Mustafa had always been too great of a guy to be real. He’d been your rock. Whenever things ground you down, he was the one who could build you up again. When you got angry and depressed at the state of the world, he’d commiserate but he’d also be able to give you hope, if only because a world that produced someone as awesome as he was couldn’t be all bad.

You could honestly say that without him, you’d never have fought your way out of the indies and into the big leagues. That wasn’t just because training with him made you a stronger, better wrestler. It was because the two of you had been able to lean on each other when things were rough. And damn, things had been rough at times.

When the two of you had graduated from bar shows for disinterred old men drinking watered-down beer and playing slot machines, you’d been beyond excited. The shows you got invited to took place in gymnasiums and legion halls and church basements with actual audiences who had come specifically to watch the wrestling. You knew it wasn’t the big time; you were excited, not stupid. But it was progress and a lot of people you knew hadn’t even made it that far. You’d grounded yourselves by talking about your meager pay and by calculating how much you’d earned per bruise at each show.

One of the larger, or at least more successful promotions that had booked you had provided an eye-opening experience. The promoter was a corpulent man with a mouth full of lumps that barely counted as teeth and breath to match. He’d called both two of you aside a few hours before your first show to tell you the gimmick that he had in mind for the two of you. It had come as a bit of a surprise because although you were friends, you’d never teamed up in the ring. You’d reveled in being the foul-mouthed heel, while he had, of course, been a natural baby face. (And if you were honest, so few people knew who you were that your characters hadn’t ever mattered.)

“I wanna do a thing with the two of you,” the promoter began, sweat already dampening his forehead and staining the armpits of his cheap shirt. “You two are gonna be like a pair of terrorists. You can fight all the American guys- and girls- and get them over with the crowd. Get the audience riled up.”

The two of you had stared back at him in horror, jaws slack.

“I’m thinking something like ‘Osama and Elle Qaeda’ for your names.” His brow furrowed as he processed another idea. “Can you come up with some shit to yell in Arabic?”

You remembered thinking that it must be some kind of joke. Al Qaeda and Osama bin Laden were products of the Arabian Peninsula. Mustafa’s parents were Pakistani and Indian. Yours were Kurds from southern Turkey. Not one of your parents even spoke Arabic. But more to the point, the two of you were American. You were both born and bred in Chicago. Neither of you had any hint of an accent. Why couldn’t you just be normal?

The promoter looked at you impatiently. Mustafa recovered his voice enough to stammer through an explanation of your ethnicity, only to be greeted with a look of supreme indifference and boredom.

“Look,” he said sharply, “it doesn’t matter. You have the look. Around here you’re all sand ni-“

Remembering that night still hurts. The pain has dulled over time because at the moment he’d said it, it felt like you’d been shot in the chest. For a few moments you’d been afraid that you were actually going to vomit. Growing up in a racially mixed area, your features and your family name had been ambiguous enough that people thought that people usually guessed that you were Greek or Italian before they got to Turkish or even broadly Middle Eastern. You’d been proud to declare that you were descended from the little-known but courageous and resilient Kurds. But out here in the wider world, you were an Arab and therefore a terrorist. The Indian subcontinent, birthplace of so many cultures, arts, religions and philosophies, crossroads of empires, might as well have never existed. Mustafa was an Arab and therefore a terrorist.

Seeing what he perceived as hesitation, the promoter scowled at both of you. “Give it a shot,” he counseled. “It’s the only way people are gonna take you seriously.”

You and Mustafa smile at each other, as if you’ve both been recalling the painful judgments you’d faced together, as if you’re amazed you survived let alone flourished. You’d pulled each other through.

“I’d always kind of wondered if you’d ever liked me,” he says shyly.

Yes, you think, you had. You were a tall, muscular girl. It had made sense that you work with a male training partner. So he’d been happy to work with you and you were thrilled to be able to learn from him. You felt yourself improving every time you practiced together. But your mind had often drifted to how it would feel to have his arms wrapped around you in other circumstances. More than once you’d been tempted to close the scant distance between your lips just to see how he’d react.

“I liked you,” he adds, eyes snapping up to see your reaction.

You do your best to mask your shock. “You did?”

“Sure. C’mon, look at you.”

Your mouth feels a little dry. The sounds from the patio have faded and even the children have fallen silent.

“Maybe not right away because I thought you were kind of scary, to be honest,” he chuckles. “But after we’d been hanging around, I don’t know, about a year or so, I really liked you.”

You can’t help but laugh at the idea that you were scary. Maybe you’d thought you could be scary to some of the smaller, less experienced women you’d fought. But to someone on your level both skill-wise and vertically? No.

“I’m serious. I wasn’t desperate or anything but I remember thinking a lot about what might have happened if I’d made a move.”

You wonder about the math in your head. You hadn’t entertained those thoughts about him for all that long. Sure he was hot, but as you’d risen through the ranks together, he’d quickly come to seem like a brother. The idea of the two of you being a couple had started to seem weird. You’d thought about it less the longer you spent together, so it was strange for you to think that as you’d gotten over your initial crush, he’d begun thinking of you in that way.

Your shared reverie is interrupted as his little girl climbs into his lap, sour-faced and frustrated that she’s running out of brown crayons. The work of art that your girls are creating relies heavily on earth tones for the ground, for the tree trunks and bushes, and, you note happily, for the different faces of the people occupying the epic landscape they’ve made. There are all sorts of shades of people and there just aren’t enough brown crayons to build the different tones.

Your daughter purses her lips in a look of stubborn determination you’ve come to know all too well. She’s grabbed red crayons, orange crayons, yellow crayons, green crayons, whatever she can get her hands on to colour in her people. She’s as upset as her friend that there aren’t enough browns but she would never let on. As ridiculous as it seems, you’re actually a little intimidated by just how headstrong she is. Now that she’s learned the alphabet, she seems like she’s about ready to move out and start kicking ass.

She casts a quick glance in your direction and you have to hold back a gasp at her fierce, beautiful eyes. Looking at her face, you’re gob smacked by the idea that something that gorgeous came out of you. It’s like looking at the sun. It’s even stranger to think that she could be the product of the wild, all-encompassing lust that you and your husband had- still have- for each other. How could something that seemed so deliciously sinful produce something so perfect?

You glance back at Mustafa, whose attention is now completely absorbed in his daughter’s lecture on the need for more brown crayons. She’s articulate far beyond her years and you hope beyond hope that years of school won’t convince her to hide her intelligence the way girls of your generation did.

It’s possible that there was a time when your desire for Mustafa and his for you overlapped, that there was an opening when the two of you could have touched lips and fallen into each other as if nothing else in the world existed. The two of you would probably have been a power couple in the industry. Your dazzling combination of skills would have been irresistible. With the way your families have come to love the both of you, it’s likely they would have moved beyond the cultural differences that absolutely do exist, no matter what some ignorant arsehole might have told you when he insisted you were both Arab terrorists.

And it is most definitely possible that the two of you would be sitting in a living room just like this, embracing as you observed your children colouring or playing video games, or chasing each other around with rubber swords, or, worst of all, trying to emulate what they saw their parents doing on television. And perhaps as you watched, you’d look at each other and touch lips with all the tenderness in your souls and you would be filled to the point of bursting with happiness.

But then there would be no…

There would be no Jake, the man who made you realize what true, unadulterated love really was. You would never have had someone make you laugh the way that he can, make you laugh so much that your ribs ache for hours. There would never have been the man who taught you how to curse in Irish or how to snowboard. And you would not have your daughter, so filled with her father’s sarcasm and stubbornness.

For that matter, you would never have had Mustafa’s wife as your friend. When Jake had been hit by a car while riding his bike to work, you would not have had her comforting arms and her voice to pull you through the agonizing days when doctors cautioned you not to be too hopeful about his prognosis. You would never have had that feeling of someone strong enough to hold you up yet tender enough to nurture you through the pain.

A few hours later, the gang of you are gathered around the picnic-style table in the back yard. Mustafa, his wife, her parents, you, Jake, his brother who’s been run ragged by his job more than any of you, and, of course, your children. You’re all laughing so hard that it’s a legitimate danger that the neighbours will call the police with a noise complaint. You make a clever joke and Jake, impressed by your wit as he always is, presses a light kiss against your neck. You feel the familiar thrill move through you, suddenly thinking that it’s time to wind things down and head home. Just for a second, your eyes connect with Mustafa’s and there is this perfect, still moment when you can see that there could be an alternate universe where the two of you would be together, something that might have been better or worse or neither. But then the moment is passed, and you’re once again back in this universe with the lives that you love.

#wrestling fanfic #wrestling imagine #mustafa ali #mustafa ali imagine #wwe imagine #mustafa ali x reader #wayward wrestle writing

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watertreatmentservices1-blog · 5 years

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HVAC - Is Water Treatment Necessary?

Drum-Kickers, Cleanser Salesmen...they have been called numerous things. Water Treatment masters (presumably the name they like) are all over. As a mechanical temporary worker, we have had many thump on our entryway. With most enormous business structures and modern offices in Memphis using water cooling/warming mechanical gear, this industry is profoundly aggressive, however is water treatment extremely fundamental? In this release of Mechanical Matters® I am going to address that very inquiry and examine a few other significant actualities about water treatment administrations.

In this release I need to address three inquiries with respect to water treatment:

Precisely what is water treatment and is it fundamental?

How does ill-advised water treatment administration impact mechanical hardware?

Are there vitality investment funds with water treatment?

1. Precisely what is water treatment and is it fundamental?

Water treatment portrays a procedure used to make water progressively worthy for an ideal end-use. These can incorporate use as drinking water, mechanical procedures, medicinal and numerous different employments.

The objective of all water treatment procedure is to evacuate existing parts in the water, improving it for ensuing use. (Wikipedia.org)

In the mechanical business water treatment is a technique used to enhance most water-based mechanical and modern procedures, for example, warming, cooling, preparing, cleaning, and flushing, with the goal that working expenses and dangers are decreased.

Most water treatment projects incorporate water conditioners, inhibitors and different synthetic concoctions expected to 'treat' the water so as to achieve the ideal conditions for mechanical use and warmth move. Items used to keep up appropriate water conditions are frequently sustained naturally by refined hardware legitimately into a chiller or kettle's water. Water is utilized for both cooling and warming in huge business building applications. In most mechanical situations water is utilized for cooling creation gear or a fixing to making an item. How the water is utilized will figure out what kind of treatment is essential.

Most water treatment organizations use test packs and synthetic administering frameworks which have utilized water treatment synthetic concoctions in chiller, evaporator and cooling-tower frameworks a lot simpler. In any case, thoughtfulness regarding subtleties, for example, how frequently frameworks are tried, is basic to framework execution. The right water treatment science at the right time is phenomenally significant on the grounds that even minor issues can make real expenses.

A week ago I plunked down to breakfast with Gary Reynolds and Sway Schubert of Garratt Callahan. They are water treatment 'authorities'. Gary and I have cooperated with a few shared clients. Their scrupulousness, client administration and tremendous learning of water treatment is the reason numerous structures in the Mid-South are in great hands with Garratt Callahan. In our gathering they furnished me with some incredible data about the significance of water treatment, the impacts of poor administration and things to search for in picking a specialist organization

2. How does poor or no administration impact mechanical gear?

Inappropriate Water Treatment or no treatment at all will expand your vitality utilization and working expense while diminishing your mechanical gear's efficiencies and future. A very much structured and executed water treatment program is exceedingly critical to the activity of any steam evaporator, diffusive chiller and cooling tower. Every one of the three of the frameworks appeared beneath use water for cooling and warming.

Poor water treatment gives water a chance to communicate with the surfaces of channels and vessels which contain it. Steam boilers can scale up or erode, and these stores will mean more fuel is expected to warm a similar measure of water. Cooling towers can scale up and consume, yet left untreated, the warm, filthy water they can contain will urge microbes to develop, and Legionnaires' Ailment can be the deadly result. The condenser tubes inside a chiller and other water cooling gear can likewise scale up and erode hence counteracting great warmth move. Expanded vitality utilization and poor cooling execution is normal outcome in wasteful water treatment.

Water treatment can regularly be ordered as 'low-tech' and unglamorous. Nonetheless, the correct synthetics, appropriate substance feed hardware, and a die hard loyalty supplier is fundamental to your mechanical gear and ought to be 'dealt with' with top need.

3. Are there vitality reserve funds with water treatment?

Treatment Worth: Master water treatment can cut your water, vitality, and upkeep costs considerably. Maybe most significant of everything, it can spare you the expense of fixing or supplanting hardware that has been harmed by lacking water treatment - including the vacation and lost income for the most part connected with tackling such issues.

The instances of water treatment return for capital invested (Return of Speculation) appeared underneath show how extremely meager layers of kept material from inadequately treated water can drive up vitality costs.

Scale

Framework: 1,000 ton chiller

Task: 12 hours/day, 365 days/year

Cost of power: $0.10/kWh

Scale thickness: 1/32 inch

End of 1/32 inch of scale spared $15,018 every year.

Natural Fouling

Framework: 1,000 ton chiller

Task: 12 hours/day, 365 days/year

Cost of power: $0.10/kWh

Bio-film thickness: 1/1000 inch

End of 1/1000 inch of bio-film spared $26,834 every year.

"As meager as 3/16-inch of scale can make a heater framework utilize 38 percent more fuel. The most little measure of broke down oxygen in the water additionally implies a framework could be set out toward erosion issues. Furthermore, even a flimsy layer of bacterial sludge in chiller cylinders can altogether influence heat-move proficiency."

