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no-droids · 4 years ago

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gif credit: @javier-pena

Part Eighteen of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 19.5K

Warnings: SMUT, religion kink (maybe?), squirting, consensual stalking/pursuing, canon-typical violence, mention of underage drinking, uhh I believe that’s it but as always, let me know if I’ve forgotten anything please!

A/N: Hey yall!!! So I know this chapter has been a long time coming and though I’m not completely satisfied with it, I hope it brings a little happiness to you for an hour or two while you read! School has been kicking my ass and I’ve been in a bit of an emotional slump recently, but I pulled a few all-nighters to post this on time and it’s finally finished! Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me and sent me encouraging words over the past month or so, I hope you enjoy the end of the Sanctuary arc💕

Also like last time, part 2 of my collaboration with @followwhereshegoes will be posted after the chapter!! As a reminder, sweet girl is a reader insert and every imagining of her will be different—this is Lisa’s interpretation of her and her artwork is absolutely gorgeous, so please go give her a follow!

Day 5–11:13am:

You zone out again in the early morning, but that happens a lot. Din always keeps you up so late, all the time, and without any caf here, the rising sun just makes your eyes droop instead of flutter brighter and wider. You helped a bunch of younglings find their way into their robes when it was still dark out, tying sashes and fitting masks while holding back your yawns. The walk into Nariss is close to three hours, probably more with all these tiny little legs, and you almost forget to change into your new digs before everyone grabs breakfast.

Even though your ragtag entourage leaves for Nariss just as soon as everyone finishes eating, you don’t reach the city until nearly lunchtime. Mostly because the kids walk about as fast as the elderly holy women chaperoning the trip. You and Naydee lag behind the group, forcing yourself to meander slow as fuck when you nearly sprinted this same exact path just a few days ago. On the way there, you listen to children of all sorts sing happily as they walk, chatter about their excitement for the parade, complain about wearing the fabric mask they made themselves, and more than once, somebody takes a tumble onto the ground and is left in teary sniffles and dirt stained clothes. Likely for this reason, the robes are designed to be two pieces—a long tunic with a hood and a separate pants portion to prevent tripping instead of a draping skirt, but the smallest ones are clumsy and find a way to fall anyways.

It’s a colorful bunch—a chaotic rainbow of babies running around, and you share easy conversation with your new friend about the plans for the day until she asks something that makes you nearly trip and join the dirty robe club.

“Sister Drya said your family is meeting you in the city,” she tells you, ignoring your immediate subtle toe stub and the awkward shuffle you have to do to make up for it. “There’s going to be lots of people downtown, I’m worried it might be hard for them to find you.”

Your heart thuds in your chest and you feel a bit short of breath at being abruptly confronted with the need to lie, but at the same time, you kind of love it. Having a secret, hiding the truth from others, and just the reminder that you’re almost guaranteed to see Din and the baby before midnight pours warmth and tingles through your tummy. Everything together is a hit of spice, filling you with a kind of excitement that used to be foreign to you. Having fun, experiencing new things isn’t quite over yet, but home is calling and you miss it with every fiber of your being.

“I don’t think so,” you eventually respond, hoping she can see your kind smile and the sentiment it carries even as light, shimmery fabric wraps right around your mouth. “If I disappear, you’ll know why.”

Naydee’s eyes crinkle in the corners to match yours. “Hopefully you’ll be able to see the fireworks first,” she nudges you, her skin glowing against the pale cream fabric she has wrapped around her own mouth and the hood laying delicately over her braids. “They start at eight.”

The fireworks, you almost forgot. You know what? Today is a good day. You hear yourself think the full sentence multiple times, and the words put a spring in your step after every single one. The road gradually becomes wider and filled with more travelers, and you feel safe in the back. Like some kind of sheepdog bringing up the rear of this migrating cluster of children, making sure none of them drift off by themselves and start eating grass or something.

Surprisingly, the kids manage to be relatively patient and well-behaved once they’re in line at the gates. The Sisters shuffle them along one by one as everyone moves up slowly, taking even longer to get into the city than it did a few days ago. The entrance is packed already—so many people visiting for the festival, and they’re all dressed in costumes or robes of sorts, or at least a mask. Most are beautifully crafted, but some manage to look slightly scary even with the soft springtime color schemes. It’s a completely different world, a different life for each person as you pass them by. Your stomach is starting to growl by the time you finally make it to the front, and luckily the guards just let the kids through without any ceremony. Just you and the rest of the caretakers in light robes need to hold still for the retinal scan, matching each other perfectly except for differing shades of fabric, skin, and eye color. Once the gates open for you and you step through, though… it’s… Maker.

Extravagant, magnificent are both words. Floral is another.

It’s like they hung up bouquets wherever they could think to fit them, and this is just the edge of the city. As the group moves through the streets and closer to downtown, it becomes more and more overwhelming. The air itself is a warm fragrance wafting all around you, sunshiney and breezy and perfect, flowers of all kinds lining the modern buildings and archways like they were planted there from the very beginning and it just took this long to bloom between the cracks in the concrete. You wish you had names for all of them so you could list them—the only thing you can offer is the color and vague descriptions of the ones that stick out to you. Tiny yellow ones that are so small, they need to be bunched all together in massive quantities to even resemble normal flowers. Up overhead, elaborate arrangements of enormous blue and purple and pink ones, wrapping around each other and hanging down from rooftops. Some don’t even have petals, it’s like they’re big green cups that are big enough to hold things inside them. You’re fascinated by every single one, wanting to stop and smell them all individually but needing to keep up with the large group and not allow any stragglers to be left behind, including yourself.

About an hour later, when you’re almost in the middle of the city and there are people everywhere, it’s time to eat lunch. There isn’t much to it because of how expensive it is, and you’d normally feel bad for accepting the small meal each one of the children gets, but you donated all of your credits to the Keja and left absolutely zero for yourself. Good intentions, terrible idea. Still, you pull your mask down and snack on some deliciously fried food, trying not to eye anyone else’s platter after you finish yours. It’s so good and it’s gone in an instant; you couldn’t even say what exactly it was besides which stall you got it at. Whether it’s just the brilliant atmosphere or if the food on this moon is really just that good, you’re not really sure, but you’re still slightly hungry afterwards with no extra money to sneak a snack.

Soon after, the kids all line up to get their faces painted, or whatever portion of their face is visible behind the cloth masks and hoods they’ve got on, and music blares from at least four different directions and none of the songs are even in the same language. Depending on the part of town, it seems like the celebrations are all different. It makes sense, considering most if not all of these individuals were victims of the Empire’s wrath, spread far and wide across the galaxy. Here, they’re free, and they want everyone to know it. Spring festivals of some sort are likely common for most cultures, at least those from planets with seasons, not like Arvala-7 where it was arid and hot year-round, and you’re assuming there are multiple things being celebrated today depending on which street you live on. There’s chanting in different tongues, dancing and drums, outfits and masks from different cultures every single time you look.

At some point, the children spot a crowded street with flowery rails set up all along them, and you stand behind the tiny heads while everyone waits for the parade to begin. You think your heart has just been beating slightly faster than normal all day today, but when you finally hear the sound of sirens blaring in the distance and cheers begin to pour out from the gathered crowd, it kicks up and you feel like you’re just as wide eyed at the spectacle as the waist-high babies all huddled together up against the railing.

A flurry of people and things pass in slow succession. First, New Republic officers with their blaring holobikes, bright orange as always. Then come large groups of people walking behind banners in languages you can’t read, some of them waving, some of them making different sounds and songs. Bands marching in formation, dancers in dresses and masks and gorgeous flowers in their hair like crowns, and then brilliant hovering vehicles decorated in bright colors and festive depictions. The craftsmanship and cultural significance is stunning to witness, it’s so insanely loud, there’s so much going on, and yet…

Through it all, you think of Din. No matter the faces, the sights you see. There’s someone juggling. There’s either a very tall man and woman walking together or they’re both on stilts. There are enormous balloons being led through the air, people are riding atop an assortment of animals you’ve never seen before, there are traditional costumes and spectacular stunts being performed. Stalls with games and prizes line the stretches of concrete on the cross streets, people are laughing and celebrating and drinking in equal parts, everything is so lively and festive and fun, and yet, though it all, you think of Din. Him and the baby, they’re always in the forefront of your mind, occupying your thoughts and making your tummy stir more and more as the time passes like the parade in front of you. You don’t think this environment would ever be his favorite, and in some far away galaxy, perhaps if you lived other lives together and called a beautiful moon exactly like this home, then you might have to drag him out to see all the with you and the kid every year. You’d have to bat your eyelashes and kiss his cheek and snuggle up to him all nice and pretty like, and he’d probably grumble and complain about it while wrapping his arms around you—all the people and the noise, sweet girl—but he’d go. For you, he’d go.

Your thoughts suddenly stop short and you blink for a second. Why… Why was that scene so vivid? So wistful? You used to preoccupy yourself with fantasies about Din all the time, back before you even knew him as Din. But in every single one, it was sexual and likely came from a place of boredom, a lack of external stimulation. Here you are amidst bustling surroundings, and you’re daydreaming about domesticity with him. Why? You want to travel the galaxy, right? You want to see things you’ve never seen before, right?

For some reason, you think of the floor, and you miss it.

***

Day 5—5:04pm:

It’s late afternoon at this point and nobody can find the teens.

More people have made their way into the city and it’s starting to get extremely fucking crowded, especially where you are downtown, and the handful of them must’ve slipped away with all the excitement happening and how difficult it is to keep the young ones together now that the parade is over. You don’t know how long they’ve been gone—one second they were walking around just slightly detached from the rest of you, you assumed because the boisterous younglings fucked with their cool vibe, and then the next Naydee is gasping out to you that they’re gone.

“Sister Drya is going to kill me,” she hisses, her dark eyebrows furrowed in self-admonishment and stress. So many fucking people here, you know her pain. “I was supposed to be chaperoning them, they were just here—”

She shakes her head under the loose, cream-colored hood, groaning and then speeding up her gait to catch up with the woman in charge, but you decide to grab her wrist before she can relay the bad news.

“I can go find them,” you offer, speaking as low as you can with the blaring noise surrounding you. “Before anyone knows they’re missing. Is there a way to convince everybody to stay in one spot for a little while? You won’t get in trouble, but I need to know how to find you again.”

Naydee’s eyes widen in surprise, and even though it’s likely a bit out of character for you, you have a feeling it’ll be a deceptively easy task. Even with the masses right now and how atrociously big this city is, you already have a general idea of where they’re likely to be. Besides, you’re not even sure your absence will be noticed if Naydee is the only one who figured out the teens were gone—the other Sisters can thrive without you while missing anyone else would be noticeable, and you owe your new friend a thousand favors for helping you out these past few days. The least you can do is save her from the scolding of one of the scariest old ladies you've ever met.

“Be as quick as you can,” she finally agrees. It’s a lot of trust to put into you, but you’ve had experience in reading the most unreadable man in the entire galaxy, some teenagers shouldn’t pose too much of a problem. “If you’re not back in thirty minutes or somebody notices, I’ll have to say something.”

You nod, silently breaking away from the group without another word. You think you can hear her announce to everyone that it might be best to eat dinner now to skip any long lines later—smart—but you’re out of their hearing range and line of sight almost immediately.

***

Day 5–5:17pm:

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow since they won’t be able to see the way your mouth is twisted up underneath your mask, crossing your arms and tapping your foot against the ground to further illustrate just how not fucking impressed you are.

Seven teenagers freeze, and slowly—depending on how much bravery they can individually muster—they turn around on their stools to face you. The atmosphere in the tavern is bustling and cheery, booze being passed around a large crowd that laughs and mingles, but your vibe is stone cold and quiet. The contrast doesn’t feel wrong on you like it normally would; the negative and disapproving energy you’re emitting makes you feel powerful, untouchable, armored and strong.

“How did you find us so fast?” One of the twin boys squeaks out behind a light blue robe, sounding worried.

“Had a hunch,” you grumble, glaring sternly at each of them in turn. Your tone is dry, your voice sits lower in your throat when you’re pissed off. All you had to do was look for the closest bar that doesn’t have any orange jumpsuits poking around waiting to card underage younglings, it wasn’t that difficult. “You’re not exactly unpredictable.”

“Are you gonna rat us out?” The other twin asks you, in a voice that’s oddly deep compared to his brother.

“I should,” you snap, quickly reaching out to push their drinks away. “I should let Sister Drya rain down her holy fury on your asses, got good people all twisted up over you for nothing and I’m missing dinn—”

You don’t know why, but you suddenly cut yourself off and jerk upright, spinning around.

The sounds of glasses clinking and boisterous voices fill the bar, but they seem to fade out for a second. Your eyes fly around the crowded space, your heart lodged in your throat and looking for anything reflective. Every flash you see is a false alarm—belt buckle, wristwatch, cocktail shaker—

He’s here… isn’t he?

Only, there’s nothing. Nothing is out of place, nothing jumps out at you the way you’re assuming it will. You’re braced taut and ready to bolt at the first sign of a chase, but it never comes.

It’s so… unexpected, this feeling. It’s not like you’re being hunted anymore, but instead, you’re the hunter. You’re feeling the weight of him from this far away and it’s like he’s calling for you to come find him, teasing the wild adrenaline rush you get from just feeling his presence, as if he absolutely knows it happens. Whispering soft in your ear and then vanishing the second you’re able to turn around, like he’s here but he’s not. Playing with you from so far away.

This… this is a taunt.

The whole thing at the inn was leagues below this, that was rudimentary. Teasing, getting even, having fun with each other, whatever you want to call that, that’s what it was. This is scarily sophisticated. Fluid and practiced and the best kind of frightening, stark and dangerous compared to the carefree and upbeat setting surrounding you. You’re not making it up, it’s not just you being paranoid. You know him with your eyes closed. You know he’s here somewhere watching you, just like you know the starlight that streaks across the pitch black horizon of hyperspace. Not because you can see it, not really, not directly. But because by it, even in the vastest and darkest and emptiest of voids, you’re suddenly able to see everything else.

“You okay, Nerida?”