Wrap Up:

As mechanical contractual workers we are no outsiders to the significance of water treatment. Be that as it may, subsequent to looking into and composing this article I can guarantee you that I am significantly more educated about the need and bit of leeway to having a decent water treatment program.

In this release Mechanical Matters®, I examined three significant certainties about concoction water treatment. First we took in the meaning of water treatment and its utilization in the mechanical business. Second, we discovered that water treatment is unquestionably fundamental, and without it your mechanical gear will endure. Last we figured out how appropriate water treatment will spare vitality, and eventually increment your main concern.

I obviously didn't demonstrate every one of my cards immediately. There is a lot more to the mechanical water treatment industry...I haven't started to expose what's underneath. On the off chance that you don't know your mechanical hardware has an appropriate water treatment program or satisfied with your momentum specialist organization, it would be ideal if you call me. We at S.M. Lawrence Organization cooperate with great water treatment experts like Garratt Callahan and not 'drum-kickers'. For a meaning of 'Drum-Kicker', go to my site, jimmyveteto.com and click on the glossary.

check this link right here now Water Treatment

#Water Treatment #watertreatmentservices

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xtruss · 3 years

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Why Do Some People Support Tyranny While Others Defy It?

"They understand to some extent that they are helping in the destruction of other people’s freedoms…and they revel in it"

— August 12, 2021 | Al-Market.US | By Brandon Smith

There is a fundamental question that haunts the pages of history and it is one that has never been addressed in a satisfactory manner. There are many schools of thought on why and how tyranny rises in any given society and all of them miss the mark in terms of explanations, primarily because they all allow their biases to rule their conclusions and blind them to the deeper aspects of power and conspiracy. In other words, they are willing to go down the rabbit hole only so far, and then they deny that the rabbit hole even exists.

The common assumption when it comes to autocracy or oligarchy is that people are “stupid” and easily manipulated into following compelling personalities that make promises they never intend to keep. This is a foolish oversimplification. In truth, the level of manipulation needed to lure a majority of people into dictatorship is so complex that it requires an advanced understanding of human psychology.

In our modern era, people cannot merely be ordered to submit at gunpoint, at least not right away. They must be tricked into conforming, and not only that, but they must be made to think that it was THEIR IDEA all along. Without this dynamic of self censorship and self enslavement, the population will eventually rebel no matter how oppressive the regime. A thousand year tyranny cannot exist unless a number of people are conned into applauding it, or, they directly benefit from it.

And this is where we find the true key to totalitarianism – It only thrives because there is an inherent portion of any given society that secretly loves it and wants it to exist. We might call these people useful idiots, but it is much more than that. They are not necessarily unaware of what they are doing; they understand to some extent that they are helping in the destruction of other people’s freedoms…and they revel in it. Sure, there are elitists and globalists that levy core conspiracies and seek out more and more control, but they could not accomplish much of anything without the aid of the army of sociopathic aberrations that live among us.

This strange and destructive characteristic is ever visible today in light of the covid lockdowns and the push for forced vaccinations. It is clear that there are some people out there that are overly concerned with the personal health decisions of everyone else. The science and the stats prove there is nothing for them to worry about from the virus, but they ignore the science. They thirst for the taste of power. They have become a cult which ignores all logic and demands fealty to their fraudulent narrative. They do not care about the facts, they only care that we comply.

Well, as I have said time and time again: We Will Not Comply!

And so begins the epic conflict; a tale as old as civilization itself. There are two types of people in this world: Those that want to control others, and those that want to be left alone. But what motivates the control freaks? Why are they the way they are? Lets examine some of the causes…

The Fear Engine

There are people that are driven by success, by merit, by hope, by prosperity, by faith, by optimism, by love, and by honor. And then, there are people driven by fear. There are hundreds of various fears, but only a few ways to react to any of them. Collectivists respond to fear with a desperate need to micromanage their environment; they believe that if they can dictate people and events to a certain degree, they can eliminate unexpected outcomes and be free of fear. But life does not work this way and it never will.

The level of influence these people seek is so far beyond them that it can never be attained. That is to say, they will never be satisfied until they get more. Their fears will always haunt them because fears cannot be dealt with from without, they can only be dealt with from within.

Furthermore, the things they fear often revolve around their own narcissism and are of their own making. They fear failure, but they rarely work hard enough to succeed. They fear exposure, but only because they constantly lie. They fear conflict, but only because they are weak in body and character. They fear death, because they believe in nothing greater than themselves. They clamor for dominance of their surroundings because they wrongly believe that they can cheat fate and the consequences of their own terrible choices.

“Frankly at this point it is going to be us, or them. Our two tribes cannot coexist within the same society, maybe not even the same planet.”

The Safety of The Mob

The issue of fear extends into the common mindset of the totalitarian and how they find safety. The idea of standing on their own two feet and standing by their principles in the face of opposition is completely foreign to them. They avoid these situations at any cost and the notion of risk is abhorrent to them. So, they instead look for a mob to blend into. This makes them feel safe in obscurity while also wielding force through collectivist action. They can feel powerful while at the same time being pitiful and weak.

These people almost always operate through large single minded groups that punish any dissension in the ranks, usually with gatekeepers that moderate the motivations of the hive.

The mob itself is a weapon, its only purpose beyond the comfort of its adherents is to destroy those people that do not hold the same beliefs or values as the controllers. There is no defensive purpose to the mob; it is an assassin’s tool, it is a nuclear bomb. And, as we have seen in every modern dictatorship from the Bolsheviks in Russia to the Fascists in Germany to the communists in Mao’s China, the totalitarian mob is capable of murdering more people than any nuclear weapon in existence, all in the name of “the greater good of the greater number.”

False Piety in Place of Self Worth

All tyrants believe themselves to be righteous in their cause, even when they know that their actions are morally abhorrent. I have seen this dynamic on bold display during the covid mandates and the vaccine passports initiatives. Consider for a moment that 99.7% of the population is under no legitimate threat from the covid virus; they will not die from it, and in the vast majority of cases they will recover quickly from it. Yet the covid cult consistently argues that people who refuse the mandates, the lockdowns and the vaccines are putting others at risk, which is why we need to be “forced” to submit.

Most of them know according to the data that covid is not a threat, but the narrative gives them an opportunity to apply power through “moral judgment”, and so they lie, and they continue to lie about the data until they think the lie will be accepted as reality. This is a common aspect of most cults and of fundamentalist religions that have gone astray – The habit of adherents to value lies over facts and evidence not because they are trying to protect their faith, but because it affords them the chance to feel pious and superior to those they are determined to harm.

Those who disagree are labeled heretics, the lowest of the low, the unwashed terrorists. The anti-mandate crowd is thus stripped of its humanity in this way and is painted as demonic. The people who want to remain free become monsters, and the totalitarian monsters become heroes out to save the world. As author Robert Anton Wilson once said:

“The obedient always think of themselves as virtuous rather than cowardly.”

The Love of a Cage

I feel as though I understand this mindset to an extent, but it never fails to shock me the way in which people who scratch and scrape for power over others also seem to love being slaves to the system. I’m not so sure that it is ironic, as authoritarianism does fulfill some of its promises of “security” as long as the people involved are willing to trade away any impulses of liberty. If you do as you’re told at all times and serve the system without fail, then there is a good chance you will be able to hold onto the meager necessities of survival. You will live a life, though probably not a happy one.

For those that go above and beyond and cast aside all personal principle in order to further the goals of the system, they might even enjoy a modicum of wealth beyond their peers. You see, in a despotic society, the people who are most without honor are the people that are most rewarded. They don’t need merit, or accomplishment, or skills, or even brains; all they have to do it sell their souls and do whatever it takes to catch the eye of the oligarchy. They don’t have to be good at anything, all they have to do is be evil, and for some people that’s easy.

In this way the system becomes a comfortable blanket that otherwise useless deviants can be swaddled in. They wrap themselves in it and luxuriate in its warmth. They are not concerned with freedom because freedom feels cold to them. Freedom can be isolating and the existence of choice is terrifying. When all your choices are made for you there is never any doubt or internal stress. All that is required is that you wake up each day and obey.

For weak and ignorant people, subservience is a gift instead of a curse. They believe that a cage is meant to be gilded, not escaped from, and anyone that seeks escape must be crazy or dangerous. If free people exist then the slaves are forced to question their own condition and their own compliance, so everyone must be enslaved to remove any and all doubt from society. The hive mind is placed above all else.

The Defiant And Free

The little tyrants that infiltrate humanity probably look at liberty advocates as some kind of alien creatures from far beyond the bounds of their universe. They just can’t fathom how it is possible for someone to defy the system, to stand against the mob or the collective, even when they are outnumbered or when the risk is so high. They assume that it is a form of madness or a lack of intelligence; for how could anyone smart think they have a chance of fighting back against the dictatorship?

Liberty people are individualists by nature, but we also care about the freedoms of others. There is a common propaganda narrative that claims that individualists are “selfish”, but this is not the case at all. It is not enough for us alone to escape slavery, we will not stand by and watch others be forced into bondage either. We are willing to risk our lives not just to save ourselves but to save future generations from autocracy.

As the vaccine passports and mandates continue to escalate the totalitarians will find themselves even more bewildered, because each new mechanism of control will result in even greater impetus for rebellion, and frankly at this point it is going to be us, or them. They will not stop their pursuit of dominion and we will not comply, so we are at an impasse. Our two tribes cannot coexist within the same society, maybe not even the same planet.

The truth is that if voluntarism was a valued ideal then this whole fight could be avoided. If the collectivist cult was willing to accept the notion that they can choose to live in a highly micromanaged environment while others can choose to live independently, then there would be no crisis. We could easily go our separate ways. But this is not how totalitarians think: To them, all people are chattel, we are property to be staked down and reeducated until we see the light. And if we don’t see the light, we are to be done away with and erased.

This is why they are utterly to blame for the war that is coming. They cannot stop themselves from grasping for our throats and our minds. They are addicted to supremacy. They are living in a fever dream and the only drug that cools their veins is total oppression of everyone around them. I see what is coming next and it is not pretty for either side, but it will be especially gruesome for the collectivists because they cannot imagine a scenario in which they lose. They are so certain of their preeminence and the safety of their self imposed prisons that they will see failure as a phantom, a ghost that cannot touch them. It would only take a handful of minor defeats to bring them down, but this requires freedom advocates become more organized than they are.

The bottom line is this: Tyrannical systems are planned by elitists groups and governments and it is they that benefit most from the destruction of public freedoms. It is indeed a conspiracy, and the pandemic lockdowns and forced vaccine response are no exception. However, tyrannical systems could not be executed without the help of a larger psychopathic contingent of the population, and these people congregate together to make terrible things happen. It’s as if they hear a silent dog whistle as totalitarianism rises, or they smell the blood of innocent victims in the air.

Call them leftists, call them communists, call them collectivists, call them whatever you want; but know that the globalists are not our only concern. There is a wall of self absorbed and power hungry peons in the way, and they want whatever scraps they can get from the big boy’s table. They are not oblivious; they have not been tricked into doing the things they do. They are a sad and pathetic bunch but they are still dangerous in their ambitions, and they will continue to slither out of the woodwork as the covid agenda progresses.

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theresnosafeharbor4myships · 7 years

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December 10, Christmas Caryl

Daryl has a surprise gift for Carol (also on 9L)

Made For You

It’d been Maggie’s idea to sit around the tree she’d begged him to drag in and sing Christmas carols. Glenn had produced a surprise box of hot chocolate mix, and Carol and Beth were serving the sweet concoction in the sundry mugs they’d collected over the past several months while the other sat huddled in blankets and jackets, warding off the assumedly-December chill.

He’d never admit it to any of them, but this had to be one of the best moments of his life.

Christmas had always been an excuse for Daddy Dixon to drink extra hard, which had left him and Merle to hide out, far away from the reach of their father’s arm. Christmas had never been a celebration for him, never been happy or fun or something to look forward to, not like the kids in school or the girls Merle brought around. He’d always felt glad when it was over so he could at least sleep with a roof over his head, as scary as it was sometimes.

The people he’d known, the ones who’d enjoyed the Christmas season anyway, were some of the greediest he’d ever met. Always wanting more toys or games or sporting equipment or bikes. Even if he’d believed in Santa—which he hadn’t, because Merle had cured him of that fantasy the day he came running home from school with it—he never would have asked for stuff. He’d have asked for his mama back. Or a new dad. Hell, a new family. Someone to wipe away the blood his dad’s fists and belt drew out of him. To help with chores on days he could barely stand because of the broken bones, cramped muscles, or bruised he’d been dealt. Or maybe just someone to hug him on those lonely nights when tears seeped from his eyes under the weight of all the dark secrets his heart held about the truth of his family. His loneliness. His want for something more. His fear he’d never get it. And on some nights his fear for his life.

Of course, he got none of those things—the things that really mattered and would’ve changed his life—while others received toys that would lose their importance in a few weeks.

No, Christmas had never meant anything special to him until now. Until he watched a ragtag group of once-strangers gather in a prison mess hall lit with mismatched candles, sit around an undecorated and withering tree, and sing songs of hope from a world long dead. Smiles on their faces. Love for each other evident on their contented faces. Grateful for the meager meal of squirrel and opossum. Ecstatic over barely-full mugs of hot water and stale chocolate powder.

Here at the end of the world, he’d found his new family, the wish he’d wanted to make but never had for fear of disappointment.

A man he was proud to follow. Two kids and a baby he’d protect with his last breath. Men he could call brothers. Women who were stronger than anyone had ever given them credit for. A father—grandfather to some. And one special woman who made his head swim and his blood boil like lava.

His eyes left the group in front of him and settled on her. She’d given Beth her heavy coat for the night, leaving a threadbare sweater her only protection against the chill of the night. Still, she wore a smile as she handed out the mugs of hot chocolate, eyes twinkling in the faint candlelight as the other sang. She encouraged Beth to sit down as she grabbed the last two mugs.

Unfamiliar with most of the songs, he’d hung back from the others, a part of the festivities but on guard, so he was the last one to receive the cup of warmth.

He stood as she approached, holding out his cup. “Here,” he mumbled, taking his poncho off and slinging it around her shoulders.

“Oh!” he heard her gasp lightly in surprise.

“Too damn cold to be without a jacket,” he reprimanded gently, not wanting to draw everyone’s attention to them.

She turned to face him. “Thank you.”

He took the proffered cup and stared at her, longing to make a move, to pull her close and make sure she stayed warm enough. And let her continue thawing out his heart. She’d chipped away at the frost for months now, with her feathery touches and honest smiles, the flirtations that made him want things with her he’d never wanted with anyone, the trust she placed in him, the value she saw in him. The way she could make him smile and laugh. The way he caught her staring at him sometimes. The boil she set his blood to and the racing of his heart.

The look she was giving him now wasn’t helping any, a sexy mix of gratitude and compassion and—if he didn’t know any better—desire.

She scared the shit out of him.

Lifting the cup and nodding his thanks, he sat back down and watched as she pulled the poncho tighter around herself, snuggling into the fabric warm with his body heat.

She walked behind him, and he only barely refrained from following her with his eyes.

“Thanks for keeping me warm.”

Her unexpected whisper slipped into his ear on a breath, slithered its way to his heart, then lower still, sending his body on high alert, all senses attuned to her.

Her hand rested softly on his shoulder for a brief moment, then trailed across his shoulder blades as she walked away, leaving him frozen in place and wildly aflame.

Did she know what she was doing to him?

She sat between Michonne and Maggie, and they huddled close, even as the caroling continued. She joined in, and he watched her. Laughing with the others. Enthralled by the Christmas cheer. Holding Judy as she was passed around. Whispering with Michonne. And sending him a mixture of heated stares and innocent smiles.

She was driving him mad.

He debated whether to give her the gift he had for her. She’d either love it or hate it. He hoped for the former but with his luck assumed it’d be the latter. Besides, the others weren’t exchanging gifts. Well, except for Glenn and Maggie, but that was to be expected.

But he’d worked damn hard on it. And it was already wrapped and tied up with string. And that’s when he’d lost his nerve. Not while trying to think of a gift she’d like, not while making it, not while coming up empty-handed when searching for wrapping paper only to settle for a brown paper bag and string. No, it was the thought of giving it to her and watching as she unwrapped it and not being entirely sure of the outcome. It had plagued him for days.

The singing suddenly stopped, and Daryl looked up to find everyone still basking in the final notes echoing through the tombs.

“That was beautiful,” Hershel praised, a contented, peaceful expression on his face.

“It was,” Rick agreed, then patted Carl on the back. “’S time for bed now.”

Daryl watched Carol gather the cups and take them to the wash tub as the group dispersed for the night. No one offered to help her. No one thanked her, either.

He knew they appreciated her. And everyone pitched in with the sundry tasks of everyday life. Still…it irked him.

He ambled her way, grabbing for the wash tub just as she went to lift it. “I got it.”

Surprise filled her face. “It’s no problem. I can do it.”

“I know you can. Just let me. I’ll take it outside and the kids can wash ‘em tomorrow. Too cold for you to be out there tonight.”

Her face softened, and before he knew it, her hands settled on his arm, granting her leverage as she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. With a small smile on her pixie face, she turned and walked into the cell block, leaving him alone.

He sighed, heaved the full wash bin up, and took it outside. After depositing it in their make-shift kitchen, he huffed his way to the watch tower, zipping his jacket all the way up to ward off the cold.

He whistled up to Sasha, and a few seconds later she appeared over the edge of the railing. “You warm enough up there?”

“Got the down blankets and a thermos of tea. And these.” She held up her hands to show off a pair of winter gloves. “I’ll be aright until it’s Glenn’s turn for watch.”

He nodded and waved goodnight, then retreated inside, locking the door behind him. Murmuring and movement came from a few of the cells, but when he climbed the stairs, he saw no light from behind Carol’s cell-curtain.

His heart sunk, but he figured fate had made his decision for him. No gift for Carol tonight. And there’s always tomorrow.

He shuffled to his cell and withdrew the blanket covering the entrance, only to be startled by the face staring back at him. “Shit,” he exhaled, his heart hammering wilding in his chest. “What’re you doin’ in here? Somethin’ wrong?” he asked, suddenly worried.

Carol moved aside as he stepped in, peering around the small cell.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she answered quietly.

“You okay? Why don’t you have a light?” Underneath his concern lay the questions he withheld. Why are you here? In my cell? Alone in the dark? What are you trin’ to do to me?

“I have one.” She flicked a flashlight on. “See?” In the light she offered, he lit the small lantern he kept, then turned to her, his face a question mark she was afraid to answer. “I just…thank you.” His brow furrowed in confusion. “For helping me. Taking care of me.” Though still wrapped around her, she lifted the poncho fabric in one hand to illustrate.

He nodded in response, too afraid to speak. She was ethereal, standing there before him in dim lighting, wrapped in his warmth, eyes pools of…want?

He had to be crazy.

His heart beat faster as they held each others’ gaze. For a moment, he thought he had the courage to lean toward her and touch her lips with his, to show her in a new way what she meant to him.

But fear seized him again, and he cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

“I, uh…” He cleared his throat again, forcing his heart back into place. “I got this for ya.”

He moved around her and pulled the crudely wrapped package from the foot of his bed, holding it out to her. He felt her eyes on him, but he stared at the small gift in his hand until she took it from him. Her soft fingers slid over his callused ones and sent sparks through his blood.

It was too late to take it back now, yet that’s exactly what he wanted to do. To erase the possibility of her wrath or discontentment.

He feared the worst.

“Daryl,” she breathed. “I…”

“You gonna open it?” he asked nervously.

He finally met her gaze, and this time there was no mistake. The heat was there.

A greater height to fall from if she didn’t like it.

“Yes.” She untied the string as if it were the finest ribbon, then unrolled the crinkled brown paper to find a wooden figure small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She turned to the light and held it up to get a good look, gasping in response.

Daryl’s heart froze, and he instantly threw up the walls he kept at the ready. She hated it. Probably wouldn’t speak to him for a month. And rightly so. What’d he been thinking? It was too painful. Why would she want to keep it?

She turned slowly back to him, and he prepared for the verbal onslaught, knowing he deserved it.

“Daryl…” she whispered.

She didn’t sound mad.

“Did you make this?”

She sounded stunned. In awe. Surprised.

He shuffled where he stood. “Yeah…”

She plopped down onto his bed, eyes never leaving the figurine in her reverent palms, even as the poncho slipped askew and fell from one shoulder.

He eased down next to her, hesitant and entirely unsure of her thoughts. “If…you don’t’ like it—”

“No!” She accompanied her protest with a hand to his arm, and even through his jacket, he could feel the heat from her touch. “No. It’s stunning. It’s perfect. So much like her.”

They both stared at the pine-whittled rendering of Sophia, eternally captured in her rainbow t-shirt and pants rolled up to just under her knees, a doll tucked under her left arm. Her cherubic face peered back at them, a knowing but sweet, innocent girl-smile on her face.

“How’d you learn to do this?” Carol wondered in awe.

He couldn’t meet her eyes, instead giving a one-shouldered shrug. “My grandpa taught me a few things when I was a kid. And I spent a lotta hours out in the woods with nuthin’ to do. Got kinda good.”

“Kinda good?” she repeated. “This is…I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s amazing. And you…” Her voice cracked and she paused. “…you made this for me?”

He’d imagined this moment many times with various endings, and she hadn’t cried in a single one of those. But damn if she didn’t look sweetly kissable right now. His poncho hanging half off of her, face lit by soft lantern-light, sitting on his bed, and staring up at him with jeweled starbursts in her eyes.

He swallowed hard. “Just…wanted you to have something…and I thought…” He shrugged, at a loss for words.

The hand that’d stayed on his arm slid up over his bicep and into his frazzled hair.

She was setting him on fire. She’d been dousing him with lighter fluid for months, sparking him with flirtations and sensual glances and companionship and just…being. But now she’d thrown the lit match on the tinder of his heart. And body.

She was touching him. Her fingers easing back and forth against his scalp in a sensual rhythm he was helpless to ignore. His eyes closed, and he inadvertently leaned into her touch.

Before he knew what was happening, he felt her breath whisper across his cheek. “Thank you.”

He let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as she kissed his cheek.

So close.

She lingered, and something heady rose up in him. “You missed.”

He didn’t know he was going to speak until he heard his words with his own ears.

“I did?”

Her whisper sent shivers through him. He could only hope she was having a similar reaction or he’d never be able to face her again.

Though terrified, he made himself turn to her and was shocked to find her as mesmerized by him as he was by her.

His eyes flicked to her lips, and he inched towards her. “Yeah…you did,” he murmured just before touching her smiling lips with his trembling ones.

He’d kissed a small number of women, but not a one of them set fireworks off in his brain or his heart to beating like a bass drum. Any second now, he knew she’d shove him away and things would never be the same between them again. But for this moment, he let the tender tide of awe and wonder drag him blissfully under her spell.

She was so soft, her lips moving with his in a simple but erotic rhythm. He felt more than heard her moan, causing one to escape from him. She moved her hand to cup his head, and then her body was pressed to his side, her chest against his arm, her hip against his, her other hand flat against his chest.

Far too soon, she was withdrawing from him, but he was much too enamored to move, let alone prepare for the coming reprimand he expected.

“No one’s ever made…that was the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

He opened his eyes and met her gaze. She wasn’t angry or disgusted or running. She was here. Thanking him.

“Me, too,” he admitted.

Though he hadn’t meant it to be funny, she dropped her head onto his shoulder, chuckling in embarrassment.

A second later, she picked up the whittled figure of Sophia from the bed where she’d laid it and raised her head.

“Thank you. For…caring. This is better than a picture.”

He cupped her face with his hand, his thumb brushing gently over her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Carol.”

With happy tears in her eyes and a loving smile on her face, she responded. “Merry Christmas, Daryl.”

#caryl #carol x daryl #daryl x carol #christmas caryl #caryl fanfiction #christmas caryl 2017 #caryl fanfic #personal

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todsloan-blog · 7 years

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Reflecting, learning ...

3/24/18

Not surprising that I find the philosophical possibilities of illness much more interesting than the medical aspects. One thing I have been noticing is that my illness has divided what used to feel like a more integrated consciousness. I always had trouble concentrating and staying at a task long enough, but now it feels like I am living on several tracks and having trouble attending to one of the more important ones.

Track one for several months has been recovering from surgery, getting the digestive system going again, trying to gain strength and energy. It has been complicated, and kind of boring, especially because I am not a ‘foodie’ and not especially interested in details of nutrition. But now I have learned a lot, can make a tasty protein smoothie, and am eating well. I am told the issues will continue for many more months.

Track two has been the looming and now current chemotherapy treatments. Almost everyone, except my surgeon who said it is one of the lighter courses of treatment with few side effects for most, has been warning me about side effects and telling me to get ready not to have an appetite because of nausea, and to not expect to get anything done for months because of fatigue and ‘chemo brain’. I am still prepared for the worst, but I sensing it might not be too bad. Certainly the first day did not affect me at all. But it takes a while for the medications to wreck havoc with all cells that are trying to grow in the body, good or bad ones.

A third track has been my work and study. I have written a bit about that here before. My studies continue to be exciting, and a bit depressing. The history of European oppression and violence over the last 500 years is hard to wrap one’s mind around for lots of reasons. How can people treat other humans so horribly? What is the source of this incredible greed shown by the Spaniards and English in particular? How did the former English colonies that became the United States take up this horrible role in the global scene -- slavery of Africans, genocide of Native Americans, imperialistic wars and interventions in countries and governments around the world? I am just trying to put together more pieces of the puzzle than I have had a chance to before, given that my focus was on personality theory and not on history.

The track on which I have more trouble gaining traction has to do with the cancer itself and its possible effects on my life, which clearly depend on the success of the chemo, and possibly on lifestyle changes, etc over the next year. I am plowing ahead, living and making plans as if I will be fine in six months, but one part of me knows that this treatment doesn’t always work, and that I may not have as much time as I was imagining a year ago. (Ironically, my financial advisor said I should not retire yet because my meager 401K will run out when I turn 90.) So, I feel myself living mostly in the world that assumes I will be fine for a long time, and subconsciously putting a little question mark next to each major decision post 2019 (worst-case scenario). At the same time, I definitely do not want to be in denial about the worst possible outcomes and want to live each day and week as fully and deeply. That will mean strengthening my meditation practice and also learning how to share about this track of my existence with others who would like to reflect on it with me. So, let this be the first invitation. Thoughts anyone? (Give me a call or send your thoughts to me by email or facebook messenger. I can even post them here if you like.)

On that note, I am off to enjoy a chilly Saturday to the fullest!