The volume gradually comes back up and you blink, suddenly remembering where you are, who else is with you. The chatter becomes slightly louder than it seemed before.

“Yeah,” you eventually say, slightly airy while continuing to stare emptily at the crowded room. He’s not here, you don’t think, not anymore at least. But you’re not stupid, you know what this means. You’re already caught, there’s nothing you can conceivably do that will delay the reunion for the next—you look down and pull the loose sleeve up to check your communicator—seven fucking hours, there’s no way. He’ll pull back and follow you, keep up with you from a distance and then snatch you away right when you let your guard down. You at least need to get the kids back to their guardians before that can happen, though.

“Let’s go,” you quietly tell the group of foundlings, grabbing elbows and hauling them out of their stools. “Naydee was the only one who knew that you were gone when I left. Here’s to hoping she managed to keep it that way.”

***

Day 5–5:32pm:

Against all odds, you’re able to rally the wayward teens and successfully lead them through shoulders that are beginning to move closer together as the crowd grows and grows. You stay towards the back and don’t look behind you once—not only do you not want to give the younglings an unnecessary reason to become paranoid or to question your actions, but you can still feel Din lingering. Moving like a shadow, probably fitting in perfectly with the masked festival-goers, nothing drawing any attention to him with all the spectacular sights and noise occurring.

Soon you return to the same spot from before, and you and the teenagers seamlessly integrate yourselves back into the rest of the group without anyone noticing a thing is out of place. When you move to stand beside her, Naydee’s bone-deep sigh of relief is palpable even behind the concealing fabric; she squeezes your hand incredibly tight in a silent gesture of thanks, and then pulls something from the deep pockets of her robe and passes it to you sneakily. A purple fruit. She must’ve saved it for you.

Maker, fuck yes. It’s not much but it’s more dinner than any of the seven troublemakers get, but Naydee quietly assures you they’ll be able to eat something once they return to the Keja around midnight, just not the tasty expensive treats they’re selling at the vendors. As the sun goes down, you try not to stain your pretty fabric a deep maroon as you chomp and feel your lips start to curl upwards. It sounds so fucking stupid when you put it like this, but you keep going back to Din and revelling in knowing that he’s so close, like you’re just mentally checking in on him. You don’t get the sensation by thinking, though—more like you just focus really hard on your heart and feel him there just a second afterwards.

Is that how pure, stupid, shameless love feels when you’re completely entrenched in it? It’s not like it’s surrounding you, it’s not suffocating you or making you float. It’s just a thing. Like… a thing inside your chest, a physical thing you can search for and find, something you can point to on your body and say it’s right here, this is where my love for him lives. Right at the bottom of your heart, right where it curves and beats strong when other hearts meet flat at sharp angles. You do it over and over again, reconfirming its existence every single time. You don’t know what else you’d call it. Love is the only word. To love, to know. To hold in the heart.

Soon, you start to notice that people are slowly moving around your stationary group. You look up and watch the crowd begin to walk, some of them giving soft smiles to the cute children as they pass by, but all of them following the same unspoken direction.

“Where is everyone going?” You ask Naydee, standing on your tiptoes to watch the crowd migrate like a giant system, an organism or mechanism of thousands (or tens of thousands?) of smaller moving parts all traveling in tandem. It’s fascinating—you’ve been to crowded places, you know what it looks like when a lot of people are packed into one area, but you’ve never seen what it looks like when they all move together. They would normally be bumping into each other, slipping in between, fighting and never really getting anywhere, interacting individually and thinking separately. Now they’re progressing in one single direction, so many with the same mindset and understanding of what comes next. A second parade, almost, with New Republic officers directing the flow of pedestrians as they pass.

“The eastern part of the city!” Naydee yells over the noise and points, and beyond her extended finger, you can barely see the light of a dusky body of water in the distance beyond the buildings. “The fireworks are going to go off over the bay, but it takes awhile to get there!”

“Is…” You blink for a second, suddenly caught off guard, trying to think back to the holomap the concierge pulled up at the front desk of the inn. Surely you would’ve noticed it, but your sudden childlike hope makes you ask anyway. “Is it part of an ocean?”

Naydee shakes her head. “A really big lake!”

Your shoulders drop just the slightest bit in disappointment but still, you ache to see it. You can’t even imagine—the fireworks are likely going to reflect across the water, giving everyone double the view. And luckily, after all the children and caretakers are individually accounted for, you start to behind the slow-moving crowd towards the docks you know lie beyond.

Naydee scurries ahead to keep the kids together, ushering them forward and preventing any drunk passer-bys from accidentally stepping on them, and you quietly bring up the very rear of the entourage. You take the time to observe more than anything, walk in the back and experience instead of trailblaze. So many people, so many stories to be told, so many differences and diversity around you. Your face is partially concealed and you don’t move your head too much, just your eyes. They flick around to take in everything, the crowd thinning little by little as you make it out of the confined space downtown. You’re able to make out full bodies and outfits again instead of just heads and shoulders, allowing you to breathe just a bit easier under your mask.

And then at one point—and it’s almost a little startling because it happens all at once—the organizers must decide that the sun has officially gone down, because the lights come on. All of a sudden, paper lanterns and bulbs flicker into existence all around you and the world decides it wants to glow, glint and twinkle from the inside out. They’re everywhere, draping across rooftops and tangled around street signs and stuffed into the flower bouquets overhead, raining soft colors down on everything. You’re in complete awe, trying to keep walking but also needing to look at as much as fucking possible in the suddenly luminescent city. It’s so colorful, so vernal and warm and you feel like you’re… Like when you took a shower on the Crest for the first time and spent a few happy moments just playing with the water and soap for your own enjoyment, it’s as if all the brilliant rainbow of colors the bubbles would make under the fluorescent light decided to surround you at the same time. You’re inside stained glass, blinking at the flowers and wondering if Din can even smell the air or if it’s filtered, processed and reduced to nothing under the helmet.

And that’s when you see him.

But with the way your chest rapidly constricts and you can count your heart beats as they pound, blaring white noise through your ears and adrenaline through your veins, it’s like he's just allowing it to happen. You immediately understand that you don’t have fucking anything the second your eyes land on him; this isn’t a heads up that you caught wind of early, it’s not a gift or an advantage you’ve incidentally gained over him that you should be thankful for. Being able to see him directly like this, being able to make out all these fucking details from this far away… This just feels like you’re being informed of the endgame right before it comes. If you were anyone else, if you were a real bounty and this was a real hunt, his armor glinting and reflecting the lanterns overhead would feel like a knife you're about to be on the wrong side of.

You have a decision to make, very quickly. Either keep in this same direction, head straight towards him and just pretend like you are who you’re dressed as, a random caretaker for a bunch of rowdy foundlings during a spring festival on Nariss, or disappear. Drop back, move through the crowd and use the distance you have between you right now as your only hope of getting away in time. Neither one gives you a particular advantage—your chances of being caught have already skyrocketed exponentially just being able to see the reflection in his armor, the hovering shield at his side with big black eyes… staring directly at you.

You almost trip over your pantlegs, gasping. Baby. He beams at you and you think he calls out through the passing crowd, his tiny arms extending out, and your chest feels like you’re pulling organs as if they were muscles, cramping up and seizing with emotion. You want to run to them even though you’re meant to be running from them, call out over the noise and wave even though you’re not supposed to. You want to hold the kid again, squish his little forehead with kisses, walk around with Din’s hand pressed against your lower back and see the fireworks with him.

Your hands clutch at the draping fabric covering your chest, pulling and twisting it uncertainly. What do you do, what do you do?

No matter what, you know it’s over. Keep your head down and try to move past him, or break away from your group and try to escape—both are different paths that lead to the same result. What’s the point of running when he’s the one chasing you? The heart-pounding thrill is the only reason you’re even considering it, but his body stands so tall amongst the crowd, not moving while people ebb and flow like a river passing around him.

Except then you can hear his voice repeat the last thing he said to you in person as if he says it directly into the comm in your ear. When you do see me… try to outrun.

You should run—run, it’s better than just hoping he doesn’t see you when you already know he does.

Unless…

Out of a trillion different possibilities, you soon realize that there is exactly one situation in which this could turn out in your favor. You can immediately picture the scenario in your mind, but there’s just too many variables to conceivably rely on getting them all right. This maybe has a… two percent chance of working? Maybe? Everything would have to go perfectly, just fucking flawlessly, but what other choice do you have? Two percent is better than whatever odds you’re dealing with now.

You walk silently behind the group of foundlings as you approach closer and closer, keeping your head purposefully down as they skip and giggle and dance ahead. He knows you’re here—he has to know, you’re counting on him knowing. Walk right in front of him, pretend like you don’t see, make sure you keep left. Keep left, keep left, keep your head down, keep your head down—

A leather glove suddenly catches hold of your wrist hard enough to tug you backwards.

Your gasp is audible over the sound of the crowd and you spin around, jerking your head up to look at him in fear. Your heart slams as the beskar reflects your mask and hood back at you—you’re terrified and it shows, you can see it in your eyes.

You quickly try to yank your hand away, even as your index finger stretches up towards the communicator around his wrist.

“Miss Nerida?” A child’s voice cries, and then small hands grab at you from behind as you bury the urge to actually fight him. Your instincts are demanding you attack when his grip is this strong, but you just whine and struggle, slapping weakly at him with your free hand and feeling more of the younglings begin to pull at you, their high pitched voices calling more and more attention to the scene.

Your gaze flicks to the side, suddenly landing on a pair of New Republic officers helping direct the thousands of moving bodies from the closest street corner. They’re looking at you, pointing and beginning to speak into their own comm units. Din’s helmet snaps sideways to follow your gaze, and then he’s immediately dropping your wrist and stepping back, retreating as quickly as he caught you. Though you don’t want to—though you don’t want to give yourself away even more, you want to pretend fully that he was a complete stranger and the children were right to try to help you get away—your eyes fall to your son in the hovering crib by his side and you feel yourself crumble just a bit.

Just a few more hours, kid. A few more hours.

Children pull you away while your pursuers both disappear into the crowd, and you quickly turn to soothe the tiny babies instead of chasing after the one you miss so terribly.

“I’m alright,” you tell them, scooting them up and encouraging them to continue walking. Blend in, blend in, don’t let anybody think anything is wrong. “Come on, we’re fine, come on, we have to catch up.”

They take your lead as soon as one of the caretakers turns around and sees the small group crowding around you. You think she asks what happened, but you just tell her a man mistook you for someone else and nothing more comes of it. She’s able to settle the chaos better than you are, and by the time you’re continuing to travel forwards once more like nothing happened, the communicator suddenly flicks on in your ear.

“What did you do?” He breathes out, his footsteps moving fast through his voice. He’s traveling much quicker than you expected—is he still being followed? The officers are gone from your sight, they might be going after him right now, weaving between bodies and calling out to the perpetually vanishing glint of armor as he navigates his way out of danger.

You look down at the comm on your wrist and your heart nearly soars with victory. It worked. It worked. You just have to outlast a bit longer, don’t draw any extra attention to it—he’s preoccupied and he certainly doesn’t sound happy, but you hope that’ll be enough to make him slip. Use his frustration to your advantage, let him think the only thing you were successful at was momentarily escaping him.

“The cops weren’t part of the plan,” you admit quietly, keeping your head down as your loose hood billows in the twilight breeze. “Don’t get caught.”

There’s a few moments of just his breathing, his footsteps, and the noise floor humming through the comm, before he finally responds. “You look beautiful.”

You stare unseeingly down at the concrete under your feet, still feeling your hand tingle from where he caught you. The line abruptly mutes on his end and you just keep moving forward, onward, wanting to look back but knowing he’s already long gone.

***

Day 5–5:24pm:

Din is fucking furious.

He had you. You were right there, right in front of him, and even if he hadn’t been subtly trailing you all day, seeing the red footsteps get covered and flicker out of existence just a few moments after you make them, he would’ve recognized you anywhere. In black and white, in the fading light, with your face covered, children calling you by a different name and attaching themselves to you like they’ve known you forever—doesn’t matter, he would’ve known you. Your eyes have always given you away, always so expressive and starry and soft, but able to see right through solid steel whenever you look at him.

But then you slipped from his grasp, and then more guards pushed him further and further away from you. They must all be in constant communication, because every single jumpsuit he sees immediately spots him and starts following. It’s fucking exhausting, and he thinks of you the whole time.

He waits in a dark alley with the kid and taps the side of the helmet a few times to bring up the time on his comm, but then relaxes just slightly when he sees the hour. It’s earlier than he thought it was, he’ll be able to find you again.

Though, something tugs at him while he’s looking at the clock ticking away in front of his eyes, counting down each second that passes. There was… a moment. Back in the square, when he was holding onto you again, when you were looking directly into his once more—everything in his helmet—

No, he shakes his head while the kid looks up at him curiously, it can’t be. It was just a split second, it was gone so fast.

But he can’t get rid of it. Though there’s no explanation, he thinks the display screen flickered. The sky behind you looked different for a single frame, your footsteps weren’t bright red and visible anymore, your eyes weren’t grey and he stopped wondering what shade of fabric you and your friend decided to choose for you to wear. It was silvery, he’s almost certain. Like his armor, it only reflected the color of everything around it.

Color. Everywhere. Bursting for a blink of an eye, and then gone just as quick, before he could actually figure out what it really meant.

***

Day 5–6:59pm:

This water is quiet here, but it sparkles.

It doesn’t ever really get truly dark thanks to the enormous hanging moon and ringed gas giant dancing with Sanctuary II, constantly reflecting light back onto the surface and reacting with some of the trace chemicals up above the atmosphere, and you think the sky just might be the prettiest you’ve ever seen it. Must have something to do with the equinox, the glimmering angles of light being played with by celestial bodies in this stunning system, but it’s a dream. The Maker apparently couldn’t decide which colors he wanted tonight so he just splashed all of them together all at once, let them run and blend like ink in the gentle water below, like the various people who call this moon home.

That view in front of you, coupled with all the flowers and lanterns lining the streets behind you, and you’ve lost track of time the exact same way you hoped Din would. You think you’ve stood for about an hour or so in this one spot, half-listening to excited chatter from the babies, mostly just gazing across the stretch of water and being able to just barely spot the docks in the distance, but it feels like it’s only been minutes.

You check your watch—the fireworks should be starting any second now. You don’t know what to expect, just that in your experience, explosions tend to be loud. You've decided you’re not going to plug your ears, though. Tummy twisting with nerves and another inexplicable feeling you can’t quite put your finger on, you resolve to experience the unknown exactly the way it’s meant to be. Fully, without worry or fear.

Then, lacking any warning or ceremony whatsoever, a single flare launches silent and high from one of the small boats skimming the bay, and the crowd seems to hold its collective breath as the dim light disappears into thin air for a split second, before—

It’s… quite possibly the most dazzling thing you think you’ve ever seen. So shamelessly decorative just for the sake of it, not serving any other practical purpose besides celebration and visual spectacle, and you’ll probably never know another extravagance like it. You grew up with dust pelting against tired eyes, you never thought they’d get to reflect such gorgeous bursts of color back up at the sky, glassy and childlike amongst a group of equally wide-eyed children.

As expected, a deafening boom follows closely behind the singular display, but just witnessing it is incredible enough to make you forget to brace yourself for the sound and you jump almost violently in response. There comes a loud cheer from the people standing around you, a few delighted gasps and children who decide now is the best time to start crying, but then more flares begin to launch from the boats and the subsequent show will sear itself into your memory to replay over and over again.

Still, you think the endless sky and dark water below would have to light on fire to stop him from coming to mind.

Din.

You click the comm on, continuing to stare in stunned awe but wanting nothing more than to hear his voice right now, feel his hand rest on your lower back and the kid’s three fingers squeezing one of yours while the stars rain down from above. You’re only continuing to run from him because it’s expected of you, that’s the reason you’re here, but it’s becoming harder and harder to argue with yourself. “Do you always see in black and white?”

It takes him just a few seconds to respond, but he always does. “Only when I’m tracking someone.”

The loud booms can be heard over the earpiece, happening maybe a second after they crack and sparkle above you. You can’t tell if the latency is due to the electronics or if he’s just that far away from the source of the sound itself, but… you don’t think he is. He feels close again, like he could just walk up right next to you any second, or maybe that’s just how he always feels now.

“Does that mean you haven’t seen the sky here?” You ask after a moment. This whole time, everything has been grey for him?

“I saw it,” Din murmurs, and even though it’s quiet and explosions are thundering loud enough to deafen more sensitive ears, his quiet voice somehow breaks through it all. “When you left the Crest, I saw it behind you.”

For some reason, you suddenly feel like crying. Whether it’s the way he phrases it or the sentiment in the words, you’re close to tears without even knowing why, looking up at the sky illuminating spectacularly. He says it like he wasn’t the one who parked on this moon and told you to go on without him. “Can you… turn it off for just a second?”

He takes a second, before clarifying for you. “I turn it off and I lose your footprints.”

So that was the ultimatum. He doesn’t want to turn it off until you’re back with him again. Does he not understand? Does he not know what you know? Maybe you just happened to feel it first, this overwhelming physical sensation inside you whenever you think about him. It’s like the exact opposite of a hole in your chest. And it’s so odd, so counterintuitive. Being comforted in his absence, feeling him with you when he isn’t. Falling in love in the dark, knowing him without ever seeing him.

“You never needed them,” you say, reaching up to pull your mask down under your jaw and chin for a moment, wanting to freely breathe the freshwater and flowers while stars explode and fracture across the sky. It’s a truth you’re acknowledging, something you’ll carry with you, something you fundamentally own at this point. “You’d find me without the helmet. And I’d find you.”

The fireworks continue to bleed into the water beneath them, multicolor splashes rippling into existence and disappearing just as quick. You could’ve never imagined a more colorful, magnificent landscape—besides your waterfall on Naboo, of course. That was a pure product of nature though, a place hidden away and untouched by people, completely sacred. Light refracting against mist, natural glass that would shatter under your weight. This is a celebration of life and family. Loud in a different way, affecting you in a different way, but just as wonderful and touching. A cultivated paradise, designed to be beautiful and safe only because they wanted it to be.

“Think so?” He asks softly. He sounds so deep and warm, but… a little distant. You’re able to hear it in his words. You don’t know why, though. Doesn’t he believe you? Perhaps… perhaps this isn’t The Way. Perhaps this is part of a completely different oath, one where knowing and loving somebody isn’t the same thing as looking at their face, not at all. Where you can have them exist entirely separate from each other, because this is love. This is real, enduring, bone-deep love, and you haven’t ever seen his face, so how would he explain that? How would the Mandalorians reconcile that? You bear the mark of the mudhorn, you’ve moved through time and space with him, you’re a mother to his son, and you’ve never seen his face. It defies both the Mandalorian oath and traditional understandings of love, or it meets them right in the middle, depending on how you look at it.

“I know so.” For the first time, you think you might sound more confident and certain than he does. Maybe he doesn’t fully get it yet, but then you suppose he’ll just have to trust you. “Will you look at the sky?”

“I see it,” Din tells you, but you know he doesn’t. Not the way you want him to. And stars, you just want so many things for him, don’t you? The sky, fresh air, water, light, food, rest. You want him to see the galaxy the way you do—have a new appreciation for the gifts that are given just because you’re alive to experience them. All the physics and mathematics aligned perfectly for it to happen—all the chemistry, the systems, the dynamics that dictate the universe, they all got together and crafted a world where you, him, and the kid all exist together at the same time. You want him to know the significance of that.

“With color?” You ask, knowing his answer before he seems to.

“I…” Din wants to argue, or at least say it again. He can’t or he’ll lose you, he already told you he doesn’t want to turn the setting off. It’s such an unnecessary conflict, but you want to respect it so much that you’re willing to give up things of your own to make it happen.

“How do I fix it then?” You whisper, so desperately wanting this one thing for him, this one grandeur to behold. How do you fix this problem? How do you convince him to look with you? You’d offer to just go and find him instead of continuing to run away for the next few hours, but you know the show will be over soon and you don’t have much time left. “Do you want me to come look for you? It’ll be too late by then, you’re too far away. Look at the sky.”

It’s silent for a moment—truly silent, even though colorful bombs are going off above the bay. You don’t know why you’ve attached yourself to this so strongly, but it’s almost devastating when you don’t get a response. You look away from the spectacle for the first time in an eternity, gazing unseeingly into the crowd of onlookers with a sudden sadness taking hold of you. He won’t look, he’s too stubborn, he holds onto things too tightly.

But then, a flurry of flares start launching in rapid succession from the distant boats, screaming and crying on their way up and then igniting into showers of light, and the abrupt increase in activity manages to catch your attention once again. This must be the end, they saved the best for last. Every corner of the horizon flashes and sparks, and you’re mesmerized at how bright it is, how many colors they’ve managed to fit into one single frame.

“It’s beautiful,” comes his voice, and the smile that you break into feels just right for the brilliance of the view above you. Maker, it is, isn’t it? Now you can hear it—he sounds like he’s looking at it too, with color, in all its breathtaking glory, and you feel like you’re flying. Like he picked you up and let you watch up close, like you can feel his armor under your fingers right now as he carries you through the sky.

It swells up inside you, a rising wave similar to the ones you can see in the distance, and you know you probably shouldn’t say it because it’s not in your best interest to say it right now, but you have to say it anyways. It’s an unknowable compulsion, a need to connect and communicate directly with him but for your sake, not presently, not at this exact moment in time.

Luckily, you mute your comm just in time and simply give the words to him from very far away.

“Hurry up,” you say, sending the sentiment into the sky with all your love, and the conflicting hope that he won’t take the advice until a bit later on. “Come and find me.”

***

Day 5–7:37pm:

After the fireworks are over, people start to drift off in separate directions, clearing the traffic and congestion from the streets around you. Someone puts their hand on your shoulder and you blink a few times, spinning around and almost stepping on a bunch of tiny little feet by accident.

Stars, that’s a lot of children. They’re all crowded around Naydee, who pats a few heads and almost buckles under the younglings clinging to her leg.

“Figured you would be long gone by now,” she grins at you from behind her mask, and you’re reminded to pull yours up over your face just from looking at her. “It’s late—we’re going back to the Keja.”

“Oh, shit,” you breathe in surprise, but the noise of the gradually dispersing crowd manages to cover it up. At least from younger, more easily distracted ears, but you think Naydee hears you. Her dark eyes roll good-naturedly, looking happy but exhausted from the long day. You’re going to have to say goodbye now.

“What happened to your family?” She asks after a moment, and you think she’s being careful with the way she says it, likely because family is a difficult topic to navigate in general around some of the children hanging on her and begging for her attention. “Have you been in touch with them? If not, I’m sure you can come back with us. It’ll be late by the time we get there, but at least you’ll be safe.”

You open your mouth to automatically decline her offer, knowing Din is still in the crowded city looking for you and wanting to stay where there’s lots of people.

But then… well, he would expect you to do that, wouldn’t he?

There’s more people here. More danger, but better places to hide. It’s the obvious choice, it’s the one that makes the most logical sense. But you’d also be completely alone and you’re assuming the only reason he hasn’t snatched you up yet—which you know he could’ve done multiple times by now, is likely because you’re with a group of innocent foundlings, moody teenagers, and very stern older women. He probably doesn’t realize you’ve told them about him and the kid, though you were slightly vague on the details.

It’s also a little over three hours to get back, but you’re banking on it being closer to four with how whiney and tired some of the small voices sound, others sounding like they’re an enormous sugar rush contained into a tiny little capsule. Would he have the gall to try and get you right from under their noses? Will he even know you left the city, or will he assume you made the smartest decision possible and simply account for it ahead of time? No, you're overthinking it, just make a decision and stick with it.

“There’s also free food,” Naydee shrugs while you’re still considering, but… well, that settles that. Almost three days of friendship and she already knows exactly how to win you over in the end. Sustenance for your empty tummy, an escort the entire way there, and heavily guarded walls beyond. Din will have to get creative in response—you flaunted your imagination for days, coming up with dozens of evasion tactics to outlast him, but this one just seems… incredibly practical. Exploiting a weakness of his—isolating it, having it be reinforced by precedent, and then taking advantage of it. You bet he’ll catch on, but still, it’ll make it more difficult for him, and you’re grasping at straws to hang on just a little longer.

“I…” Quick, come up with something. You clear your throat. “The city is too crowded, I haven’t been able to find them. I could just… tell them where I’m headed and see if they can find me along the way?”

Naydee smiles and nods. “Sounds perfect.”

Yet, the entire walk back… you keep thinking you’re going to feel Din trailing behind you, waiting to feel the nerves twist in your tummy and your palms to sweat, but you don’t. You keep glancing over your shoulder and then down at your wrist, needing to talk yourself out of addressing him through the comm to let him know exactly what the plan is. You like maintaining a sense of secrecy from the new characters you’ve met on your adventures—Naydee, Karga, Peli—almost everyone you’ve been introduced to, you found a way to find a subtle enjoyment in hiding certain things from them. But with Din, you don’t have any walls. They crumbled nearly a full year ago when he silently pushed a cauterizer in your hand and took his armor off for you, and you’ve felt the inexplicable need to bare yourself to him in return ever since. It would be to your extreme detriment to do it now, but you still have to fight the urge.

Even if you don’t feel him following, you still find yourself acting like he is. Constantly turning back to double check the road behind you, drifting off in the middle of shallow, distant conversations with tiny foundlings who can’t tell the difference, keeping towards the middle of the pack this time to avoid being picked off towards the back. The belltower at the orphanage is loud and will ring for quite a distance, so your timing has to be utterly pristine for this to all work out. You eye your comm the entire way there, trying to stall just the right amount to avoid any realizations or fall into any traps he may be setting for you.

You eventually leave the city walls far behind you, and now you have no clue where he is. You lost him, and maybe that’s why you feel your heart beat insanely fast the whole time. He could be anywhere now. Behind you, adjacent, parallel—you can’t decide where to look, but it keeps you wide awake and focused while the group tiredly travels back to the temple.

***

Day 5–11:32pm:

You can see it in the distance, the brick buildings slowly coming into view. One might think your stress would have worked itself out by now, been brought back to a manageable level after four hours of walking, but you’ve been on red alert for the past hour or so. Any movement or rustle that doesn’t come from the sleepy children or exhausted caretakers, you’re on top of it, snapping your attention to the offending tree or animal and not being able to relax even after affirming it’s just nature, it’s not shiny metal bounding after you in the darkness, ready to take you down.

The infants are all likely snoozing away in the nursery, and the Sister who volunteered to stay behind and look after them comes to greet the group at the gate as you approach. Like always, two Brothers open the iron bars to allow you inside, and you feel the anxiety dig its claws into your tummy. If Din is going to get you, this is the very last moment to do it. These walls are guarded and you’re nervous for him, you’re nervous for yourself—you’re just fucking nervous. Jumpy and worried, not being able to pinpoint him anymore and feeling all the more anxious because of it.

It doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right about this, but you can’t figure out specifically what’s wrong. This was the exact plan, this was a way for you to just survive these last few hours and yet, it doesn’t feel right that you actually succeeded in doing so. It doesn’t make sense that he’d allow you to return all the way here, especially when he was close enough to touch you earlier. Din has had so much time to snatch you up, so many opportunities to lure you away, confront you—anything to catch you, and he hasn’t done it yet. Why? Either you truly did escape and he has no idea where you are, which doesn’t feel right, or he’s choosing not to get you for whatever reason, which also doesn’t feel right. What’s he waiting for? You can’t have won. It was all too fucking easy, you’re expecting to see him around every single corner because he should be there, he shouldn’t have allowed this to happen.

When someone gently touches your elbow, you’re so on edge that you nearly whip around in surprise.

“Sorry!” Naydee immediately apologizes, taking her hand back to lift her hood and remove the mask covering her face. “Didn’t mean to scare you! I was just going to say that the commissary is still open,” she offers, and you watch the small group of hungry teenagers break off from the group to make their way there. “It’s going to take awhile to get the children ready for bed, so we’ll be in the dormitories if you need to sleep. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll see you again.”