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star-maiden-fufu · 7 years

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[Fanfic] The Fallen Angel’s Treat

Summary: Even if it doesn't work out as planned, Yoshiko was going to enjoy her Halloween. Riko would make sure of it. YohaRiko Halloween Oneshot

Rating: K+

Word count: 2,381 words

Characters: Tsushima Yoshiko, Sakurauchi Riko

Pairings: YohaRiko

Notes: Happy Halloween~ Have some YohaRiko! One thing I’d like to note about this fic is that I’m not 100% on it, I would like to revisit it at some point and hopefully flesh it out. I’d like to hear from youse reading what you think of it though, if certain points don’t sound right or if you’d like to see certain scenes like the actual trick or treating the two go through. But other than that, I hope you like this~

External Links: FFNet, Ao3

Yoshiko wanted to go trick or treating.

Riko’d be lying if she said that she was surprised, but at the same time, maybe she was a little bit. After all, they were teenagers; by all accounts they were “too old” for such a thing, not that there was necessarily any rule against it. It was more a case of what people would think, seeing a group of teenagers out knocking on doors asking for candy.

At least they should’ve been a group; Yoshiko had asked both Riko and Mari to join her over their separate subunit group chat. And in fact it was Mari’s own insistence that Riko join them, since she was originally going to back out.

Yet just as the sun was beginning to set outside, painting the clouds an array of oranges and pinks, Yoshiko showed up, alone.

“Mari said she couldn’t make it,” the 1st year said, strutting into Riko’s home as soon as the door opened and leaving the other girl a bit floundered at the entrance. She turned, the many layers of her frilly skirt swishing with her, as she asked, “Wait, what do you mean she can’t make it? She was just as up for this as you were.”

Yoshiko shrugged, having planted herself on Riko’s couch in the living room. “She just said she ended up making plans with Kanan and Dia that she couldn’t skip out on.” Riko sighed, already feeling annoyed at how the night had started. But the night was still young and Yoshiko still wanted to go through with the event, given that she’d still shown up rather than texting a cancellation.

In fact, Yoshiko had shown up in costume, though her choice of outfit left Riko slightly confused. “Actually Yocchan, why are you dressed like a vampire?” Yoshiko smirked as she leapt to her feet, giving a twirl to show off the costume. The simple black cape on her back twirled with her, curling around her dark pant-clad legs before she held it open, leaving her long sleeved, white frilled shirt clear to see.

“It seemed appropriate, given that such creatures of the night are similar to fallen angels,” she chuckled, showing off the plastic fangs she had protruding from her top lip, “Abominations of god, doomed to lurk in the shadows, and while vampires may live forever, they too are fated for hell once their immortal lives are ended.”

“Uh...okay. But why not just go dressed as an angel anyway?”

Yoshiko’s eyes narrowed and her smirk fell. “That would be admitting that Yohane is nothing but a facade! To go out in “costume” would be denying my true self!” Riko couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the dramatic performance. However, she then jumped when Yoshiko suddenly pointed a finger at her, saying, “And what of you? What creature have you decided to adorn upon yourself?”

“I’m not a creature, Yocchan, I’m a maid,” Riko deadpanned, as she brushed down the skirt of her dress, “To be honest, I didn’t really want to have to go out and buy a whole new costume, so I just picked out one of the outfits we wore for an old photoshoot.” Specifically, it’d been the shoot from nearer the start of the year, a valentine's shoot; an overly frilly dress in pink and cream with extra petticoats to give the skirt extra lift, a corset around her waist, and shiny pink shoes with ribbons wrapped up her leg.

However, she’d foregone the overly elaborate bonnet that they’d worn with the dresses during the shoot, and instead switched it with a smaller headband that they’d worn with a different set of dresses during the same shoot. She’d also taken the colder weather into consideration, adding a pair of thick white tights and a shawl for her shoulders.

Yoshiko circled the girl, taking in the outfit as though she were seriously appraising it, before she finally nodded. “Perhaps it’s a little lazy to simply re-wear something else, however, it is also practical if you already have something on hand,” she mumbled. She then hit her fist into her open palm, a satisfied smile on her face.

“Well it’s fine! We’re good to go then!” Yoshiko cheered, picking up the plastic pumpkin pot she’d brought with her for candy collection, then racing out the door. Riko simply sighed, picking up the plastic bag she’d dug out for the outing, and followed after her friend.

~*~*~

The night had not gone well for the intrepid trick or treaters. Aside from a few kind souls - plus one or two misunderstandings when the two pulled up at a house alongside a group of children - their haul was rather paltry. Eventually, with the lights of the houses going out to signify the end of the night’s event, the two migrated to the cafe where Aqours ended to meet after school, if they weren’t training or practising.

“I can’t believe we barely got anything,” Yoshiko huffed, slouching in her seat, her barely filled pumpkin sitting on the table. Given a better outcome, she would’ve gladly emptied the contents onto the table, then encouraged Riko to do the same (Figuring out who gets what back when they then split the pile again would’ve come later). However as it stood, she simply left the pot and its meager spoils be.

Riko sat across from Yoshiko with her own limp bag hanging off her lap, frowning at the girl’s pouting expression. “I mean, I kinda understand. We’re both a little too old for this sort of thing,” she said, grimacing as she recalled at least a few of the houses laughing them off, or even chastising them for trying to take away from the little kids that were out celebrating. Yoshiko’s pout morphed into a scowl as she cried, “Does that really matter?! We were out to have fun!” She then reached into her mouth, pulling the plastic fangs off her teeth and throwing them onto the table, grumbling, “The glue for these tastes awful.”

Unsure of how to respond to Yoshiko’s gripes, Riko took a drink from the water she’d bought. The two sat in silence, taking in the bustle of the cafe around them - the workers behind the counter, families with tired kids enjoying a chance to sit down in the warmth.

“Hey,” Riko piped up, catching Yoshiko’s attention away from a family pouring over the candy they’d collected (And Yoshiko would later insist that, no, she wasn’t jealous!), “why didn’t you do this with Ruby and Hanamaru? Were they busy?”

Yoshiko scooched herself into a proper sitting position, only to them slump onto the table, half burying her face in her arms. “No. But I wanted this night to be just you, me and Mari. But when Mari couldn’t make it, I did try and call Ruby and Hanamaru, to see if they’d join in.” Yoshiko then pouted again as she continued, “But apparently, some brat kids decided to prank Ruby’s house really early on, and it freaked her out. She absolutely refused to leave, which is why Hanamaru was with her, since Dia was busy.”

“I see,” Riko frowned, “That’s a shame.” Neither said anything after that, but before another quiet period settled between them again, Riko then said, “I’m sorry tonight didn’t really work out.” Yoshiko shrugged, yet didn’t respond. Her entire attitude spoke for her though.

“Maybe we can try again next year?” Riko suggested, though she couldn’t put too much oomph into it; by then she’d be a third year, and Yoshiko a 2nd year, and there’d be even less of a chance of them getting any kind of decent haul.

Yoshiko again simply shrugged.

Riko just turned back to her water, sipping quietly and watching the moonlit waves outside the window.

~*~*~

It wasn’t till the cafe was beginning to close that the two finally made to move. Riko offered that they go back to her house to sit for a bit, perhaps even watch a movie to make the most of the rest of their night. Yoshiko didn’t argue.

They wandered along in silence, Yoshiko still feeling too down to converse, while Riko let her thoughts drift off, musing over the night’s happenings.

It was as they neared Riko’s house - the sound of giggling from both Chika and You greeting them from Chika’s room as they passed - that the 2nd year got an idea. Glancing at her still downcast friend, Riko nudged the girl and motioned for her to hurry as she sped ahead. “Come on, we’re almost there!” Perplexed, Yoshiko hurried after the girl.

They stopped at the door, but rather than open it for them both, Riko turned to the other and said, “Wait here for a bit, please.” Pouting, Yoshiko said, “Eh? Why?”

“Just please, I won’t be long,” Riko responded, giving her friend an apologetic smile before she quickly entered the house, closing the door behind her. Yoshiko grumbled some, curious as to Riko’s actions, yet frustrated by the cold wind that began to pick up and made her wrap herself in her own cape, which didn’t help her already sour mood. All she could do though was wait for Riko to return, hopefully to let Yoshiko into her house before she froze in the cold.

Rocking back and forth on her heels, kicking at nothing on the ground, examining the small details on the door, Yoshiko tried to bide her time. It felt like Riko was taking forever!

(In reality, it was only a couple of minutes, but that was still time wasted to the fallen angel!)

Finally, her phone buzzed in her pocket, making her jump in surprise as she wasn’t expecting it. She dug it out quickly, fumbling with it slightly due to her numb fingers. It was a text from Riko, simply saying, “Knock on the door.” Yoshiko’s curiosity finally seemed to override her irritation, and she rapped on the door with surprising enthusiasm. She waited with bated breath, though the wind still caught her and made her shiver.

There were some quick thumps from the other side, and then the door opened; Riko stood in the doorway, her shawl discarded, holding a glass bowl full of chocolate bars big and small, and cookies, and even a bundle of strawberries wrapped in clear plastic. Despite the blush on her face, Riko beamed at her “visitor” and said, “Ah, you must be a trick or treater!”

A stupid smile began to grow on Yoshiko’s face as she figured out what was happening, though she still snapped to attention as she realised she still had a part to play. “Oh, uh, yeah! Trick or treat!” She held out the pumpkin pot for Riko, who smiled back and began to carefully pour the contents of her bowl into Yoshiko’s pumpkin through the small opening.

Yoshiko chuckled, trying to help with the transfer as best she could as she said, “You didn’t have to do this. The movie would’ve been enough.”

“Maybe. But do you feel a little better now?”

“Hm...yeah.” Both girls laughed, finishing the exchange of sweets as Riko finally allowed Yoshiko into her home. Shoes were left by the door as they moved into the living room, Riko pointing out a small cabinet near the tv, offering the choice of movie to Yoshiko. Not that Yoshiko was much impressed by the selection, which she made clear to her host, “Geez Riri, you’ve not even got any good scary movies here! How we supposed to get in the spirit without a scary movie?”

“Well I’m sorry me and my mom don’t do horror. You’ll have to pick the next best thing or something else,” Riko responded, though there was good humour behind her retort. She giggled at the other girl’s drawn out, “Fiiiiine,” as she began the ascent up the stairs so she could get changed.

When she returned, dressed in her pajamas, she was also carrying another pair, folded in her arms. Yoshiko was still sat on the floor by the tv and the cabinet, her cape discarded onto the sofa, and a small tower of dvds in front of her.

“Okay, so these are probably the best movies we could watch tonight, no offense to you or your mom’s tastes, so we just have to pick from these,” she announced, turning to face Riko as she heard her enter. Yet surprise quickly crossed her features as she registered the folded pajamas being held out to her. She took the pile hesitantly, with Riko saying, “These are an old pair of mine. They should fit you, since given the time, you’re probably not gonna make it home for tonight.”

Yoshiko couldn’t help but hide her quickly blushing face behind the clothes, responding, “I, uh...I told my mom I’d probably stay with you and Mari since we’d be out late. She was okay with it as long as whoever’s mom was alright too.” Riko gently smiled back. “I’m sure my mom wouldn’t have any problems with you staying the night.”

She then picked up the dvd on top of the tower, saying, “This one’s pretty good. It’s not scary, but I doubt any of these are.”

“They’re not,” Yoshiko said, rolling her eyes, yet she was smiling all the same. She crawled across the floor and onto the sofa as Riko set up the dvd. Few words were exchanged as they both set up for the night, aside from Yoshiko opting to stay in her costume for now, saying she’ll change later, and Riko offering drinks.

When Riko finally settled on the sofa with the other girl, Yoshiko grabbed her cape and threw it over them both, wrapping them both in it like a blanket. She then reached over to the other end of the sofa and retrieved her candy bucket, placing it between the two. Yoshiko opened the makeshift strawberry bag, holding it out for Riko to take one before taking one for herself. The two then curled up close under the vampire cape, the living room lights still on and Yoshiko’s borrowed pajamas off to the side as they started the movie.

It might not have been the best Halloween Yoshiko or Riko had ever experienced, but it ended up being special anyway.

#fufu's fanfic #writing #love live #love live sunshine #sakurauchi riko #tsushima yoshiko #tsushime yohane #yohane #yohariko #long post

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eurusholmmes · 7 years

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Fantasy || Leo Fitz

Requested by @marvelfanlife : Jemma tries to convince you, the reader, that you and Fitz are a couple outside of the Framework. She tries to make her remember the real world but much to her displeasure, you can’t find it in yourself to believe what Jemma has told you. Reader is also the co-director of the Resistance with Mace and is Inhuman.

Reader is Inhuman and Maces sister! Italics are Daisy’s POV in the Traskelion. I really hope I did this justice!

You stared at Jemma in disbelief, pinching the bridge of your nose with your thumb and index finger. “You.. You’re trying to tell me that in this real world you came from, I’m the girlfriend to the man my brother and I are trying to overthrow?” You deadpanned, turning your body as another child ran past you. “I’m sorry Jemma, I just find that incredibly hard to believe. There’s no way in any world I would fall in love with the head of HYDRA.”

Jemma Simmons gaze flickered between you and Mace, who had just reentered the room in his Patriot uniform. Your brother wrapped his arms loosely around your shoulders and settled his chin on the top of your head as you patted his hands. “We’re best friends in the real world, y/n. I would and will never lie to you, especially about something like this. Leo is desperately in love with you.”