You stare at her and blink a few times, trying to readjust your focus. She’s your new friend, she just said this was likely the last time you’ll see each other, but you can’t stop thinking about Din. Imagine he’s hours away in the city right now, still looking for you. You’re trying to evaluate your priorities here, but you truthfully never expected to get this far. Inside the gates, surrounded by brick buildings and silent guards. You know your way around here, you know hiding spots, you know how to outlast—it’s incredibly advantageous for you to be inside these walls. What is he doing?

Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you give Naydee a quick hug and she happily accepts it. “I’m sure we’ll meet again at some point.”

She smiles and nods, pulling back and letting a couple grumpy foundlings catch her robes and yank on them impatiently. The loud group eventually disappears into the dorms, and the door shutting behind them cuts off the tired crying and chatty voices determined to stay awake, leaving you in silence that feels slightly unfamiliar after going without it for so long.

Fuck, you just need to breathe. As soon as the dead quiet grips the air around you, you realize you need to relax. You’re way too fucking wound up; you want to bolt at the smallest thing and the sudden silence of being alone multiplies it to the point where you have to remind yourself of its importance. Breathe. Focus. There’s about fifteen minutes before the bells ring, fifteen more minutes and the chase will be all over.

Can you eat? You thought you’d want to, but you think you’re too fucking antsy. You can’t stay here alone, that’s for sure, but you also don’t want to be around all the children right now. The commissary will have a handful of people wandering around, teens snacking and maybe a Brother or two standing guard. It’s the best place to wait the clock out, so you make your way there. The gentle breeze billows around your loose robes, your pantlegs swishing as you walk.

A few minutes later, you’ve got a plate of food in front of you but your mask is still up, and you’re just sitting there. Towards the back of the large room, sitting by yourself at one of the tables and staring down at your communicator. Five minutes. You have five fucking minutes left before he finds you. Can you feel him? Is he closing in?

You sit up a bit straighter, taking a deep breath. Focus on that feeling from earlier. The presence in your chest, the weight that didn’t used to be there months ago—focus on that feeling and branch it outwards. Can you feel him?

Something catches your eye.

Or no… it doesn’t, does it? Nothing is out of place here, nothing is visibly wrong or amiss. The only thing that’s changed from all the times before is how dark it is through the windows, and how there are only a few kids in here grabbing a midnight snack instead of being packed like usual. Nothing else.

But there’s… there’s an acolyte in the far corner, standing guard with his back to the wall. It’s not his presence that gives you pause—you expected him to be here, there’s always been at least one present whenever you’ve sat down to eat. He doesn’t look any different from the rest of the Brothers you’ve passed by this evening or the days before—tall, silent, dark brown robes, hooded and mysterious—so why do you suddenly feel yourself break out into a cold sweat as soon as your eyes land on him?

Bubbling laughter and chatter echoes through the large room from one of the tables near the entrance—seven teenagers stuffing their faces with food and sharing animated conversation with each other now that it’s late and they’re alone—but your stomach twists and your fingers start to tremble as you slowly rise from your seat in the back. You want to keep your head down and be casual but it’s impossible, you desperately need to keep looking at that silent guard in particular and your heart kicks up in your chest—

—and then it wrenches sideways when you’re carefully backing away from the table and the offending acolyte takes a single step forwards.

Run. Everything in you screams for you to run, and it’s rarely done that before, but you can’t. Not yet, you don’t want to draw attention, and the logical part of your mind rages against your gut instinct to haul ass. He’s here—of course he is, the thought screams through your veins as you try to weave quickly in between tables, feeling light on your toes and readying yourself to run as soon as you can. The dark figure seems to find a careful pace behind you, staying just far enough behind and walking in perfect silence, and you have so many fucking questions but you can’t even think a single thing beyond run away, run away. Where’s the kid? How did he get those robes? Did he actually take his helmet off just to get to you in a room where anyone could confront him?

Your feet propel you forward as soon as you make it out of the door, you break out into a sprint—just flat out bolting because you know how fucking fast he is and you need as big a headstart as you can get.

You race down the stairs and through the courtyard, the beautiful surroundings contrasting drastically with the way you’re running for your fucking life through them. It’s not beautiful to you right now; you feel clumsy and physically unable to move fast enough no matter how quick you go, your eyes are wide and every nerve is on fire and you can’t even tell if he’s behind you anymore with how silently he moves, but you just trust that he is and keep barreling forward. Your breath puffs against the clinging fabric of your mask as you keep sprinting, willing your legs to pump faster. Get to the belltower at least, get to where you have the smallest chance of being caught by the people who guard this place.

As soon as you allow yourself to even conceive the possibility, two Brothers in dark hooded robes suddenly turn the corner a little ways in front of you and your reaction time is perfect—you jerk to a halt and take a single step forward as soon as they spot you. Since your momentum already committed you to it, you just have to walk, keep your head down, move directly past them and hope Din disappeared from behind you in time.

Step, step, step��keep going, control your breathing, you’re okay, you’re allowed to be up late tonight and they shouldn’t stop you. Walk right by… Stars, you feel their silent stares as you casually pass, and it just feels so cold and analytical compared to the kind of danger Din is gives off when dressed in the exact same clothing. He’s hard and tangible and an unrelenting force, where they just feel like ghosts that haunt this place. The threat they present is impersonal and detached, but the terror currently chasing after you is so real that he can read your mind.

You wipe the sweat from your brow as soon as you turn the corner, and your feet are already starting to speed up on their own knowing you’re out of their sight. Run, get to the belltower before Din does, you can see it standing tall about a hundred feet away. The stairs leading to the door come closer and closer, but you hear something behind you and it propels you faster. It’s like you can feel him right at your heels even though you haven’t seen him, snapping at your ankles even though your footsteps are the only ones you can hear anymore.

You scramble up the stairs and close the door behind you, spinning around and facing it even as you slowly retreat backwards into the moonlit tower, trying to stay quiet. Breathing through your nose, eyes shifting around the enclosed space, continuing to back up and away from the door. Where is he? There are so many windows that allow you to look outside, but why can’t you spot his movement through them? Wasn’t he right behind you?

Behind you.

There’s no reason or logic at all to it; you just react. Spinning around and throwing a mean punch.

Din jerks back just in time to miss it, twisting and dodging at the very last second to avoid your next few hits—but… things seem to slow down, even if they’re happening so fast. The moonlight cascades through the dozens of windows lining the circular walls and it shines just enough to reveal small glimpses of him. With every aggressive strike from you, you see something else—you see a flash of his chin when you try to uppercut, you aim for his chest and you see a bit of his jaw. When you go for his jaw, he steps sideways and catches your wrist, and you see the bend of his nose catch the light this time.

But then it’s like he finally figures out that you’re actually fighting him, and now he’s coming for you. Trained and ruthless, not weighed down by any armor and lightning quick, launching perfectly aimed attacks that you’re only able to avoid from reaction and muscle memory alone. You block or move whenever he strikes, you attack whenever you see an opening, you sidestep at the same time he does—

Until you land a spin kick directly to the center of his chest and snap your leg to shove him back, your heel smashing into that soft spot right above his stomach with dead precision and brute force. He exhales sharply and takes a few more steps back to steady himself while you pause to catch your breath.

Din abruptly comes back and you fall into it with him again, keeping a sharp rhythm with each other that’s faster, harder, and way more real than any sparring match you’ve ever shared. The hours and days in hyperspace you spent practicing with him are but a fraction of what he’s throwing at you right now, the combinations so rapid and blurred that you just have to trust your knowledge of him and his movement through the dark.

But then, your downfall. Bells begin ringing an earsplittingly familiar melody above you, and it shatters your concentration—you falter just as he grabs you and sweeps your feet out, and though you know how to get out of that, you’re not quick enough on the jump nor counterswing to prevent it. He takes you to the ground, hard, and then your wrists are being pinned together above your head and your mask is being tugged down.

Din’s mouth on yours makes you want to cry.

The whole thing is like coming home. You spent a week surrounded by strangers and having them call you by a name not given to you, fending for yourself, and now here he is. Someone who knows who you really are, someone that wants to care for you. Tears come to your eyes even as they're pressed tightly shut, and Din kisses you like he’s never known anything else. His mouth fits to yours as if the Maker made your lips before ever considering the rest of you, his bare hand clutching your jaw and forcing you to open for him, letting him lick deep inside after going so many days without it. It might feel dominant and overwhelming if it happened to any other person, but through it, you can also taste his desperation and weakness, how soft he is even when he’s squeezing your jaw and squishing your wrists together too tightly.

Rigid steel that bends only for your touch.

He pulls back and your heart throbs at how moonlight continues to bathe just the smallest glimpses of him under the hood—never the full thing, never the whole face, but enough. The quiet light that brushes the arch of his nose, how it bathes the hard line of his jaw so that you can barely see his scruff when he turns his head the right way. His eyes are hidden in near darkness but there’s the faintest glimmer where they should be, and it’s the closest you’ve ever been to looking at him without the helmet. You can see him, you can see shadows of his chin, his neck—dear stars, his fucking neck. You’re pinned and paralyzed under him and the ringing bells, yet you feel like you just might float if he wasn’t holding you so tight to the floor.

“Where’s the baby?” You finally lift your chin and ask, needing to raise your voice over the melody clanging loud throughout the tower.

“Making friends,” Din pants back down at you, and… stars, then you just start giggling. Adrenaline turning into pure joy, imagining the kid wreaking havoc with all the other babies in the nursery right now. It feels more light and airy than anything your body should know.

“What are you so happy about?” He asks, swallowing and then continuing on with the same quick gasps. “You lost, I caught you in time.”

“Did you?” You drop your head to the brick floor and ask, biting your lip as he stares back down at you. Suddenly—

—Bong—

Din holds utterly still over you while you take a quick breath and wait for the next eleven bells…

…but then break into a slow grin up at him when nothing but utter silence follows.

There’s a moment. Just a single moment where the cogs turn rapidly under that shadowy hood, one where the faint reflection of light in his eyes flickers down to the communicator on your wrist that says midnight and back to you, one that solidifies the longer it takes for another bell to ring. It’s not going to.

One o’clock.

You think he puts it together. The one moment he was never able to figure you out—when you tried reprogramming the comms just a few days ago. The one trick up your sleeve that you resigned to throw away and almost forget about because the circumstances for pulling it off were never realistic. Fuck with the electronics and set the clock back just one hour—all you’d need to do is reset his communicator, the timecode is synced together. He told you before that it’s connected to his helmet, but all the buttons still work. Rapid, panicky thinking and a wild surge of bravery in the face of certain downfall is the only reason you were able to pull it off, and you’re perfectly willing to admit you just got lucky… especially when he’s still holding dead still over you.

But then Din moves so suddenly. You can’t account for it because there’s no build-up whatsoever—it’s so fast, you yelp while he grabs your knees and throws them both to one side. You flop over sideways and large hands reach up under the draping length of your tunic to yank your pants down over the curve of your ass, before he’s fitting his palm up between your legs and pushing two thick fingers inside you.

Your head thunks back against brick with how unexpected and merciless it is, but his other hand is grabbing your jaw and twisting, forcing you to look up, stare right into the dark shadow under the loose cowl. The whole thing is too overwhelming—you’re trying to keep quiet but your breathing feels like thunder crashing inside this tall, echoing chamber. He’s touched you so many times, he knows exactly how to do it by now, but it feels like so much more than that. Probably because you can see the way Din’s mouth silently falls open as he feels you, stretching his fingers up and hooking them tight inside. You can tell when he closes his eyes, the smallest glint slowly disappearing into nothingness while the hand around your jaw blindly moves up. It catches your chin and lips, and then two fingers push over the bottom edge of your teeth to slip into your mouth.

Your entire leg twitches and jerks while you lay sideways on the ground and open up for him, your neck twisted at a sharp angle to keep your eyes on him and his fingers in your mouth, giving you something to bite to stop making noise. Din makes room for himself inside you two different ways, and you just choke on his fingers and try to stay quiet, praying he’ll go deeper.

But then you’re not expecting his whole fucking arm to start moving the way it does—oh fuck, what is that? First you just feel jostled and displaced, but then suddenly a wicked, deep, burning pleasure starts to roar through you, radiating outwards from the rapid motion of just two fingers inside you. It’s not in and out, it’s up and down so hard and quick against your g-spot that your eyes cross and your hands go numb.

You think you grab at him, clutch onto his arm or chest and open your mouth to moan at the new and overwhelming sensation, but his hand pushes up against your chin and closes it for you, the bend of his fingers caught hard between your teeth but you don’t think he cares.

“Quiet,” Din hisses the word down at you while his arm continues to work, your toes starting to curl as the feeling overwhelms you. Fuck, what is happening, what is happening? It’s like he’s just shoving unfamiliar sensation at you so forcefully that you can’t even think straight anymore, not even ten seconds in. You can only feel the pleasure, fire blurring hot and shapeless through your entire body as your eyes clamp shut, his fingers isolating that perfect spot and stimulating it directly, relentlessly.

Something dull and white hot presses up tight against all the muscles you have down there and you’re almost afraid of how strong it is. You gasp and choke and he has to take his fingers out of your mouth and just clamp down around your entire jaw, sealing the whole thing shut with his large hand. And then Din’s fingers leave your pussy too—and stars, you should be embarrassed by how desperately it clamps around nothing for as long as it does. He’s not even inside you anymore but your body is on such a delay from the hot, twisting pleasure, and he doesn’t put them back in until your muscles are finished spasming.

Everything comes back full force as soon as he starts moving again. Noise starts to come from your throat, humming in your vocal cords to deal with the arcing, swirling build, and so Din just moves his hand there instead. He finds where it’s vibrating from your neck and he pushes up against it, trapping the sound right at the source. He’s fucking perfect at it for some reason… how many times must he have done this to know how to cut noise out without stopping airflow? You clutch at his wrist and silently mouth his name, feeling his arm work between your legs—faster, faster, harder, pushing you higher, higher—

Din pulls his fingers out again and this time, one of your thighs suddenly feels warm and wet while you spasm and you hear him growl out a ragged, “Fuck yes.” Everything is sparks zapping through you long after his touch is gone, you cry out but it’s all trapped under Din’s expert grip. His fingers soon push back inside you and you dig your nails into his forearm, your sounds muffled and quiet enough to hear his raspy groan.