“The Doctor? Psh.” Mace retorted. “My sister would never fall in love with the head of HYDRA.”

Everyone in the Resistance knew that you and your brother were bonded together like sand-paper; you almost never did anything without the other. Not to mention that Jeffery was incredibly protective of you because not only were you younger then he was, you were also just as brave which meant there was more likely of a chance for you to sacrifice yourself.

And he would never let that happen.

You turned away from Jemma and lightly kissed his cheek, causing a wide grin to spread from ear to ear on his face. The amount of happiness that radiated off of The Director made your heart ache. He hadn’t always been that way. “You taking a team to the Traskelion?” You asked. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you? The more powered people, the better. Jeff.. I can help you.” Your older brother smiled warmly at your fierce determination and bent his head to kiss yours before stepping away to chase on Jemmas heels.

“I’ll see you on the other side, y/n!”

Part of you knew that your last snippet of memory with your brother, that single forehead kiss and that ridiculously stupid smile, was going to be the last time you ever saw him.

Because that was who you were - The Maces. The most sacrificial people on the entire freaking planet.

Daisy Johnson let out a shrill gasp as she attempted to lift herself up from the ground. Despite the lacerations and open wounds and aching bones, she was determined to get him to remember you. Even if you were on opposite sides of the worst war she’d ever been apart of. “Tell me where the Patriot is” Fitz demanded, shining his shoes with the pad of his thumb.

“I don’t know.”

“Did he from your world too?” He asked.

She stared up at him in disbelief. “Our world? Yeah.” His dark eyes, those eyes that were so different from the geeky scientist she’d grown to love, bore into her own so deeply it made her stomach curl.

“And the other leader of the Resistance, y/n Mace?” Fitz asked calmly.

“She’s not a subversive. And if I knew where she was, I would tell you because she is probably the only one who could get you to wake up and tell you that this nightmare isn’t real. You want to hear a secret, Fitz?” Daisy replied, lifting herself up higher using the heels of her hands so the two of them were eye to eye. “You’re in love with your worst enemy.”

A rough slap followed by a piercing scream echoed through the cell; so painful and so heartbreaking that the air chilled at the sound.

Daisy knew it was hopeless to try and force his memory. There was no possible outcome where Leo Fitz remembered the woman he loved.

You paced the length of the underground base, fingers dancing against your temple to tap on your earpiece if the need came for you to rendezvous with the team as their rescue. Despite your growing anxiety, you couldn’t help but began to ponder the details of Jemma Simmons story. That in the real world you had fallen in love with the very man who was the essence of your hate.

“People ask me all the time if I’ve ever been in love. I haven’t. But it took me so long to figure out what real, pure love looked like. I’d never seen it in anyone until the first time that Leo Fitz laid eyes on you in the SHIELD HQ - like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. The way he gazes at you.. like he could never love anything or anyone else more. You’re his hand to grasp when he’s drowning. His reason to live.. You’re his constant.”

You were oblivious to the people milling around you, murmuring to one another as they passed down the halls and went to their quarters or to the mess hall for a meager dinner. Hunger wasn’t your priority. Your priority was figuring out if everyone had survived.

From underneath the pile of fallen rock and dust, Jeffery Mace moved his gaze to Jemma Simmons before his thoughts fell on his sister. His selfless, humble, compassionate, beautiful sister who he had left behind to lead the Resistance. To lead their journey to a better world.

His knees gave out one by one as The Patriot struggled to hold the beam that was keeping the entire building in tact, his muscles on fire and his lungs screaming for oxygen. He let out a scream of frustration as he swiveled his head far enough to look at Jemma, who had not moved from her spot. “Tell my sister I love her.”

“NO!”

Your head snapped up as the doors to the base slid open only to reveal Ward, who was leading a group of people you didn’t recognize inside. Your e/c eyes flickered between all five of them before settling on Jemma, who was nearly beside herself with hysteria.

That was when realization hit you like a brick. “Where’s my brother?!” You snapped, pushing past the older man with the glasses and the woman wearing the HYDRA uniform. “Trip! Where’s Jeff? Where-” Your chest constricted as you gripped his forearms, your fingernails digging into the skin of his forearms as Triplett held you steady with his arm around your waist. “Where is Mace?”

“They sent an air strike out to destroy the building.” Ward said quietly. “There were a bunch of kids inside.. Mace was holding up the main support beam that was keeping the building up. He sacrificed himself to save a childs life.” Hot tears ran down your face as you buried your face in the junction of Trips neck. “He died a hero, y/n. Your brother died a hero.”

Everything you’d been keeping pent up in your system dissipated as your entire body slumped; your heart beat slowing drastically as your adrenaline wore off and pain settled. “My.. my brother didn’t deserve to die at all.” You whimpered, lifting your head off of Tripps shoulder to look back at Simmons. “I have-I have a resistance to lead.”

“No.. you have a brother to mourn.” Jemma snapped, her voice unintentionally dripping with anger as the rest of the team dispersed except you, Jemma and Antoine. “We don’t know who called the airstrike y/n... but I have reason to believe it was Fitz.”

With the catastrophic tragedy you’d experienced in the past day, it took your brain several minutes to comprehend the depth of Jemmas words. Your eyes darkened as you lifted your head to stare at Jemma, your hands trembling with fear.. rage.. grief.

“And you’re still so desperate to convince me that I’m in love with the psychopath that killed my brother?!” You snarled, motioning for Tripp to set you down on the ground. Jemma swallowed thickly as you stood eye to eye with her, fueled by your want for revenge. “I will not stand to believe I fell in love with a psychopath that thinks killing The Patriot is okay. You can believe whatever the heck you please but I will never fall in love with the man who took my brother away from me!”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to lead the Resistance to a better world, and then I’m going to kill the man who broke mine.”

#leo fitz #leo fitz x reader #leopold fitz #jemma simmons #daisy johnson #agents of shield imagines #agents of shield oneshots #Kayla Grace writes imagines

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freereignastarwarsstory · 7 years

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Chapter 2: A Purpose

Disclaimer: I (@draksisreborn) own nothing but my OCs. Star Wars belongs to Lucasfilm and Disney. Many thanks to my fellow writer @zazabelle, who has been amazing as always and who also did the cover art and character designs for this project. Please review and critique this tribute to the characters of SW who are never spoken of, the ones who only wish to survive.

Rating: T (sci-fi violence and language)

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Cenden was hauled through the corridors of the cargo ship by the Mandalorian and Shistavanen, the latter of which he assumed was the captain. He gritted his teeth in both pain and annoyance as he entered the medical bay. Or closet for that matter. The room contained almost no proper medical equipment other than standard battlefield bandages, splints, and painkillers. The commando droid laid the Devaronian, ‘Nek I think he was called,’ on the medical table before turning towards his captain. Releasing his grip on Cenden, the captain turned to his droid.

“Alright, get down to the engine room and get us powered up, Chol will take care of the rest.” The droid nodded and loped out of the room, casting a quick glance towards Cenden before exiting the room.

The Mandalorian eased Cenden into a chair next to his patient before removing her helmet, revealing her flaming red hair, dark skin, and brown eyes. She locked him in a glare, eyes bloodshot with worry as she shoved some bacta bandages and painkillers into his hands.

“Patch yourself up, then get right to Nek. His life is worth more than yours” She growled before stomping out of the room. Cenden shivered as she went, then quickly wrapping the bacta around his leg and injecting the painkillers with clenched teeth.

“Please, forgive my second in command. She...leans on her emotions more than the rest of us.” The captain spoke softly. “My name is Soron, and this is my ship, the Raving Titan. What is your name?”

Cenden mulled over his response, old habits struggling in the face of Soron’s smooth, convincing voice.

“K-Kandor. My name is Kandor.” He responded, hoping his lie would appease the wolfman. He say his eye narrow slightly, before the captain nodded. “Well then Kandor, you have a lot of work to do.” Cenden sensed desperation in his voice now. “Please, do whatever you must to save him. I’ll be here to assist you.” Cenden gave a simple nod and limped over to his patient, examining his shoulder wound.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. Though cauterized by the blaster’s extreme heat, the wounded could still become infected, not to mention the fact that his clothing had become fused with the open flesh in places.

“I need a plasma scalpel, immuno boosters, and bacta. Lots of bacta.” Soron nodded and began to grab the required items, passing them to Cenden as needed. This went on for some time before Cenden realized that the meager supplies here wouldn’t be enough. He could feel Nek’s life steadily draining.

His stomach twisted in knots.

‘I really don’t want to do this. In fact… I’m not even sure I can anymore.’ Cenden thought. ‘But I need to save his life. It's what my master would want.’

Shielding the Devaronian’s body as much as he could, he called on the Force for the first time in many months. It came to him like an old friend, bound by memory but awkward with time. Using the techniques he had learned to accelerate the healing process, he held his hand over the wound and began connecting and shifting the broken energies. Cenden paid extra attention to himself as he connected with the Devaronian’s energy, now sharing the sickening feeling of the wound, but only for a moment.

Cenden glanced at the captain, currently searching for more immuno boosters and synthetic blood, causing Cenden to breathe a sigh of relief as the wound began to knit itself back together as he stemmed the flow of Force energy. Though he had sworn he saw Soron stiffen slightly, he dismissed it as a side effect of the painkillers. Quickly he tightly wrapped the wound in as many bandages as he could manage to make it look believable that the wound was still healing underneath. He eased himself back into his chair, his work mostly done. His leg burned, and his energy quickly sapping, Cenden called the captain over.

“He will be fine now, he just needs rest and time to heal. Be sure to change his bandages in a few days. Now, is there a place where I can rest?” He asked the captain, the pain killers starting to make the world spin a little.

“Take a left outside the door, second on the right. You’ll be sharing with someone else for now, is that ok?” Soron inquired.

“That is acceptable.” Cenden responded, making slowly for the door, every step dull agony. However, he was stopped by a furred hand resting on his shoulder, forcing him to turn to meet Soron’s glowing yellow eyes.

“Thank you again. Me and my crew are in your debt.” He said. Cenden gave a quiet nod and left the room, seeking the welcoming embrace of sleep.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

“BX you can come in now.” Soron spoke. BX slid from his hiding place outside the medical bay and stepped in, ducking under the doorframe slightly.

“Will he live?” The droid inquired, giving a cursory glance over Nek.

“Aye, he will. But our new friend ‘Kandor’ is hiding something. I know it.” He said examining under the bandages while Nek slept. “Blaster wounds don’t heal like that, not with normal medicine.” Soron turned to BX, locking eyes with his white photoreceptors. “I believe he’s a survivor, but I need you to confirm.”

“What would you have me do captain?” BX responded.

“I can tell he is uneasy around you. Figure out if its from the war. He will be rooming with you, but he doesn’t know that. Make him as uneasy as possible and see if you can find anything to confirm my suspicions.”

“When would you like a report? I will need time to examine all possibilities and outcomes.” BX explained, feeling what could only be described as dread at the concept of a Clone Wars veteran.

“As soon as possible.” Soron commanded. BX nodded and left the room.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Cenden was intrigued by the room he had been assigned to. It was spotlessly clean, with a low desk and racks of weapons and tools, but no bed. On the desk was a currently disassembled DH-X rifle, yet each piece was in perfect geometric alignment with each other. And, judging by the look of some of them, custom made, as were many of the tools. He also took notice of the full suit of stormtrooper pilot armor in the corner, in surprising condition for something that was likely pried off someone’s corpse. But he was still confused as to whose room this was. ‘Maybe zhe Mandalorian? Or this Chol everyone keeps talking to?’

His question was quickly answered as the door slid open, revealing the commando droid from earlier, bedroll tucked neatly under his arm. Within a moment however, the droid let out a low growl, photoreceptors locked on Cenden.

“No no no no no!” The droid panicked as he rushed to the table.

His hands began to make miniscule changes to everything Cenden had touched, changes that were almost impossible to see. The droid whirled around and stomped straight towards the culprit, faceplate inches from Cenden’s face.

“You. You almost ruined my work. From now on consider yourself on notice.”

“Ok, what?” Cenden shouted back.

“You’re lucky the captain likes you so much.” It stated before taking a step back and shoving the bedroll into Cenden’s chest, nearly causing him to fall over.

“He’s your master. You can’t do anything without his orders.” Cenden rebutted.

“Clearly you weren’t paying attention on Basteel. You will be staying on the right side of the room. Keep all personal items neatly organized on that side. Disturb my possession again and you will incur heavy consequences.”

Cenden took the bedroll and laid it against the wall. “Up yourz clanker.” He muttered under his breath.

“Call me that again and I’ll show you what a true war droid can do.” The droid replied from his desk, where he was cleaning a flechette launcher.

Cenden unrolled the mat and nearly collapsed onto the ground. His leg was burning, while a cold sweat began to shake his being. His attempts to calm his breathing only seemed to make him more aware of how the painkillers were melting away his calm composure.

The droid’s presence was not helping.

“Help! General we’re taking heavy fire!”

A memory flashed by.

“No. Shut up. You’re fine” Cenden whispered harshly to himself as he took a breath and closed his eyes.

“NO! NO PLEASE!”

His eyes flew open while the room started to swim. The droid turned towards him, his mechanical eyes watching. Watching.

Cenden hands flew to his ears as he curled up tight on the mat.

“Not again, please leave me alone…” He whispered as he slipped back into the recesses of his mind.

The droids were gone.

The temple should’ve been safe.

But a droid is here. Why would such a terrible thing be allowed to exist?

Just keep swinging. Just keep moving. The Force is here. But is it? There is no end to the death.

The droid stepped closer to the unconscious man having a panic attack on his floor. With careful movement of his foot, he pushed the man and the mat a little further to the wall and straightened the wrinkled corner ever so slightly before backing away to see if it squared up evenly.

“Close enough.” The droid concluded before reaching to his comm. “Orders fulfilled Soron.”

Soron’s voice came over the comm. “You already got him to talk?”

“Those were not my instructions.”

“...What?”

“You said to make him as uneasy as possible, I calculated the corrected phrases and terms that should get him to reveal if he has any previous trauma to war.”

“And does he?” Soron strained, his voice laced with anger or worry.

“From my scan, I would say this level of a stress induced panic attack would indicate past war trauma.”

“....” Static came over the comm.

“Soron?” BX spoke. “Soron? Can I make him leave now? Him being here is throwing off the symmetry of my room.”

The door opened behind BX. Soron walked briskly into the room and stopped when he saw Cenden.

Soron sighed as his hand came up to pinch between his brow.

“Ok, ya, I guess I wasn’t specific enough.” he patted the droid on the back, “A for effort I guess.”

“Effort does not start with an A.”

“Shut up and just help me move him into the extra room!” Soron yelled.

Without another word, BX took a step forward and bent down to pick up the injured man. Pulling him halfway from the ground, BX began to build momentum to put him onto his shoulder.

Cenden screamed as his eyes flew open.

The pressure built before exploding outwards away from Cenden sending BX flying across the room.

Cenden landed, nearly crumpling to the floor and stood drunkenly on one leg. His breathing rapid and his eyes bulging with confusion and fear, he stared at the droid rising from the ground and the Shistavanen staring back.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” he bellowed before collapsing onto his hands and knees.

“Whoa, ok there!” Soron rushed forward.

Grabbing his arm and wrapping it around his back, he heaved Cenden from the ground

And rushed him through the open door.

Soron nearly dragging Cenden down the hallway, he saw Lerti’s fiery head pop out from around the corner.

“Lerti, actual guest room, now!” Soron strained between breaths.

Lerti nodded and ran ahead, opening the door to their extra room. Soron pulled him through the door before flopping the half conscious man down onto the bed.

He watched Lerti back out of the room. He thought about asking for her to run and get some sedatives from the medical supplies but at this point, Soron wasn’t sure he would need it, the man was fading fast.

“Please… Please get away…” Cenden whispered desperately as his eyes fought to stay open.

“We have a lot to discuss, Jedi.” Soron whispered as the Jedi slipped out of awareness.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Soron sighed as he watched the man’s body go limp. Turning to walk out, he saw BX standing in the door frame, his head tilted in curiosity.

“Did I do something… incorrect, to your instructions?” BX asked as Soron walked passed him.

“You did exactly as I said. Doesn’t mean it was right on my part… I think he’ll be ok but just try and keep your distance from him until he’s in his right mind again.” Soron explained to the droid.

BX nodded and turned to go back to his room to clean up the damage from their “experiment”. The droid could almost feel what organics would call a shudder when he reviewed the memory of that man touching his perfectly organized blaster pieces.

“The nerve.” he muttered to himself before turning the corner.

Soron let out a breath and turned down the hallway to head towards their lounging area near the center of the ship. Opening the door, he found Lerti already there waiting for him with two cups of stimcaf resting on the table in the middle of sectional sofas.

“I’m guessing you were needing this as much as I was.” she smiled.

“Ya probably.” he mumbled as he flopped onto the couch. “I feel sort of awful.”

“Man, I do too. I think I pulled something in my shoulder.” Lerti groaned as she rolled her shoulder.

“No I was meaning about our guest. I think I made BX give him a heart attack.”

Lerti shrugged, “Why do you care? It’s not like we’re keeping him.”

Soron looked at Lerti.

“What? No! Soron! We can’t pick up another ‘passenger’, we can barely get by with the four of us!” Lerti complained.

“We owe him greatly.”

“We owe him nothing. His whole ‘good deed act’ saved Nek but that doesn’t mean we can trust him, much less owe him anything!”

“I wasn’t just talking about Nek, Lerti.”

“Then what? Soron, we don’t owe anyone anything!”

“We owe him this!”

“Why!?”

“Lerti I think he’s a survivor!”

She went quiet for a moment before lowering her voice.

“Soron what are you talking about?”

“The Old Republic… The Jedi. I think he was one of them.”

“Soron, the Jedi aren’t real. You know I love to tell stories as much as the next guy but...”

“No they weren’t. I’m old enough to remember. I’m old enough that I won’t give into that awful propaganda about them! They are real, and almost none of them survived after the emperor took control of everything and attempted to wipe them out.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Lerti asked with wide eyes.

“I’ll tell you once we have our crew together for a little chat. That includes our hopeful new member pumped full of painkillers laying in the other room.” Soron said as he turned to leave the room.

“I’m going to check on Nek. Be sure to swing by Cholmon and give him our next destination.” Soron commanded as the door slid open in front of him.

“Where are we going now?”

“Let’s swing by Nar Shaddaa. Beebs should be able to help us lie low for a while.”

“You got it cap.”

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Nearly a day and a half later, Nek woke up with a slight headache and a lot of questions, but to the rest of the crew, he seemed livelier than ever. Under the several layers of bandages, the blast wound was almost completely healed, Nek describing it feeling like “a ton of insect bites” but not much worse than that. Despite the crew’s insistence he stay put and rest for a while, he was up and moving about the ship only about three hours after his waking up.

Needless to say, Lerti and Cholmon couldn’t help but be suspicious of the miraculous recovery. Nek himself was just as confused. Soron had continually promised to explain everything, but only after they were sure their guest was going to live.

Since his “incident” he hadn’t woken up. Once the crew had landed in Nar Shaddaa, they had begun taking shifts watching him, but everyone reported in that he hadn’t so much as stirred once.

Cholmon shuffled into the room to take his shift. Nek sat patiently next to his savior and smiled when he saw Cholmon.

“I’m happy to be alive, I don’t care why. But it seems the how is still out for the count.” the Devaronian said gesturing to the human.

“Give him time I guess.” Cholmon shrugged indifferently.

“I get shot almost clean through the shoulder and I'm almost completely healed, but he gets shot in the leg and now… It doesn’t make sense.” Nek sighed.

“Not to many things do Nek, now go get some rest for crying out loud. I’ll let you know if anything changes.” Cholmon uttered, putting a webbed hand on Nek’s shoulder.

Nek nodded silently before rising from his chair and heading for the doorway. Cholmon sat down heavily with a thump. Putting his feet up near the foot of the bed, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

“Looks like you’re contagious, mystery man, ‘cause I could really go for a nap right about now too.” Cholmon mumbled sarcastically as he sank into the chair.

Several rooms over, Lerti sparred with BX while Soron and Nek watched, making bets for the winner. The droid and the Mandalorian seemed almost be dancing in their practice fight. BX’s movements calculated and quick, while Lerti moved on her feet, looking almost carefree as she threw her punches. It was an interesting bout to be sure.

Outside on Nar Shaddaa, storm clouds had gathered overhead. Rain poured down, thudding rhythmically on the haul of the ship. Lightning split across the sky and thunder exploded moments later. Back in Cenden’s room, the Jedi stirred in his sleep.

His eyes suddenly flew open.

With a quickly drawn in breath, he shot up into sitting position, his eyes flying about the room.

His eyes locked onto the Mon Calamari taking a nap in the chair next to the bed as he tried to piece together where he was and why he was there… The firefight, the injured Devaronian; he was on a ship.

He reached out with the Force, connecting to the surrounding area, they weren’t in space, which was a start. At least he could try and find his way off the ship and hide somewhere less conspicuous than an escape pod. Carefully pulling the covers aside, he shifted his body as quietly as possible so as not to wake the alien nearest to him. Pulling one leg over the side of the bed, he held in a gasp of pain when fire ran up the side of his leg.

He looked down at the still very raw but bandaged blast hole in his leg.

Oh ya. That. Cenden thought as vague memories of painkillers, a droid, and a Shistavanen trying to attack him flooded back.

His stomach fluttered in panic.

They know.

Quickly placing his hand on his thigh, he connected with the living energy within himself, then to the Force flowing around him and throughout the room. Finally connecting with the tear in his being, he inhaled in pain, the little energy he had quickly draining from him. Breaking the connection, he leaned back on one hand and removed the bandages as he gasped for breath.

The wound was still there.

I must’ve used up more power than I thought healing that Devaronian… Did I even break the connection with him? Exhaustion quickly began eating away at Cenden again.

Focusing, he broke any bonds he had strung together and felt some energy return to him.

Well that’s just great, I must’ve been using up my energy to heal him. Alright Cenden, just escape the ship then you can take a nap, sound good you idiot? Cenden thought to himself as he began to build momentum.

Quietly hopping up from the bed, he leaned on his good leg and the wall as he began his shuffle out from the room. His mind felt like it was in a fog as he made his way down the hallway. For the first time in a long time, he just let the Force pull him along through the winding corridors and seemingly endless hallways.

He was looking for anything that looked like a exit, any kind of door that might lead to the outside.

Cenden jumped as thunder roared overhead. Letting out a breath, he shook his head and kept going. That pulling feeling stopped suddenly as he passed a door that met at the crossroads of two dividing hallways. This did not look like an exit, but it was the only lead he knew for certain would lead him where he needed to be… Maybe.

At that same moment, back in the sparring room, Nek decided he was feeling a little run down after all and told the others he was going to go lay down for a while.

Cenden reached for the door’s control panel.

Nek watched the door speed open and gasped a little when someone was standing immediately on the other side.

Cenden’s eyes locked onto Nek’s as he stumbled back against the wall in shock.

Soron and Lerti looked over in surprise.

BX shoved Lerti against the wall, then looked over at the door.

“You should really work on your focus. Oh and Soron, the Jedi is at the door.” BX observed.

Everyone was quiet. Everyone waiting for someone else to make a move.

Soron took a step forward.

Cenden pushed himself further up against the wall.

Lerti smiled a little and stood up, “Where do you think your heading? Don’t you want to introduce yourself first?”

Cenden scowled at them before replying.

“I want off this ship. Now.”

Soron frowned a little, glancing at Cenden’s leg.

“Why haven't you healed your wound?” Soron questioned.

Cenden’s face fell, for a moment he thought about all he had to hide. How long he had been alone and hiding. He was stuck on this ship, there was no escape at the moment. There was nothing that could be done…

“Don’t you think I tried? ...I’m tired.” Cenden voiced in defeat.

“Well you can go back to our guest room then, you’re allowed to stay as long as you need. We owe you that much.” Nek spoke.

Lerti scowled a little before rolling her eyes and walking through the door.

“Come on back to the room. Soron promised answers and you’re going to help out with those.” she said as she walked past Cenden, gesturing for everyone to follow. “Also, I’m hoping Cholmon was just being Cholmon when you managed to sneak passed him.”

“The Mon Calamari? He was sleeping.” Cenden explained as he limped along the corridor followed by the rest of the crew.

“Figures.” Nek mumbled in reply, “By the way, I never got a chance to thank you.” he directed at Cenden.

“Don’t mention it.”

The group made it back to the room, Cholmon was still sleeping in his chair exactly where Cenden had left him. Lerti walked briskly across the room, quickly throwing Cholmon’s legs off the side of the bed. His eyes flew open in surprise and he sat bolt upright.

“Wah!? What? Oh, um…” Cholmon’s looked at Cenden in shock, “Well look at that… He did wake up.”

“Ya and great job watching him for us Chol.” Soron uttered sarcastically before gesturing for Cenden to sit on the bed.

Lumbering over, Cenden flopped back onto the bed, hissing from the pain in his leg. Sighing, he looked to Soron.

“What do you want?” he inquired forcefully.

He noticed a look pass between the crew members, as if they knew what was coming.

Soron stepped forward, “I want to repay you.”

“You have repaid me! I saved his life you gave me a place to rest, your debt has been repaid.”

Soron was quiet for a moment, just watching him speak.

“I don’t think I could ever truly repay you for all you have done.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was there when the order was given… I was there when the Jedi fell.”

Nek suddenly stepped forward, “Wait! So he actually is a Jedi!? ‘Cause that would explain a lot.”

“I. Am no. Jedi! Not anymore!” Cenden barked.

Soron stepped back in, “But you were. What was your position?”

“... I was a temple guard. In charge of protecting the sanctuaries and sacred temples of the Jedi order. Especially during the Clone Wars.” his gaze became far off, his voice dropped down to almost a whisper, “The droid armies had suddenly abandoned the area, we should have been safe. But then the…” Cenden cut himself off, his voice pained.

“Then the clones attacked.” Soron finished.

Cenden nodded silently.

“I was there, on one of the sites where the order was given. I could barely make out what was happening, it was like the clones just went mad. I watched them slaughter their brothers in arms like they were vicious animals. Why? Why did they do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“How are you alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“The emperor took control only days later, you must see the connection.”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Cenden bellowed, dropping his head into his hands, “What. Do. You. Want? Are you going to turn me in?”

“I think he’s made it pretty clear we’re not going to turn you in.” Lerti snorted.

“We don’t fight for the Empire.” Soron retorted.

Cenden raised an eyebrow. He looked slightly taken back.

“Then for the Rebellion?” He questioned.