“Let me see it again,” Din breathes, his arm starting to work up and down once more, and you don’t even know what he’s talking about anymore. What does he want to see? You losing your mind again? Being reduced to an utter mess in front of his shadowy but unobstructed gaze just because you managed to pull one over on him?

Fucking… apparently. It’s what happens, after all. You’ve never seen him like this before; whenever he’s worked up and taking it out on you, there was always something in it for him, too. He’d hammer into you and rock your world until his eventually shattered, and then you’d both lay exhausted afterwards, equally affected and satisfied. This isn’t like that—this is just cruel, targeted retribution on his behalf, coaxing the molten pleasure out of you with his fingers and keeping his other hand locked around your throat. You blink helplessly up at him, your vision starting to blur by the time he leans down to whisper to you.

“I missed you, sweet girl. Did you miss me?” It’s so soft and quiet compared to the strength and relentlessness of his movements. You can’t speak even if you wanted to, but when he finally pulls away to yank his hand out and you feel all your muscles automatically flex outwards and push against the sudden emptiness inside you, his voice groans long and satisfied while your thighs get wet again “Yeah you did,” he breathes, pushing your shaky legs to the brick with his hand and watching you struggle through the aftershocks.

Did you just cum? You don’t even know, that’s how fucked up you are right now. The whole thing felt like an orgasm from the very beginning, just a boiling hot tornado ripping through every single cell in your body, never really having a peak. If you didn’t cum, then why do you feel so weak? You feel heavy, your limbs don’t work properly, and you barely even register Din pulling at the fabric of his own robes until he fits himself up against your entrance.

When you do realize it, though… your body burns with it, wrecked already but wanting him to take what he wants from you.

“Oh, plea—” you gasp but you don’t even have enough time to get the full sentence out. He’s already pushing his hips forward, pressing you tight into the ground and opening you up after what feels like a fucking eternity without him. It’s the hottest, slickest welcome you could give him, you hear it in the whispered curse his lips brush up under your ear, the wet noises your body makes that get louder the longer you hold the moan in your throat and bury your head into his shoulder. He throbs thick and perfect inside your tight, spasming cunt, stretching you and smacking the rough ground near your head with how fucking good it is to be back, finally, finally—

Your hands grab uselessly at his chest while you try to acclimate, try to breathe while you’re blind with sensation. It’s so fitting for him, isn’t it? That your reunion should be just as physically debilitating as it is mentally. Din’s voice scrapes on a groan like he’s dragging it across the brick ground as quiet as he can, catching when you clamp down on him and shuddering when you clamp down harder. That’s just it—you don’t ever loosen, you just keep tightening and tightening around him, threatening to break and cum again.

This feels different from before, though. It’s deep, purposefully so. His hand reaches up to push the fabric of your hood back, lifting himself up over your body and wanting to start as deep as he can. You feel him in a place you’d never be able to reach and that’s just the beginning—that’s before he starts thrusting into you, hitting a dull sensation at the apex of each movement so hard that it becomes sharp. His hips don’t make practically any sound smacking into you because they don’t really smack, they just rock downwards and fuck you into the floor without needing to pull out really at all. You know he’s just trying to keep it as quiet as possible, but what he lacks in speed and agility he makes up in power.

You don’t even realize you’re making too much noise until a palm wraps tight around your mouth and the room gets a little emptier. Din keeps you all to himself on the floor, silencing as much as he’s working you up, smothering as much as he’s freeing you. There’s no easing up, no dragging it out, no gradual build or climb—it’s just there all of a sudden, pleasure and pain pummeling you all at once, engulfing you in flames.

You reach up to grab at the loose fabric of the hood over his face, catching a fistful of it before his hand suddenly snatches your shaky wrist and pins it back to the ground.

Maker, you forgot—oh, you completely forgot about how many people could find you right now if they ever decided to look in the right place. You’re not in hyperspace; your body is rocking against rough brick, you’re probably going to have a lump on the back of your head from how terrible you are at trying to map out heaven while holding still. He’s pinned down what he can with one hand; your fingers are the only things that can move besides how tight you can curl your toes, but you feel your moans turn into words against his palm. They garble indistinctly and you’re not really even sure what you’re saying, but Din decides it’s worth hearing.

“Shh,” he whispers, slowly lifting his hand from your mouth. “Shh, tell me—”

“W-wanna look,” you hear yourself whimper, trying your best to keep quiet but wanting to scream it while he fucks you hard and slow on the ground, “—I wanna see, I wanna look at you—”

“Fuck,” Din gasps, and though his grip tightens on your wrist and you know he can’t do it right this second, the words seem like they shatter something inside him, “Keep—oh fuck, please, k-keep saying…”

“I want to marry you,” you nearly whine for him, feeling his hips kick up rapidly and start hammering in and out, in and out, in and—“I want to see your face, I wanna be yours, I don’t want anyone else to know you the way I-I—”

You think he drops his head into your neck to muffle his own sounds. Though they start out rough and quiet and indiscernible, but they gradually become louder as he repeats himself over and over again, growling and fucking you rough. You only catch it on the peak, when he pulls his mouth away from your skin and gasps them raggedly one last time.

“—ve you—I l-love y—”

He kisses you to stop himself. But it’s not really a kiss, it’s more desperate than that. Though it’s beautiful, it’s beautiful in a different light. It’s not rejoicing at having you back with him once again; it’s a last prayer begging you to stay by his side forever. He loves you. He gives it everything—it feels even more concrete and simple than taking the hood off him and revealing his face would. You told you that you'd know him without ever seeing him, and you did. You picked him out and found him when absolutely nothing was giving him away, and this feels like a manifestation of that. Even if you’re not in a place where he can show you his face, his beautiful brown eyes, something still feels like it changes. He loves you. You gasp into his mouth and his tongue sinks deep into yours, tenacious and brave and unyielding.

When you finally cum, you almost bite him on accident.

Everything surges hot and molten while he pulls back and keeps fucking you through it, and you can’t tell where you’re touching him anymore, just that his skin is blazing hot under your hand and he feels like everything the armor isn’t. He loves you. You’re looking into his eyes right now. You can’t see any of the details, not really, but the moonlight flickers like silent stars moving through dark depths, staring right back at you and giving you an anchor for the euphoria rocketing through you. He loves you. Your nails dig in sharp and slowly drag downwards, scratching hard red lines into whatever thick muscle that is—

The back of his neck, making his hips stutter and when he cums for you, he does bite.

You lift your head just in time to feel his teeth catch your chin instead of your mouth, and his entire body shakes while you keep dragging your nails down the side of his neck and his throat. Din fucking lives for it, he releases you and arches into the pain and owns your marks like he wishes you made them deeper, stretching his neck and lifting his chin into the moonlight and—

Maker. You can see it, with direct light, you can see more of it than ever before. You can see his soft lips and white teeth gritting the sound of your name as quietly as he can, the dark facial hair dusting across the lower half of his face. A fucking gorgeous jawline and throat extended long over you, flexing hard with his cock pulsing inside you. You can just barely see the bottom of his nose from under the brown hood, the dark curls brushing up under his ears.

Stars, you still never see his eyes, the fabric of his hood acts like a blindfold draped over them, but you think you cum again. Even if it’s on accident, it’s mean—Din tries to keep from squishing you and his hand pushes down hard against your lower tummy while he shoves his hips deep one last time, and you cum while staring at half of his face in the moonlight. Completely lovestruck.

How can he be this beautiful when you’ve only seen fractions of him? You have everything but the eyes now, everything but the most mysterious thing about him, the reflection into his deepest self, but you feel like you’re hypnotized by every single feature you do see. His tongue coming out to wet his lips, the vein pulling under his sharp jaw—he’s gorgeous, he’s gorgeous, and your body agrees. It shakes and shudders under him and eventually, Din finishes and you keep looking as his chin slowly lowers, face disappearing into the shadow once more.

Stars. He’s so handsome and no one has ever told him, fucking dreamy and the biggest grump you’ve ever met. Without being able to see him, you already want to reach your hands out and touch him, drag your nails through his scruff and force him to extend outwards into the moonlight again for you. Whenever he does end up showing you his face, you know right fucking now that you’ll never be able to look away. For the rest of your life, you’ll be staring at him, apologizing blankly for your rudeness but not feeling sorry at all.

Din leans down and gives you a slow, gentle kiss, finally relaxing into a slouch and breathing hard with the effort it took to shatter you with pleasure.

“The kid is with the other foundlings,” he whispers against your lips. “You… you’ll have to go get him, I need to grab my armor.”

You squeeze around his cock, pulling at the fabric of his robes and ignoring him for just a second. He fucked you in robes belonging to one of the guards and nobody has mentioned it, you need to say something. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it,” he tells you after a moment, kissing up under your jaw. Oh fucking Maker, he feels so good and perfect inside you, shoulders so broad and crowding you on the floor, and his lips are plush and hot, brushing and fitting your skin like it’s just an extension of his own. “Some guy was wearing it.”

It takes you a second.

“Mando,” you suddenly gasp in quiet horror, pushing at his chest and trying your best to detach his mouth from your throat. It’s so much more difficult than it needs to be, but you eventually succeed. “What did you do to him? Where is he?”

He lifts his neck up just the tiniest bit, turning his face towards yours under the hood and holding still for way too fucking long. He’s too close to see the expression he’s making, but you know the tone of his silence. He’s in trouble and he knows it before you do.

“Ma—”

“They’re in a closet,” he admits at the very same time, completely monotone.

You don’t know which word to emphasize. A fucking closet? They’re? Plural? Instead of stressing any particular word, you decide not to do it at all and it ends up just coming out in the same exact blank tone as him. “They're in a closet.”

“Inside the Temple,” Din continues on when you lay still as a statue underneath him. His head slowly dips down once more, pushing his hips against you just the slightest bit to make you remember the cock still inside you instead. Your eyelashes flutter with it—fuck, focus—“I didn’t know there’d be more than two.” He kisses your neck so gently. “It was an accident.”

You don’t say anything at all, your mouth pinching down at the corners because it should but your heartbeat galloping with how… fucking sexy he is. You shouldn’t encourage this, this horrible behavior just to get close enough to catch you, but your curiosity overtakes you and you ask a question you’ve asked yourself before. “Did they put up a fight?”

“Mm,” he whispers noncommittally, rocking his hips down once more. “You did.” Your nails dig into his chest, making him falter just slightly before slowly kissing your neck again. “Did so good. Fought hard, outsmarted me. Pretty fucking girl.”

And then your eyes pop open as you feel it. His cock suddenly beginning to harden once again inside you, twitching and gradually gaining a thicker shape, and for a moment, you actually fucking consider it. He’s the only one in this galaxy that could not only ruin you on these sacred grounds, but then coax you into doing it more than once—stars, are you actually considering it?

“We can’t,” you automatically tell him, but it’s fucking pitiful. Zero effort, absolutely no umph behind it, leaving it entirely up to him and how much he wants it. Your logic reminds you that the kid is probably wreaking havoc in the nursery and there are tied up guards in the fucking temple that could be discovered any second. You shouldn’t have even let him fuck you here in the first place, but… “Mando, we can’t—”

His mouth opens against the crook of your neck and his tongue brushes velvet hot on your skin, tasting the glistening sweat there and not moving his broad figure a single inch over you besides getting closer, deeper. Your nails dig into his collarbone, aiming for reason one last time. It’s apparent that you’d be better off rephrasing, knowing the challenging streak in him and how much telling him what to do doesn't help.

“It’s not a good idea,” you attempt instead, breathless and trying not to move under his mouth and lazy hips. “Not smart. Bad idea to fuck again.”

Din’s body stops moving, even though he keeps getting harder. His jaw opens and then his teeth scrape softly against your flesh, making you tilt your neck back and gasp.

“Later,” he lifts his head to state aloud, committing it to truth now that it’s been spoken and heard by another person. “Later, I’ll fuck you on the ship, in our bed, when I can get you naked and have your taste in my mouth.”

Tingles rock through your body and you squeeze around his cock just as he pulls it out and tucks it back into his pants. Your lungs quiver when you inhale—it’s shaky, but it reminds you of how long it’s been since you’ve been able to breathe correctly.

“Later,” you finally agree, combing your fingers through your hair and glad you have this hood to cover your freshly fucked dishevelment. He came inside you and you don’t want to be leaking and getting your nice pretty robes all wet and stained, but then of course, without any prompting, Din quickly scoots back on his knees and drops his head down to take care of it for you.

***

Commotion.

After Din helped you clean up the way he sometimes likes and then disappeared to change back into his armor, you put your mask and hood back on and tried to look as casual as possible walking to the nursery. Your knees wobbled slightly and you couldn’t stop smiling under the mask the entire walk there, but when you arrived, you just saw a dim room with sleeping infants—not what you were expecting. Soon, however, you hear it: down the hall, distant and coming from the dormitories, you hear a loud commotion.

Fuck, you’re nearly wincing with every step you take now, and not because you’re sore. Well, you… are, a little bit, but in a great way. No, you’re just dreading the ridiculous shinanigans you already know are well underway, wondering if Din actually dropped the kid off in the dorms from the beginning or if he somehow migrated his way there to cause trouble.

When you walk inside, the first thing you see is a handful of crying and shouting toddlers, and while you can’t immediately spot your favorite floppy-eared monster, you don’t have to see him to know he’s probably standing tiny directly in the middle of this tense showdown. Automatically, you’re taking a few steps forward to rescue him, but then you stop as soon as you see what the other babies are so mad about. A large piece of chocolate leftover from the festival levitating just beyond their pitiful little reaches.

Hm. Who could possibly be responsible for using demon powers to steal snacks and hold them hostage from a sizeable group of hostile children. A mystery that may never be solved.