“Pointless. All of it.” Soron reposed, “So the Empire takes over the galaxy. Then what? The Empire is doing all of this for power, and what does it matter to them? What does it matter to the Emperor? And what does all of this matter to us?” he laughed, “And the Rebellion? If, or when they manage to stop them, then what? Whoever is in charge changes nothing, not really. But we,” he gestured to his crew, “We are apart of a free reign. We do not fight for any side, we do not just survive. We are trying to find how to live. All of us are fighting to find a greater purpose than who’s in charge of what. There really is no point to it, and we are looking for a purpose. And I think you can help us find that purpose. I think we could give you a purpose.”

“What do you mean?” Cenden asked.

“Well, who better to help us find a greater purpose than a man connected to the greatest purpose?” Soron explained.

Cenden was quiet for a moment.

“You’re talking about zhe Force?” he asked curtly.

“Of course I’m talking about the Force! You’re kind of slow aren’t you?” Soron jested.

Cenden rolled his eyes, “I don’t know if zhere’s a point to that.”

Soron smiled, “You have reason to doubt your abilities, I’m sure. Every war leaves its scars. But regarding the Force? There is every point to it. It guides you doesn’t it? It moved you to us, it moved you to save Nek. And it moved Nek to get shot in the first place. It sees things greater than we are, it makes up all things, it binds all things together, and that includes time. The Force decides who lives and who dies and how and why. You are connected to it. You are it’s prophet, it speaks through you. It helps you.”

“It didn’t help any of us when it mattered the most! I watched my fellow guards get slaughtered! I should’ve been dead too! They just kept shooting and shooting at the bodies! Without remorse, without thought… Then they shot at me. I should not be alive right now.”

“But you are.” Cholmon finally spoke.

“Ya, I am.” Cenden whispered.

“So what are you doing to do about it? What are you going to do with your second chance? How are you going to live, now that the Jedi are gone? Why did the Force allow the Jedi to die? Why do the Sith still live? And how does the rest of us fit into it? Why are we alive? What are we here for?” Soron’s eyes locked onto Cenden’s.

“You ask some pretty heavy questions.”

“And I’m sure you’ll be able to help us find heavier answers. Help us find them.” Soron extended his hand towards Cenden.

Cenden hesitated before taking his hand.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve heard anyone talking sense. My name is Cenden Sondron.”

Soron smiled.

“Nice to meet you.”

#Free Reign: A Star Wars Story #Chapter 2 #zazabelle #draksisreborn #ptsd and ocd in the same paragraph #This was one of my favored chapters to write #star wars fanfiction

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op-intensify · 6 years

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Last One Out, Turn Off the Lights

Failure is difficult to accept. It is a bitter resolution, unsatisfying, unwelcome. Even a minor defeat can become a brand that sears it’s passing upon the memories of those that suffered its presence. Yet there are some that extol it, proclaiming it a gateway to knowledge unknown. Such a hollow consolation is befitting fools that spend more time stumbling over their own feet than achieving any real progress. Learning from our mistakes; the mantra for those that would hope to excuse their shame. If the information gleaned from failure were already known, the error that caused it would not be made.

But here, on the cold floor, in the crushing dark, Ahvoris wished he were such a fool. Perhaps so blinded, the pain in his chest would not be so great, for failure such as this was beyond acceptance.

Red lights flickered steadily above as the hand in his own grew cold. Despite the incessant blaring in his ears, all he could hear was the faint whisper of a breath bleeding away. His muscles squirmed with the need to do something, anything, yet rationale kept him chained to the ground. There was no point in satisfying the desire to perform empty gestures; comfort was all he could offer that held any real value.

At last, he held stillness. With great care he laid his most recent acquaintance on the floor. Briefly wringing his fingers together, Ahvoris raised a hand.

“Shaper?”

His mouth trembled in preparation for words his mind struggled to form. Licking cool teeth, he managed to croak out, “Bring me a wrap.”

Feet scraped behind Ahvoris as his order was carried out, and in moments a bundle of fabric was placed in his hand. Sirens continued to wail as he worked. In his excitement Ahvoris forgot just how loud and aggravating the alarm could shriek. Making one last fold, he leaned back with eyes fixed firmly on the darkened wrap.

“Someone, shut off that accursed alarm; the emergency has passed.”

The blaring continued for two more intervals before abruptly falling silent. As the echoes died, the quiet sound of liquid dripping onto the ground took their place. The door to an evacuated vat hung open, spilling what was left of its contents. It had once held so much promise, they all did. There was nothing there now.

“Your will, Shaper?”

The words resounded in his skull. His will? What of his will? If the desires in his heart could be met, his will would be obsolete. If he could be granted a single wish then no set of shoulders would be forced to bear the mantle of Shaper. And if that were the case, he would be spared the duty of sharing his grief.

“Cease production,” he whispered.

“Pardon, Shaper?”

They had heard him, he knew they had, but Ahvoris could not blame them for being so obtuse. Who would hope to hear such words?

Raising his voice, he repeated the command. “Cease production. Any that have yet to reach completion… must be flushed from their tanks.”

The response was slow, but eventually the assembled caretakers obeyed his command. Distant lights grew dim, horns called in sporadic, mournful tones, and tubes rattled as the grim task took its toll.

Slowly rising to his feet, Ahvoris collected the bundle he had carefully wrapped. Fluids leaked from the soaked fabric, spilling down his arm and occasionally tickling flesh as they worked their way back to the floor. Row after row of vats fell behind as he wandered up a grate walkway, the sound of alarms ringing as the caretakers continued to empty tanks of their burden. Ahvoris ascended a flight of stairs leading up to a deck overlooking the production chamber. He paused to face a sea of twinkling lights. One by one, they began to wink out, and gaps slowly grew throughout the aisles. Some of his assistants spared him a glance as they moved between tanks. Though it was too dark, and most were much too far, he could easily imagine the confusion on their faces.

The magistrates were wise to appoint him as Shaper. To plot sevrazine continuity is a delicate task, one that requires constant adjustments and thorough investigation of possible outcomes throughout every cycle. Each soul demanded purity, and the path to perfection began with production, his responsibility. And as a gardener tends his beds, so too did Ahvoris pull unwanted weeds. There was no joy to be found in ending lives yet unlived, but he understood the necessity. The magistrates understood the necessity as well, that is why he was chosen to bear the mantle; no other could do as he had done, not in these trying times.

The urge to fall into a reprocessing pool had never been stronger.

Ahvoris pushed aside a narrow door, his hand slipping down the metal surface, and left the ongoing purge. The hallway he stumbled into was dark, only the dim light of flickering lanterns to guide his steps. The Shaper did his best to walk with dignity befitting his station, but the weight carried in both arms dragged tired shoulders down.

What now?

They had all known the geneforge would fail. Since the first victim had emerged wailing from his vat and shortly suffocated under his own weight, it was apparent recycled materials were no longer serviceable. Their supply had finally been exhausted and no matter how long he tampered with its composition it would remain so. Some had pushed to overlook the issue, out of spite or misplaced hope, and though everyone realized the futility, the magistrates agreed to continue production. It had only been a matter of time. The moment was upon them.

What now?

The scent of fresh rain slid into his nostrils, cool and clean. Ahvoris had reached the atrium. Above, grey clouds released a meager drizzle that swirled through the air before coming to rest on his skin. Assistants, unfazed by the weather conditions, quickly marched across the plated floor. Quiet conversations fell to whispers and feet came to a sudden stop as one by one became aware of his presence.

Ahvoris aimed a spindly finger at the nearest group. “You,” he commanded. “Come.”

Of the three he had singled out, one timidly crossed the short distance and politely bowed before him.

“Yes, Shaper?” she whispered.

Realizing just how quiet the atrium had become, Ahvoris lowered his own voice. “Go to the relay, deliver my message to the magistrates: we shall make no more.”

He slipped a glistening hand into his coat, briefly tugging against a belt. Removing his hand, he placed a small cylinder in hers.

“Use this prior to establishing a link. It should permit a direct connection.”

The trembling assistant gave a nod. “Yes, Shaper!”

Turning swiftly on her heels, she sprinted away. A number of her peers quickly stepped aside as the assistant tore her way to the facility’s entrance, kicking up water as she ran. When she vanished into the hazy day, their heads turned back to Ahvoris.

“Continue your work.”

And with his words, bodies lurched into motion. Some were no doubt confused, and many more clearly suspicious, but the geneforge was sacred. Emergency or not, discipline was their virtue; inaction had no place within the walls of creation. Ahvoris brought one foot before the other and continued his journey. He climbed another set of stairs leading deeper into the facility.

The second level was little more than an open hall stretching left and right with hatches at either end granting access to the geneforge’s inner workings. Directly before Ahvoris however was a large entrance, nearly twice his height and sealed tight with a pair of doors. A duo of guards stood to either side of the entrance, fingers wrapped tightly about their rifles. One gave a polite nod at the Shaper’s approach while the other lifted an arm and pushed a single door open. Ahvoris whispered his thanks before slipping through.

The chamber he stood in was well lit by a few lanterns humming with a brilliant, white light. Smooth walls of polished metal formed an impressive circle, characters of every shape and size etched along their length, gleaming in the pale illumination. Similar inscriptions were carved into the floor, forming a multitude of rings that steadily became smaller. At the center of it all was a platform slightly raised off the ground, and crowning it was a humble altar. Ahvoris inched his way forward. Every step produced a faint echo that joined the lanterns in their quiet chorus. Kneeling, the Shaper set his bundle down at the altar’s base, his narrow fingers delicately peeling back the fabric they had so carefully woven.

She would have been beautiful. Slender fingers, round eyes, sweet lips, fair skin, yet the length of her body was dotted with the warm purple of bruises where blood had escaped their veins. She would have been strong, to emerge from her tank fighting for life, screaming for breath, few enter the world with such ferocity. But even the mighty can become weary, and in a moment of weakness her own body had strangled the child. Wounds that no eye could see, but a surgeon could discover, likely lay just beneath the surface of her blemished skin.

Leaning back, Ahvoris spread his arms and bent his neck to gaze at the ceiling. Taking a deep breath, he prayed. The Shaper who dutifully served as proxy to the Lost God for the sake of his people prayed not only to the Creator, but to the Goddesses as well. He prayed to the spirits of the forest, of the sea, of the mountains, and of the wastes. He prayed to ancestors long dead, to ancient heroes who carved their deeds upon the face of the world. Ahvoris prayed until his tongue was dry and his voice became hoarse, and when he could not think of another word to say, fell silent.

“What now?”

#mywriting #original fiction #alien #extinction #what happens when your species is created and the creator dies?

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malto444-blog · 7 years

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Xbox versus PS4: Ars perusers respond to liveblog franticness Gracious no doubt, iOS 7 turned out this week too.

Although it appears like a very long time back now, Monday was a major, huge day. Five noteworthy organizations chosen to hold vital question and answer sessions around the same time (four in LA before E3 started and Apple at WWDC in San Francisco). Ars facilitated five liveblogs so that our perusers could remain forward progressively. It was enjoyable to revisit the remarks and perceive how perusers responded as each organization made its declarations. How about we begin with the primary news we heard on Monday: the subtle elements of Microsoft's fresh out of the box new Xbox One.

Demonstrate your hand

Microsoft kicked the free day with its introduction. At the point when the discharge information and valuing were declared, Nate Anderson gave us the crude subtle elements in Xbox One expenses $499—and is accessible this November. It shocked us that Microsoft declared the valuing points of interest at this occasion—the declaration could have been made nearer to the Christmas season without raising any eyebrows. Microsoft additionally chosen to execute off its "Microsoft Points" framework and supplant it with a genuine cash framework.

Now, Ars staff and the analysts alike realized this was Sony's diversion to win or lose, however none of us had the smallest piece of information how things being what they are. "It's currently for all intents and purposes sure that the PS4 will likewise come in at $499 (the reputed cost for the PS4)," rtechie composed. "The amusements [Microsoft] reported were entirely great yet somewhat meager on what number of would be dispatch titles. Expecting that a large portion of them are, Xbox One is probably going to have a decent dispatch. Accepting retailers aren't frightened away. In the event that you were GameStop, would you convey the Xbox One knowing you'll just make $5 off the deal and that it executes utilized amusements?"

rtechie proceeded. "MS Points were a security highlight to ensure your charge card. By making the main thing you could purchase with your Visa on XBL "focuses" this should keep a hacked account from being utilized for different purposes and generally worked. The issue was that clients discovered making an interpretation of costs to focuses befuddling, and a similar thing could be proficient just by having a genuine dollar account that you can't remove cash from (that is the manner by which it chips away at PSN and Steam)."

PlaceHolder likewise made some early forecasts, "I think most likely Sony will coordinate that valuing inside 20 percent... no point beginning a value war before item is even accessible for procurement. I think $500 is excessively however for a repeated PC... I think the cost will wind up at $300 by the accompanying Xmas." As we probably am aware now, rtechie wasn't right and PlaceHolder was truly close as for the PS4 dispatch estimating. Be that as it may, who knows what number of value carves the Xbox will experience before the following Christmas season?

"Sony could 'do us a strong' here in the event that they come in at $399," Biggiesized expressed prophetically.

The majority of our perusers appeared to be despondent with the Xbox's $499 cost. "So happy I'm building my gaming PC." Transmitte composed. "It'll cost about twice to such an extent, yet will be one serious part better. What's more, no Kinect." But "most" does exclude everybody. A few, including realwarder, felt that the valuing sounded sensible. "Gone ahead... least expensive 360 with Kinect and 250GB drive is a $350 package. Standard estimating is around $400. What's more, that is for old innovation. For $500 you're getting in any event double the spec of everything, also bleeding edge. Any individual who thought it would have been less expensive than $400 is silly. Also, another reassure has a little premium, so $499 was normal. They'll offer container loads at this cost and in a year perhaps it'll offer for $400." Guess we'll discover soon enough whether a $499 sticker price is sufficient to offer can loads.

What's more, the PlayStation 4 makes a striking move

Around nine hours after the fact on another side of LA, Sony told its group of onlookers that the PlayStation 4 would just cost $399 and would not have any online registration limitations. (Kyle Orland kept us up to speed with PlayStation 4 will be accessible for $399 this Christmas season.) As the Xbox One's just noteworthy contending console this year, the declaration set off loads of commendation from the gathering of people at the occasion. Be that as it may, Ars perusers were somewhat more wary. More than one individual (well, OK, two individuals) was watching for the unavoidable conclusion.

"I'm watching for the unavoidable conclusion." tigas composed. "I'm certain Activision will figure out how to screw us over even with a PS4." Ironicending explained. "Cherished the declaration. Call me suspicious, call me prepared, call me neurotic, however I'm looking out for the inevitable conclusion. This is very great to be valid. What amount of will AAA titles cost to keep up this model? On the other hand with all that outside the box support and PS+ esteem I don't know I give it a second thought. Transistor!"

Still, more than a couple analysts grasped the news with less criticism. "Go Sony," composed joshua knight. "This level of differentiation in approach between two vast contenders doesn't appear to happen time after time nowadays. I am extremely intrigued to watch how everything plays out yet Sony has dig for the present." caywen included:

As somebody who was truly relying upon the Xbox One to succeed and was truly charmed by the Kinect conceivable outcomes, I need to state: Microsoft just got their aggregate asses given to it. They invested an abundant excess energy attempting to clarify away 24 hour checks, diversion exchange ins, and so forth. Sony invested almost no energy in that with a basic message.

Also, it's $100 less.

Somebody at Microsoft needs genuine terminating. There's some man (possibly Ballmer himself) who resembled, "we have to value it premium and wrap confinements around everything." That individual got his direction, and now look.

I'm currently immovably in the PS4 camp. I super needed Xbox One to be incredible. The main path for Microsoft to get me back is this: Hold a question and answer session in two or three days, concede they misconstrued the market, and surrender to aggressive weights. Drop the cost to $399 and dispose of *all* the DRM restrictions.iOS looks changed at this point

While the gamers where having it out over the enormous consoles, Apple held its WWDC keynote in San Francisco. The organization declared an invigorate to the Mac Pro line and an update of iOS 7's plan. Casey Johnston kept us up to speed on the last in Apple reports compliment, sleeker iOS 7, portraying the primary versatile working framework planned by Apple SVP of Industrial Design Jony Ive and Apple SVP of Software Engineering Craig Federighi.

The response from the analysts was firmly blended: a noteworthy number appeared to love a few sections of it and loathe a few sections of it. Others, as muckz, didn't consider the tasteful of the OS by any means. "At last, with the new control focus, I can discard jailbreaking. Can't stand going into Settings each time I need to modify splendor or turn Wi-Fi on/off." Mike Strobel was unequivocally in the "despise" camp however. "I have yet one clarification for the frightful tones and stops in each one of those angles: Jony Ive is partially blind. We just never knew it since all his stuff was dark, white, and silver."

Others preferred the new look yet were worried that it won't not be down to earth. PervertRyan clarified:

As a WP8 client, I like the much cleaner look and particularly the typography. In any case, I'm not yet beyond any doubt how I feel about the new symbols.

What's more, the straightforwardness and viewpoint moving looks truly cool, however I need to ponder about the handling power required. That is to say, better believe it portable GPUs are bounty quick to render such impacts (despite the fact that I need to ponder about the iPhone 4, mine as of now feels moderate on iOS 5), yet I'm more worried about how this will keep the GPU busier than it should be. Perhaps I'm wrong, however when iOS 6 renders the home screen the GPU can simply go to rest until something happens, yet now it needs to continually re-render the homescreen on the grounds that the point of view will move somewhat from unpretentious developments you make while you hold the gadget regardless of the possibility that you don't do anything. Furthermore, it sounds like it generally keeps the sensors dynamic as well, yet that may be the situation ordinarily as well.

What's more, with straightforwardness, you essentially need to render more, reserve less, and need to apply that obscure pixel shader.

I'm certain it's not a colossal punishment, but rather Microsoft expelled Aero glass from Windows 8 and one reason I accept was that a level look is less exhausting on the battery.

Others saw echoes of other working framework outlines in iOS 7. lux113 thought of, "Some are stating Android... All I thought when I saw the symbols was metro—strong hues, extremely thin numbers, and letters. Apple has been inclining towards the thin numbers in certain applications yet now it has all the earmarks of being no matter how you look at it. The strong hues however are a plainly clear move far from everything their symbols dependably were known for... furthermore, there was another organization which made such a move as of late, to the point that I'm mindful of—Windows—directly down to the Windows logo." Oleph concurred on a few focuses. "I despise the fundamental looking symbols, particularly Safari. It's so unmistakably taking outline insights from both Android and WP. But then, in the typical Apple way, they've refined things and made it something more. I think being used all these plan components will work to improve things. In static screenshots, you don't get the entire picture."

In any case, bbonish came in as a voice of reason. "Replicated, roused by... what difference does it make? It isn't so much that it looks more like Android/Windows, dislike Apple needs to overlook configuration patterns. I think the primary concern is it watches well thoroughly considered and reliable. That is dependably the hardest thing about tech gadgets and where Apple in the course of recent years appeared to meander a bit. At first look it would seem that they truly improved the representation not only for making new plan components, however to make things less demanding to utilize."

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swimmingpoolsandmoviestars · 7 years

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That Time I Had an Abortion

I never thought I would be using Planned Parenthood to get an abortion, or getting an abortion at all, for that matter. I had been in their teen theater group in high school, had gotten on the pill when I was 16, used condoms and obsessively taken pregnancy tests every month, so worried was I about ever becoming a teen mom. In college I kept going to them because they were who I knew and when I moved to LA and didn’t have insurance, they signed me up for MediCal and made sure I got the pill for free-always left with a bag of free condoms, always felt respected and cared for. But shit happens and at 31 I realized one day that my boobs hurt like crazy and that that super light period I had the month before might not have actually been a period after all. My boyfriend at the time was an aspiring painter/jeans salesperson and couldn’t take care of himself or his bills. He told me (and my worried parents) on several occasions that he wanted to marry me and I had deflected, suggesting he could be the Tim Robbins to my Susan Sarandon-this was when they were still together and was probably somewhat prescient. I didn’t want to have a baby with someone I didn’t want to marry, someone who couldn’t take care of himself, someone who was allowing his life to be subsidized by an inheritance I received and the meager earnings I made from my clothing company. I didn’t want a welfare baby either. I wanted, if I ever chose to have a kid, to do it right. At the time and maybe even more so now, it felt like a huge, important responsibility that would change my life forever and I wasn’t prepared to do that with him, didn’t have the means to do it by myself.

We went in right after Christmas to take the test-I guess I could have just gotten it at a Rite Aid or something, but going there felt more safe, like if I went there, they would know what to do and if I took it with him it might be like the time he gave me an iPod mini for Christmas (which comes in a container very much the size and shape of a ring box) and my stomach dropped because I knew if it was an engagement ring I would feel compelled to say yes even though everything inside me said no. I didn’t want to say yes to having a baby because I felt bad about hurting his feelings.

When they told me it was positive, I started crying, so I guess it was pretty clear where I stood on that. I was told that this was the day they did medical abortions (the pill, more on this later) but they couldn’t fit me in. The next available day was a week away, unless I wanted to go to a different clinic, then they could get me in sooner. I had been going to this location for over a decade and didn’t want to go somewhere else. If I was going to go through this I wanted it to be with the women I had seen over the years and with whom I felt comfortable-the clinician who always wore head to toe purple, the clinician with the eastern bloc hooker accent, the very tiny, very quiet, very gentle medical assistant who always wrapped up a visit. These had become the people I trusted. That said, I don’t recommend spending a week knowing you’re pregnant and can’t do anything about it-I was suffering from morning sickness, severe fatigue, was beyond depressed-it was an awful time. My body felt hijacked and I felt alone. My boyfriend was mad that I made the decision without him. I thought, given our situation the choice was pretty obvious, but then he told me that he would quit painting and become a full time manager at his work so he could marry me and put me on his health insurance. I didn’t want to be married to someone who managed a store in the mall because they gave up their life’s dream to acquire health care-that didn’t seem like it would lead to anything other than a sad, bitter, resentful end, which it kind of did on its own anyway, sans child. Eventually I think he realized how crazy that was and I’m pretty positive that he’s glad we are not linked in any way all these years later. I know I am. That’s the thing about getting older-you watch your friends have kids, break up, get stuck having to deal with a bad life decision for the rest of their lives-yeah they get a great kid out of it, but they also get all kinds of problems that come with making a baby with the wrong people. Sometimes I think that maybe if I had been younger and hadn’t seen all that happen I would have just jumped in.

At the time I was completely broke, Steven Tyler had had his girlfriend order a ton of custom clothes from my company for a South American tour that Aerosmith was on, then refused to pay for them-to the tune of 30K, which put us in a terrible financial position-worst Christmas ever, thanks ST! (It was a sad day spent pretty sure I was pregnant, watching Die Hard, Bucket family style, on the tiny antique brass day bed we were using for a couch, eating frozen fish that had come with an Omaha Steaks package my business partner’s mom had sent him and that had been avoided until it was really the only food option left).

Because abortion isn’t federally funded, which I think is shameful, that left it up to me to come up with the steeply discounted $600 that they charged for a medical abortion. I guess it goes without saying that my boyfriend had no money to offer towards the cause. I called my mom and told her I was pregnant (don’t know what I would have done had I not had a parent who could help me) which was an extremely difficult thing to do, in no small part because when I told her, her initial reaction was complete happiness, then I had to explain why it wasn’t a good idea to make a baby with this person. She started crying and said she knew I would be a good mom someday when it was right. I guess if you don’t know my mom, her crying might not seem like a big deal, especially about such an emotional issue, but, she’s not really an emoter.

When I went in the following week I had to have someone drive me, and as my boyfriend didn’t have a license, had never had a license (so many signs it was not meant to be to procreate with this person) my friend Cazzie volunteered to do the chauffeuring. She waited with him in the lobby while I went back and the eastern bloc clinician did a vaginal ultrasound to see how far along I was to make sure it wasn’t too far along for the pill. She said if I had come in the next day it would have been too late and I would have had to have a surgical abortion, something that really frightened me. Then she asked if I wanted to see the ultrasound image, I said sure, though, again, that may have just been because I felt like that was what I was supposed to say, not because I really cared to. Then she printed it out and asked if I wanted to keep it-again with the sure, again didn’t really want it, no idea where it is now. I was taken into a room with a very young, impossibly cheery medical assistant who explained what was going to happen-she said I would be bleeding a lot and having bad cramps, that if it got too heavy, if I went through more than two or three super max pads in an hour I should go to the ER. Made it seem like a fairly simple, casual procedure. It wasn’t. I guess some people react more severely to the medicine and I was one of those lucky people. I was given a pill at the clinic, then told to go home and take another few pills, some pain killers and some pills that would cause a miscarriage. It was an hour plus drive home in gridlock with Cazzie at the wheel, my boyfriend in the backseat, all of us awkwardly stuck in this small space knowing what was happening but not terribly well equipped to discuss it. I later found out Cazzie, who had been trying for a few years to get pregnant, had just found out that she was two months along and didn’t want to tell me because she felt bad, can only imagine how much more stressful that made the day for her. I think at some point we stopped for maxi pads on the way and then she dropped us off and I got ready to take the pills. Again feeling super lonely, like my boyfriend just didn’t get it and like all I wanted was for her to stay. My neighbor and friend, a nurse came over and checked on me when things really began in earnest because that’s when it went from being an abstract idea and got scary. I did bleed far more than I was supposed to but she said I should stay home because if I went to an emergency room, I’d just be bleeding out in the waiting room, so low on the priority list would I be. It was a traumatizing night spent violently vomiting and spewing the contents of my uterus out in the shower until the hot water ran out and then in between water heater refills, on the toilet. I remember that my boyfriend was there, but I don’t remember him doing much but watching and being grossed out.

A week to the day I went back to Planned Parenthood, which meant that I knew the majority of people in the waiting room were either there for follow up or to take the pill. Looking around, knowing that, it was hard not to cry, not to feel the heaviness. I explained to the medical assistant what had happened, that the abortion had not been as easy and breezy as explained, she was alarmed. Someone was sent in to address this/make me feel better and to try to figure out another way to convey the possible outcomes in the future so as to properly prepare people for what could come. And that’s one of the many reasons why I continue to use Planned Parenthood as my health provider, they might not always do a perfect job, but when alerted to a problem, they have always stepped in to try and make it right.

I saw Cecile Richards speak a little while back and she said it was important for people to share their stories about Planned Parenthood. I feel like most of the stories you hear are the P.C. ones that are easy to tell, about a mammogram that saved the day or birth control for someone too poor to get it otherwise, so I decided to share this story that wasn’t easy to talk about then, isn’t easy to write about now, but it feels like if more people shared the hard stuff, maybe we wouldn’t feel so alone.

#istandwithpp #planned parenthood #cecile richards

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