It makes you take a second. The sheer… the… stars, you can’t even think straight—how fucking typical it is just hits you right in the chest, sends your heart into orbit. Of course. Of course this is what he’s gotten himself into without immediate supervision, of course this is the shipwreck you’d walk into, and you’re holding back a chuckle before making a single move to intervene. In the midst of everything, you can hear adults approaching distantly from behind you.

“—don’t know where it came from, I was helping the younglings into bed when I heard the ruckus and I—”

The voices gradually grow louder, and you snatch the floating piece of candy out of thin air and whip around right before Sister Drya and Naydee walk in. Their hushed, concerned conversation is cut to an abrupt end, and you clear your throat as they take you in, standing in front of chaos central continuing to go off behind you. Do you… look as freshly disheveled as you are? You’re not supposed to be here, you know, but hopefully the only strange thing is your presence itself and not anything concerning your appearance.

“Nerida,” the older lady suddenly announces, the name alone holding so much expectation, and the younglings missing their candy have now turned their ire towards you and the crinkly food wrapper hidden in your fist. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Ah, yeah,” you stand up a little straighter, letting the chocolate casually fall out of your grip behind you, and a stampede of feet suddenly kick up to recover it. It’s fine, nobody will know, it’s fine. “It’s just…” Your head tips behind you to the cause of the uproar, feeling a bit sheepish yet so incredibly fond. “My… kid.”

Sister Drya stares at you for a few seconds, before tipping sideways and staring at the culprit. “That is your child?”

You turn around just in time to see him, now abandoned by the angry mob of children, finally notice you. All of a sudden, his pitch black eyes light up something bright and sunshiney, and you just start beaming in return. What an adorable little creature, apple of your eye and pain of your ass.

“Yep,” you sigh, dropping into a squat and watching him barrel towards you, catching him right before he can trip over his brown potato sack and scooping him up into your arms. “Hiya, bug,” you murmur with a grin, lifting back up and plopping him in his favorite spot in the universe—your left hip. “You making friends?”

He giggles and it’s like sparkles and bubbles fill the room instead, wrapping tiny arms around the largest surface area he can get and clinging. He laughs with a tiny open mouth, bless him, clearly not understanding the sarcasm, and suddenly your eyes feel just the slightest bit wet. No, you’re not crying, don’t be fucking ridiculous, but you missed him like hell and he’s just the cutest fucking thing—why do you feel like crying?

“Sorry about that,” you apologize to the two women while slowly turning around, brushing your thumb over one of his cheeks and smiling as it squishes. “He’s… uh. Not great at sharing. We’ll work on it.”

Takes after his dad, you purposefully leave out, just a different kind of sharing. Din hasn’t shown you his full face yet and the kid performs magic tricks to taunt a roomful of children a fraction of his age for a single piece of chocolate, completely different kind of sharing.

Sister Drya says something in response, but when you look up to address her, all you see is Din standing silently behind her and Naydee, slowly dropping his hand from his helmet to his side. They don’t seem to notice he’s there and you automatically try your best to pay attention to the Sister speaking to you, but your eyes get caught on the silver reflecting in the dim light beyond. Fuck, he’s a presence. An immediate distraction, taking all your focus with a single glimpse. Seeing him fully armored again, staring at you from the silent shadows behind everything… you melt a little bit, knowing that you’ve seen more of what’s underneath than anyone. Your shoulders settle and your entire body burns warm, wobbly like the air around a fire, and one of the kid’s hands leaves you to reach out towards his dad.

You watch the metallic helmet tilt sideways after a moment, saying everything without saying anything. Come on, make up an excuse, let’s get out of here.

Looking at him in the quiet shadows, you’re reminded once again about how much you love him, how much softness you have inside you for a man so hard, so guarded. And, for the first time, a voice in your head finishes a poem you didn’t realize you were writing, adding its own verse and bringing everything back around to the beginning. He loves you, too. How much he lets his guard down for you, the way he’s revealed more of his face to you than not. You love each other. You’re family.

So, all at once, you decide to mess with him, because that’s what family does best.

“Don’t be shy, come say hello,” you suddenly urge his silent figure, taking a step forward and speaking directly to him. “Sister Drya, Naydee, I’d like to introduce you to my—”

It’s remarkable, you see it happen in front of you. Like he has powers of his own, Din just literally fucking disappears. Like magic, he’s nowhere to be found within a blink of an eye. You know he’s capable of it; he’s done it plenty of times during the chase just to fuck with your head, but you’re staring straight at him when it happens this time and it might just be the funniest fucking thing you’ve ever seen him do.

Sister Drya and Naydee both turn around to an empty hallway bathed in shadows and you laugh. A deep, shameless, loud belly laugh. Where the fuck did he go so quick? You were staring straight at him and you have no fucking clue. He’s just out, and you’re left alone with his child and the unspoken understanding that he’ll just catch up with you later.

You’re giggling even as you shake your head and give the women your genuine thanks for keeping you and feeding you these past few days, grabbing your backpack with all your belongings and eventually using three green fingers to wave goodbye to them. The very first thing Din says when he seamlessly joins you outside the Keja later is, “That wasn’t funny,” which just makes you laugh harder.

***

About a half hour has passed, and you’re walking along a dirt road, cradling a very happy baby in your arms and giving the grown man next to you an incredibly hard time.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, your back twinging slightly at the way you’re leaning about as sideways as you can get without falling over. You think you’re basically just the hypotenuse between the ground and Din, who easily supports almost your entire weight with your backpack slung around his far shoulder and readily allows you to rest against him.

“They’re fine,” he grumbles in response, squeezing you tight to his side. You just have to focus on moving your feet; it’s like he’s practically carrying your upper-half anyways. “I gave them the night off.”

“You stuffed them in a closet,” you hiss, feeling his shoulder shrug under your cheek.

“I gave them the robe back,” he says, not really defending himself and more just throwing it out there to see if it helps any. “I’m sure someone’s found them by now, they’re fine.”

Your eyes suddenly go wide, absolutely mortified at the thought. “Wait. What do you mean you gave the robe back?”

He shrugs once more, apparently not seeing the problem yet. “I borrowed it, so I gave it back after I put my armor back on.”

If you could plant your feet on the dirt road and screech to a halt, you would, but all your weight is already resting on him and you’re working solely off his forward movement. You just hope your tone holds the same amount of shocked disapproval your body language would’ve conveyed if you weren’t so completely attached to his hip like a parasite he adores.

“You fucked me wearing it, though.” Your voice is strangely flat, so fucking confused and horrified by the mental image of him just tossing the soiled garments haphazardly somewhere in the temple behind you, or even worse, leaving them somewhere respectful, and Din soon stops in the middle of the deserted road.

“Oh,” is all he says, emotionless and blank through the modulator. Did he not even consider this?

“I had to promise them I was a virgin just to sleep there, you know,” you admit, and you can tell that’s brand new information to him with how still he goes as you continue to lean against him. You’re getting the feeling that he probably knows a lot more about your experiences on this moon than you think he does, but can tell that this is brand new information to him. “And you locked three of their holy men in a closet, chased me across the temple grounds, fucked me in one of their robes, and then. You gave it. Back.”

Din stays perfectly silent for quite some time. You can never go back to that place, you know this for a fact. You’re banned forever now, it’s what you deserve.

Never one to be outdone but not actually having anything to say for himself, Din suddenly decides to just scoop you into his arms and boost up into the sky without a single word like an actual fucking maniac.

You squeal and damn near drop the baby because of it, but he cinches you tight to his chest and refuses to loosen with your struggle. Eventually, after you realize he’s completely locked you in and you won’t fall to your death with this poor innocent child in your arms, you glance over the shiny pauldron on his shoulder and watch the kid’s crib disappear by the abandoned road as Din takes you higher and higher.

The crib—he forgot the crib—

“D-Din,” you stammer out through the whistling air, stiff as a board. Stars, you have such a different sense of adventure than him; an explorer and a daredevil, one who gets a thrill from discovering the existence of the edge of a cliff and one who’ll take a running dive off of it without thinking twice. He’s hit with blaster fire some days, he faces down death completely fearless like it owes him one every single time, and you’re stiff as a fucking board while he carries you through the sky. It’s stunning up here, it’s exciting and wonderful, but you’re so scared that you can barely even look. He’s giving you the most fantastical view, everything your budding adventurous streak could ever ask for, and your terror is crushing. It would be different if you could hold on, but you’re responsible for not letting the baby slip through your arms and you just have to trust that he won’t let you slip through his.

You raise your voice. “Din?!”

“I won’t drop you,” he automatically reassures, and well you sure as fuck hope not, but there’s something else.

“What about the crib?” You call out over the wind whipping, tucking the baby tight to your chest and settling your hands over his ears to avoid them flapping and whacking you repeatedly in the chin.

“We’ll come back for it,” he responds, just as easily. Maker, you wish decision-making came that easy to you, that commitment and choice should be so simple as to just fly away from things on the ground and promise out loud to come back for them. You know he will, but still, his spontaneity shocks you after spending the past week thinking every decision through meticulously, and you’re taken aback by the casualness of it all while soaring through the sky, committing such spectacular feats without a single thought beyond it.

Soon—incredibly soon, which honestly kind of blows your mind—you spot Nariss glowing in the distance and then you’re flying overtop of the city, slowly dropping altitude in the middle of a quiet little side street.

Din carefully allows your feet to settle on the ground before letting go, but you still stumble a bit stupidly after flying so high without any sort of safety measure besides him, prioritizing the steadiness of the baby in your arms instead of your feet underneath you. His gloves catch at your clumsy body and pull you along with him without another word, leading you out of the quiet alley and into the middle of a beautiful, luminescent street.

What’s he doing? He seems slightly hurried, and you’re clueless but you go with it, clamoring along behind him to wherever he’s leading you.

Though, you suddenly remember one of the very last things you told him last night right before he steps up in front of a vendor.

“Caf,” Din grunts, sliding a few credits towards the man standing behind the counter. “The… biggest one you have.”

Okay, well. You could just about fucking cry.

“Y’sure?” The vendor asks skeptically, jerking his head at the large thermos behind him. He’s balding, wearing a white outfit with his eyes scrunched up and forehead sweaty, likely working all day. “It ain’t fresh. Closin’ up soon, was just about to trash it and go home.”

The helmet turns to gauge your response to the news, the sharp angles and contours looking so sleek and dangerous as they reflect the colorful lamplights, but just filling you with comfort beyond anything in the entire galaxy. He’ll take that armor off for you tonight and you’ll sleep next to him. He’ll call you by your given name, or the fond name he’s given you, and you’ll cuddle your baby on a metal floor in hyperspace with him, and all will be well. Even if he needs to leave again soon—even if you don’t get to go with him, you’ll always have these small eternities with each other, and that’s more enough for you now.

You’re completely zoned out while staring at him, and Din turns back to the vendor before you can even remember the conflict he was attempting to defer to you.

“Yeah, just empty the whole thing in there for her,” he mutters, and you want to marry him. It’s been a long week, and in your haze and delight of being with him in this gorgeous setting, your brain turns to cavewoman mush. Big man, makes me happy. Strong man, loves me, knows me. Provider, makes me feel good, protector, loves me.

Din hands you the large cup of steaming caffeine, clueless to your grunted inner monologue but knowing better than to reach out and grab the kid from your other arm. You’re just fine like this, hands full, the little frog snuggled up against your side and blinking up at your face instead of any of the shiny or glowing things around you. When you look down at him, you can see the world through his eyes—quite literally, they’re reflective and gigantic—and his father’s hand quickly finds its preferred spot on your lower back.

“Try to drink it quick,” Din advises you gruffly, pulling you snug into his side and sloshing the big cupful of piping hot liquid in your hand.

“It’s a thousand degrees,” you protest, trying to balance your three favorite things in the universe all begging for your direct attention at once. “It has to cool down.”

He gives a dismissive hm in response, and you frown even as your heart soars with how tightly he’s gripping you, how little leeway you have to even move without him. Part of you is so thrilled at being reunited with him that you consider snarking something back at him, excitement making you brave. He could probably chug boiling hot liquid in thirty seconds and doesn’t see the point in letting it sit any longer, and you could make some stupid joke about filtering it through his helmet or having a built in bendy straw but you decide to keep it to yourself.

So then you just stand there together, under stringed lights and flowers everywhere, and he waits. Holding you glued to his side, completely silent and clearly just waiting for your caf to stop steaming so threateningly in your hand so you can drink it. For some reason, the fact that he’s wanted by the New Republic doesn’t really register at this second—you’re not looking for cops, though he may be. You’re just lost in this beautiful, fancy city that’s on the edge of finally quieting down after a long day, and you’d like to see more of it with him next to you.

“Well, do you wanna just…” You ask, tilting your head around at all the vendors. “Shop around for a bit?”

“Shop… around,” Din repeats slowly, sounding the words out like they’re not common Basic. Admittedly, they do sit a bit awkward in his voice when put together like that, describing a phenomena he’s likely never even considered a thing before, but it’s so fucking pretty here and you’d like to show him something this time instead of the other way around.

“Yeah, like,” you shrug a shoulder, tipping your head in a random direction. Anywhere, you’ll go literally anywhere with him, the three of you can go explore. “Just wander around, and look at all the pretty things.”

From where you’re standing right now, you can already see glittering crystals and jewels being sold at the tent across the street, there’s a booth dedicated entirely to floral arrangements and crowns next to it, you can hear a distant quartet playing melodically in the distance and a couple is being painted by an artist on the corner. Bars are in full swing at this point, as if they weren’t all day, and even though the merchandise is all different, the multicolored tents look slightly similar when they’re underlit with multicolored lights. It’s less slightly lively than it was in the daytime, but also… more beautiful, in a sense. Muted, softer, more romantic.

“I don’t have any more credits,” Din admits casually, finally turning to look around at everything. You get the feeling that he’s just now seeing it, even after spending the entire day here. “That stale caf was the last of it.”

Money well fucking spent, you can assure him of that.

“It’s okay,” you tell him automatically, gently bumping your hip into his. “We don’t need credits, we can just look.”

So that’s what you do. Even though it’s completely not his fucking style, for the next hour or so, you just walk around downtown with him and sip your caf, looking at anything and everything new and experiencing it with him. At first, you think he’s just entertaining you, following you while you discover new streets and attractions, but then he points out different things and you know he's looking, too. There are large animals harnessed up and pulling carts for people to ride, there's an enormous spinning wheel set up in the distance, its colorful lights flickering out as soon as you ask what the fuck that is and why anyone would ever get inside one.

You eventually end up finishing your caf around the time he’s leading you back through a quiet, abandoned alleyway, and you hand him the empty cup to throw away in one of the trash cans on the corner. The conversation has faded to a comfortable quiet and you don’t really need to ask—you go willingly, not requiring anything beyond his hands on you and the baby dozing in your arms.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he murmurs, gently sweeping you up into his. You sigh, glad he’s giving you a moment to prepare yourself this time, holding the sleeping kid securely to your chest and resting your head on his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

After you’re comfortable, Din rockets up from the ground and climbs high up into the canvas sky. He disappears with you and the baby into the pastel clouds above, making it back to the Razor Crest in probably about an hour, maybe less. You and the baby do nothing more than climb into the comfy floor blankets while Din starts up the engines, and you think you’re dozing off together by the time he makes the pit stop to collect the crib and the jump into hyperspace.

You think he might shower? You’re not sure—you just know he moves up behind you in bed at one point without any armor, burying his face in your hair while you cuddle the sleepy kid to your chest. It’s dark in the hull, Din’s palms are bare and warm as they slide around the front of your body and he breathes you in, and there isn’t a single place that can touch you here, not a single place you’d rather be.

Home.

***

@followwhereshegoes Thank you for the stunning artwork! 💕To anyone interested in possibly doing an art collab in the future, please message me!!

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #smut #reader insert #fanfic #star wars #rough day #no-droids

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beauty-and-passion · 3 years ago

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A personal interpretation of the Axolotl poem (UPDATED)

WARNING: This post is the updated version of the same post I wrote in 2019. Since I deleted the old blog, I did not want to lose my work (it’s the first analysis I ever wrote!), so here it is. I hope you will keep enjoying it even thought I’m not THAT deep into Gravity Falls anymore.

Also, as said in the previous version of this post, this is a personal interpretation, so feel free to disagree/agree and, if you want, you can also explain why and we can all have a nice chat.

___________________________

If you watched Gravity Falls, you probably know about this poem too. If not, please notice this poem appeared on “Dipper and Mabel and the Curse of the Time Pirates' Treasure!: Select Your Own Choose-Venture”. The book isn’t canonical nor related to the original Gravity Falls series, however Alex Hirsch himself said it contains “a enormous 'canon' secret”.

Aaand the canon secret is probably this poem the Axolotl himself said, when Dipper asked him what does he know about Bill Cipher:

From the first two lines, we can notice this poem is clearly about Bill: Equilateral Triangle, Tradesman of the middle class, watching from something that has his same image: yep, it’s Bill.

Now it comes one of the most important lines: “saw his own Dimension burn”.

I believe there’s a reason behind the choice of this specific verb. Alex Hirsch could have used hundreds of different verbs, to make us realize us that Bill himself burned his own Dimension. Instead, he used “saw”.

Of course, a lot of people in the fandom thought the same: Bill saw his Dimension burn, therefore he did not have an active role in its destruction, but a passive one. That means there was another reason we do not know, that caused his Dimension’s death and all he could do was looking at the destruction.

It is a good interpretation, I admit it. This idea can lead to a lot of interesting theories and stories and I love to see what every single person can do with that.

But there is something that bothers me. And that something is a line Bill said during Weirdmageddon.

When he was in the Penthouse suite with Ford, he started talking about his own Dimension. The famous “Flat minds in a flat world with flat dreams” line. But what did he say after that?

“I liberated my Dimension, Stanford, and I am here to liberate yours.”

Uhm. This is quite strange. If burning his Dimension was an accident and he did not want to do it, why did he talk about that as a “liberation”? Was he lying?

I don’t think so. Just look at the episode: when Bill starts talking about his home Dimension, this is the only moment in the entire show in which Bill is completely, 100% serious.

Just look at this expression. Does he look like someone who wants to put on a show? Someone who is lying? No, this is a serious face. This is the only time Bill is completely serious, without maniacal laughters and crazy ideas. He is talking about something that is very important for him. There is a personal, emotional involvement and I highly doubt he was even thinking about lying.

So, if Bill wasn’t responsible for his Dimension’s destruction, why does he talk about it as a liberation?

In my opinion, Bill burned his Dimension. The poem’s line “saw his own Dimension burn” is not a way to prove his innocence, but an admission of guilt: Bill saw his Dimension burn and did nothing to stop it. He just looked at it, no regrets. He saw it and considered it a favour: he was liberating his world from its own awfulness.

But wait: if Bill feels no remorse, how can the following line (and probably the most important line in the whole poem) be explained?

“Misses home and can’t return”

He probably liked his place, his family or his world. He must feel remorse, otherwise why would he miss home?

This is what Alex Hirsch said on New York Comic-Con in 2015. So I think we can rule out that Bill liked his family. And, considering how he talked about his place (”flat mind in a flat world with flat dreams” he didn’t like his place either.

So how can Bill dislike his Dimension so much, but miss it at the same time?

In the English language (and probably every other language), the word “home” does not represent just a place. It can represent your family, too. But it can also represent an abstract concept. When people say that, in some place, they feel like home, they talk about a feeling. Something inesplicable, that is connected to the safe space we spent our childhood. A feeling that makes us feel safe and sound, that reminds us of a better moment in our life.

This is the ‘home’ Bill misses. This is the real “home” the poem talks about, the place where Bill can’t return. Not because it burned down, but because it is a feeling he lost forever. He may try to recreate it, with his friends and by finding “a new universe to call my own”, as he said during Weirdmageddon. But this feeling is deeply related to the joy of childhood, to his own childhood, a joy that is lost forever to him.

Why? Because he grew up. He became old. The same that happens to all of us: when we become older, we always think of our childhood as a magical, perfect moment in time lost forever. The same happened to Bill: he lost that magical moment, things worsened with his family and the perfect happiness disappeared.

“Says he’s happy, he’s a liar”

In a way, this has a lot in common with Stan’s story (another point to the Same Coin Theory): Stan’s childhood was all adventures and fun, then he became older, things got worse with his family (especially with Ford) and that magical happiness was lost.

But while Stan managed to still be a good person, Bill chose a different path. He became crazy and insane, he probably destroyed lots of worlds and did a lot of awful things. And yet, the Axolotl offered Bill a way to “shirk the blame”, to avoid dealing with what he did.

Now we can ask ourselves a trillion questions about why, if it is part of a bigger plan, why giving Bill a second chance with a new form and not just burning him down, like he did with his Dimension.

In my personal opinion, the answer lies within the Axolotl itself. Because the Axolotl is not a God that decides what is good and what is evil and punishes you if you are bad. He is above the concept of good and evil. This is why he prefers to offer Bill a way to escape his punishment and redeem himself, by giving him a different form, in a different time.

So the Axolotl is not like a cosmic judge, but more of a “escape from prison” card. Something that is above judges and rules, in a place where there is no time or space, detached from the morals mortals creatures have. But that is another story.

#gravity falls #bill cipher #the axolotl

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psychewritesbs · 3 years ago

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“You enchanted me, Fushiguro Megumi” 魅せてくれたな伏黒恵

I know that the fact that Sukuna said “enchant me” (魅) in the original Japanese text instead of “show me what you have” (見) the way the official translation says, is old news... but I love this picture and I love brain rotting about jjk so...

Here’s my take on why itafushi and sukufushi are basically soulmates--whether they are romantic or platonic soulmates is the stuff of headcanons.

For context, consider that the kanji used in the original text changes the contextual meaning of the panels A LOT. In the Americanized version, Sukuna is asking to be shown (見) Megumi’s strength, while in the original Japanese version, Sukuna is asking to be (魅) charmed, bewitched and fascinated.

I think we can all agree that Gege does not play with his kanji.

Whether the phrase is meant to have a less than platonic interpretation is the stuff of head canons, but I personally prefer the ambiguity set up by the original Japanese text (魅). Which brings me to the drawing above.

I once read an interpretation of this particular cover on reddit that I really liked (sorry, can’t link back to source because I don’t remember how to find the post, but please let me know if you are familiar with it).

The user in question felt like Mahito’s hands are meant to look like he’s getting ready to strangle Yuji; Sukuna’s hands, on the other hand, make it look like he’s protecting Megumi--“hands off, he’s mine”.

Not sure if it’s canon, but I love this interpretation because we have yet to see why Sukuna, the King of Curses himself, is so interested in enchanted (魅) by Megumi.

Not to get all itafushi or sukufushi or fushifushi or whatever other fushi shipping combination you prefer, but I have to admit that I love that both Yuji and Sukuna want to protect Megumi, even if it is for different reasons. Yuji and Sukuna might be of different minds, but they do share the same soul after all.

And then I got this crazy headcanon that basically means I read too much CLAMP about how Yuji and Sukuna being two separate conscious entities sharing the same soul makes it feel like it is their soul that is inevitably drawn to Megumi’s soul.

In other words, there is no situation in which either Sukuna or Yuji are not interested in Megumi’s well-being because the soul (psyche), as the totality of the being, dictates the mind. And so the mind will always arrange its logic in such a way that it follows the soul’s directive.

We can even file itafushi and sukufushi’s dynamic as yet another instance of the fate vs. free will trope in JJK.

Basically, because Megumi’s soul resonates with theirs, I headcanon that Sukuna and Yuji each have their own version for why they want to protect Megumi--with Sukuna being the more outspoken one about his interest in Megumi.

CLAMPism is a mood I can’t seem to shake off and it is now bleeding into how I interpret JJK. Now the real question is whether Megumi pull a Subaru...

#fushiguro megumi #god I love jujutsu kaisen #itadori yuji #sukuna #this is probably the closest I will ever get to waving an itafushi flag #I can't deny that Gege set up something very special between these two characters #actually I love it even if I don't necessarily ship itafushi #itafushi is indeed a beautiful ship #clampism is a mood #the soulmates trope series

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minty-mumbles · 2 years ago

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LU Survey Responses Part Three: Favorites and Least Favorties

Part One: Demographics

Part Two: General Questions

~~~

#1:

#2:

#3:

#4:

Other Responses: Legend/Ravio/Marin (4), Wind/Tetra (2), Wild/Ravali, Time/Nabooru, Hyrule/Aurora, Four/Dot/Shadow, Every single WLW Zelda ship, Some variation of "I love them all, fuck you" (4), Who cares about ships I want found family

#5:

#6:

#7: An assortment of answers from the free response, under the cut because there are many:

The Snail From the New Update!!!!!!!!!!!

🌹 for you!

I love the Legend of Zelda and Linked Universe! Also I don't dislike any of the Links, and Legend is pretty much tied for favorite with Time for me. Really just depends on my mood or something (or how recently I've played one of their games).

Consider the following: Golden Sword FI

Froggie

i wanna see shadow in the comic so fucking badly jojo please 😭

One time I was playing the og Loz and I couldn't find the second dungeon to go to but I managed to find the second last dungeon or something by running past a horde of lynels and I managed to bs my way through half of it until I got stuck in a room with an enemy I had to kill to leave but wasn't able to kill with my lack of tools and it couldn't kill me so I had to restart the whole game and I haven't played since. Also if you attack a cucco in Twilight Princess, it doesn't attack you; instead you become the cucco for a few seconds and can flap around and scream

Do u like Mac and cheese

yeah twilight princess is my favourite game and i haven’t played it but in my defence i’m a goth

the Pokémon Mystery Dungeon DX remake of the song "Sky Tower" bangs and you should check it out (if you want)

Four is all but canonically the spirit of the Four Sword, and there's so much evidence for it in his games and even his personality in LU, but I feel like this is underrepresented in people's headcanons because people don't know as much about Four.

i hope youre having a good day <33 -@soul-of-rei

Fun Fact: The “Ballad Of The Windfish” from Link’s Awakening is in the melody of the Hyrule Castle main theme (outdoors) for some reason snd I noticed it like yesterday and I can’t tell if they did this with consideration for lore or if they just used it because the Ballad Of The Windfish only shows up in one game and is therefore a less well known and less likely to be noticed detail so they reused the song to not have to make a new song. On the other hand, TP and SS were two other games remastered for Switch and beyond simple convenience both games have a lot of interesting details that show up in and add to botws lore so maybe Link’s Awakening has significance to botw or botw 2 too and no one noticed hrmmmmm sorry this became an unintended theory ramble

Why does ganon hate the internet? There are too many links hehehehe

Tell your followers they're amazing!!! - Nayra

I really like linked universe. There’s so much room for creativity in the fandom. I love to see all the different interpretations of Link! :)

Vultures throw up when they feel threatened

We got a new kitten, his name is Maui, and he likes head boops. This has nothing to do with LU but I thought it was important.

the ocean is soup. this is an undeniable fact.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ

This section I like to call "gushing over the various Links"

i don't think enough people realize that wind killed a man

I love wind so much he's my little guy I wanna pay for his college tuition

Wind deserves much more attention in the fandom he's my little pirate dude

Shout out to my boy Hyrule for being so cute

#BringSkyBackFromTheGasStation

Wind is best boy

Wolfie is best boy

Wild is my comfort for my mental health. I guess I project?

Grandaddy Wolfie >>>>

The fact I could only choose one favourite hurt, I was here for like 3 minutes deciding who to pick between Sky and Warrior's :'D

spent a solid 10 minutes trying to decide who i could say was my least favourite link because i love them all so much

And I'm not pasting the whole thing in here, but let it be known that the entire bee movie script, the wikipedia page for the chair, and the fitness gram pacer test were submitted

#lu survey #lu #linked universe

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themagnuswriters · 4 years ago

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Writing a Muslim Character

The Mods of the Magnus Writers discord server and community are putting together a variety of resources for Magnus Archives fan creators; these have been collated from articles on the topics, our own experiences, and the experiences of the members of the Magnus Writers discord. These are definitely not comprehensive or the only viewpoints out there, and are by no means meant as a way to police fanworks, but as a way to support and inspire fan creators in creating thoughtful and diverse works. Please note that external links will be added in a reblog to outsmart tumblr’s terrible tagging system, so make sure to check those out as well!

This resource in particular was put together by Mod Jasmine: hi, all!

While there are no canonically Muslim characters in TMA, Muslim headcanons are common in fanworks—particularly for Basira, and sometimes Jon (which I love to see!). I have cobbled together this post from my own experiences to help support and inform fans in these areas, and as part of my diabolical plan to get more Muslim!Basira and Muslim!Jon fics to shove into my brain.

First, two gigantic caveats:

I was raised Sunni Muslim in Egypt, which is a majority Sunni Muslim country, and still live there. This means my experience will be very different from someone raised in a majority Christian country like the UK, and different again if they are not Sunni and not Arab.

I am currently ex-Muslim. This does not mean I bear any ill will towards Islam or Muslims, just that it wasn’t for me, and I felt it was important to be upfront about that. I’ll be linking to resources by practicing Muslims in the reblog to this post, whether to add to my opinions and experiences or provide you with a different opinion. I am not here to put my voice over that of Muslims, just to do some of the work so they don’t have to. Obviously, if any Muslims have any additions or suggestions for this post, I’m happy to accommodate them.

Alright. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get started with the basics of writing a Muslim character.

(Warning: this is absurdly, absurdly long)

Basics:

Muslims follow two main sources of religious instruction: Quran and Hadith.

The Quran is the holy book, considered to be dictated by the angel Gabriel to the Prophet Mohammed, who then relayed what he was told to his followers. It is composed of surahs, or chapters, which have individual ayat, or verses. There are no varying versions of the Quran, later additions, or anything considered lost in translation. Any Arabic Quran is considered to be the same text that the Prophet Mohammed relayed, unchanged. As a result, while Muslims can debate interpretations of the Quran (although that’s often still left to the scholars), none debate the actual words of the text.

Hadith, meanwhile, are the sayings or teachings of the Prophet Mohammed. Their validity can be disputed, as they were written by his followers after his death, and mainly depend on having several witnesses for a specific saying or situation. The more witnesses there were, the more valid the hadith is considered to be.

When in doubt or should there be any contradiction between the Quran and Hadith, Muslims will always refer to the Quran first and foremost.

Denominations:

The bigggest (but not only!) divisions of Islam are Sunni and Shia, and both of those have separate madhabs, which are the separate thoughts and stances of specific Imams. When writing a Muslim character, a good first step would be to decide where your character’s family might have come from, as that could help inform which denomination your character might belong to. This will in turn inform things like the beliefs they grew up with, how they pray, their holy holidays, and so on. Obviously, all denominations fall under the bigger umbrella of Muslim, but can vary in practice.

Background:

The intersection of culture and religion affects a character beyond which denomination they likely belong to, such as whether they call prayer salah or namaz, the foods they might associate with Ramadan or Eid, and their community’s stance on things like hijab and alcohol.

One thing to keep in mind is that being Muslim is not synonymous with being Arab and vice versa. Not all Arabs are Muslim, not all Muslims are Arab or even Middle Eastern. In fact, the largest Muslim country in the world is Indonesia. That said, depending on your character’s race and backround, there is the potential they may have faced Arab elitism or other strands of racism within Muslim circles. Please see the reblog of this post for an article about one Black British Muslim woman’s experience with racism.

And, of course, your character and their family do not need to have been immigrants at all. They or their family may have been converts instead. According to most Muslim schools of thought, all that’s required for a person to be Muslim is stating the shahada in Arabic, honestly and with intent. It goes, “Ashhadu an la ilah illa Allah, wa an Mohammadan rasul Allah,” which translates as “I bear witness that there is no god but God, and that Mohammed is His prophet.” Shia Muslims, I believe, have an additional section, but otherwise that’s it. Recite that in front of witnesses with sincere belief and that’s all you need to be Muslim.

Pillars of Islam:

These are the duties or cornerstones of a Muslim’s faith and considered to be acts every Muslim should strive for. What the pillars are can, I think, differ between denominations, with Shia Muslims having additional ancillaries as well (any Shia readers, please feel free to correct me!) but both denominations agree that the following are important:

Salah—prayer

Sawm—fasting during Ramadan

Zakat—giving a certain percentage of income to charity or the community

Hajj—pilgrimage to Mecca

In all cases, these are considered mandatory only for those who are able. A person who cannot perform hajj, whether due to not being physically able to or lacking the funds to travel, is under no obligation.

Prayer:

Prayer is performed five times a day while facing the Qibla, which is the direction of Mecca. Prayer is formed of units, called rak’at, which consists of a set of actions done in a specific order. The “How to Pray Salah, Step by Step” article linked in the reblog of this post provides fairly good prayer instructions for beginners, so check it out for details! These include bowing, prostrating, and reciting some surahs.

Each of the five daily prayers has a different number of rak’at, as well as its own name and allotted time of day, as follows:

Fajr, which means Dawn and can be performed at any point until the sun rises (two rak’at).

Dhuhr, which means Noon (four rak’at)

Asr, performed in the afternoon (four rak’at)

Maghreb, which means sunset and can be performed at any point until it’s dark (three rak’at)

Isha, performed at night and can be done at any point until dawn (four rak’at)

The specific time of prayer will differ day to day and place to place, according to the sun, but those are the rough timeframes for each. It’s generally preferred that a Muslim does their prayer on time, but in practice some Muslims find it difficult to wake up for Fajr, for instance, and just try to make sure they get a morning prayer in before noon.

On Friday, there is a congregational Friday prayer at Dhuhr in a mosque called the Jumu’a prayer (which, fun fact, literally means gathering and is also the Arabic name for Friday!). Only men are required to take part in the congregation, however.

In Muslim majority countries, the time for prayer is announced by the adhaan, the call to prayer, from mosques and in media. This won’t be the case in the UK, and the character will likely have to rely on an adhaan app or looking up what time prayer should be.

There are various requirements for a prayer to be correct, chief of which is facing the Qibla and purity. Before performing prayer, a Muslim must purify themself by performing wudu, or ablutions, which basically involves washing the hands, arms, nostrils, face, head, and feet a specific number of times using clean water. The way I was taught these must be performed in a certain order, and the person shouldn’t speak during or after until their prayer is finished. This may be different for others.

Wudu is considered valid until nullified by bodily functions such as urinating, defecating, vomiting, flatulence, or any sexual activity. For Sunni Muslims, it’s also invalidated by going to sleep. If none of these have happened, a Muslim can perform more than one prayer using the same wudu.

Notably, a Muslim cannot pray if they’re on their period, as they’re considered in a state of impurity.

Another important requirement is that a Muslim be dressed modestly for prayer. The general guideline is that Muslim men should cover the area between their navel and knees with loose, non-revealing clothing, and that during prayer it’s preferred that they cover their chests as well Muslim women should cover everything except their face, hands, and feet. This means that a woman who isn’t hijabi would still wrap a hijab for prayer. For nonbinary Muslims, I don’t think there are specific guidelines yet, although please feel free to correct me.

If praying at home, a family may choose to pray together. In this case, the male head of the household usually stands at the front and acts as Imam, leading the prayer. Other men will tend to be in front of or beside women, as generally women should not pray in front of a man. This is the case even, especially, if he is not praying.

Children aren’t required to pray, as they’re considered innocent and have no obligations, but may want to take part early on or may be encouraged to practice.

Praying is one area you’ll find denominational differences. For example, while Sunnis fold their arms in prayer, Shia keep their arms to their side, and while Shia Muslims make sure their foreheads touch a piece of clay or earth when they prostrate, Sunnis do not. If you write your character praying, keep these details in mind.

Fasting:

During the holy month of Ramadan, Muslims fast from Fajr (dawn) until Maghreb (sunset) every day. This means they abstain from consuming anything—yes, even water, cigarettes, and medicine. They should also abstain from sexual activities and cursing. Most importantly, they must have the intention to be fasting. This means that not eating and drinking because they were asleep for that entire period of time or just lost track and forgot does not count as fasting.

Generally, the idea is more to try to be more pious and avoid sin throughout the month. It’s thought that the shaytan (or devil) is chained up during Ramadan, so any temptation or sinning is a person’s own doing. The way I was raised, I was taught that sawm/fasting is invalidated by sexual thoughts and raising your voice as well. Many people also try to dress more modestly during Ramadan, with some women opting for looser clothing or a headscarf. Many Muslims will try to read the whole Quran during Ramadan.

After Maghreb, Muslims break their fast with Iftar (which means breakfast, hah) and have a late night meal called Suhour. Since the Muslim calendar is a lunar calendar, Ramadan is 11 days earlier every year. Depending on when Ramadan falls in the year, there can be barely any time between iftar and suhour in certain parts of the world, as the sun is up for so much of the day.

Given the length of time and difficulty involved, there are exceptions and allowances for fasting. A person is not required to fast if they are:

A child (up to puberty)

Ill or has a medical condition such as diabetes

Pregnant

Travelling

On their period

In fact, if they are on their period it will not be counted, even if they do fast. That said, sometimes people choose to fast while travelling anyway, as travel is less strenuous now than it used to be. If they’re crossing time zones they will have to consider which time zone they’re breaking their fast to. As far as I remember, it’s based on the time zone of the place they just left or started their fast in.

If an obstacle to fasting is temporary, such as their period, they’re expected to make those days up with additional fasting before next Ramadan. Otherwise, they are allowed to make up for the lost fast in another way, such as by donating money or feeding fasting people. Whether due to societal pressure (which is formidable in Muslim-majority countries) or out of consideration for others who are fasting, those who are not fasting for whatever reason may often choose to hide this and only eat in secret.

If a person forgets they were fasting or accidentally consumes something, it does not invalidate the fast , and as soon as they remember or realise the mistake they can have the intention to fast again and continue with their day.

While children are exempt, many families will start them off by fasting for half a day so they can build up to a full day when they hit puberty.

Ramadan traditions vary wildly from country to country and culture to culture, but generally it’s a time for family gathering and celebration. Often there are special Ramadan-specific food, drink, and decorations, and it ends with Eid ul-Fitr which has its own specific foods and celebrations. Basically, imagine if Christmas lasted a month. That’s how big a deal Ramadan is.

In my experience, the first few days are usually the hardest. Water is what I tended to miss the most, even if I managed to stay up long enough or set an alarm to wake up to drink just before fajr, followed closely by swearing. Anyone who drinks caffeine or smokes cigarettes will likely find abstaining from those more difficult than water. By the end of the month, though, it gets much easier and I often got to the point where I barely noticed. I will say, however, that the longest I’ve had to fast has been maybe 16 hours. A summer Ramadan in the UK would be more difficult due to the much later sunsets.

Halal and Haram:

Halal means “permissible,” while haram means “forbidden.” You might have heard these words in passing before, such as halal food, but they are used for many areas of life.

Things that are considered haram include:

Consuming, serving, or trading in intoxicants, such as alcohol

Consuming improperly slaughtered meat or meat from forbidden animals, such as pork

Extramarital sex

Tattoos

Gambling

Men wearing silk or gold

A Muslim woman marrying a non-Muslim man (although it’s fine for a Muslim man to marry a non-Muslim woman)

Being immodest

Modesty is expected of all genders, including men. If you’ll recall from the section on prayer, the general guideline for male modesty is that they should cover the area between their navel and knees with loose, non-revealing clothing. Note that for women, modesty does not necessarily involve wearing a hijab. There is actually a ton of controversy as to whether the hijab is a fard (requirement) or not, as described in the following section.

The Hijab:

To be hijabi takes more than just throwing on a headscarf. As a word, hijab means “barrier” or “veil,” and a hijabi person would be expected to cover everything except their face and the palms of their hands, and to ensure that their clothes are loose and non-revealing. It all comes from an interpretation of two verses in the Quran that many scholars nowadays agree to mean the hijab is required, and that some say actually call for a face covering as well, which is called a niqab.

This wasn’t always the case, however, and these days there is still the occasional controversial scholar (I remember a few kerfuffles coming out of Egypt’s Al-Azhar mosque recently) saying it isn’t and has never been required at all. At least in the Arab world, this is largely due to the wave of Wahhabism (which is a specifically fundamentalist interpretation of Islam) that’s taken over the region in the past half a century. Before that, the idea of a hijab being a religious requirement was less widespread.

I’m not here to argue who’s right or wrong, just to make you aware that the hijab as we know it today hasn’t always been considered a requirement for a Muslim woman. Most of the women of my family never wore any form of head covering, but more and more they are an exception rather than the norm.

The choice of whether to wear a hijab can mean very different things, depending on the surrounding culture. For instance, my grandmother, the strictest woman I have ever known, got married in a very cute sleeveless dress that went just under the knees, and when she grew older she wore a head-covering more as a cultural indication of age rather than any religious reason. In my generation, in a country with a Muslim majority, lack of visible signs of devoutness have become almost a class marker, with some upper-class women using their lack of head-covering as a sign that they are “more Westernized” or “modern.” And again, I want to emphasize that this is the case for my country only.

This will be completely different for Muslim minorities, where the hijab can become a symbol of pride and unity.

I will say that it’s very rare for women to be forced into getting veiled, whether in Muslim minority or majority countries. I’m not saying it never happens, just that it’s not the “oppressive tool of the patriarchy” outsiders sometimes think it is. Women may face some societal pressure, but by and large it is considered a choice and often an empowering one. In fact, I have friends whose families discouraged them from wearing a hijab too young and emphasized only taking the decision when they were sure they wanted to. If writing a Muslim character when you’re non-Muslim, I strongly suggest not trying to tackle the story of someone forced into a hijab, as there’s a lot of nuance there and it’s very easy to fall into harmful stereotypes. The hijabi woman who gets “liberated” and takes off her hijab is also overdone and harmful. Please don’t.

Everyday Life:

Muslims are not a monolithic entity, and some will be more devout or religious than others. There are those who will pray their five a day and others who only pray during Ramadan or Eid, some who don’t drink and some who do, hijabis who dress only in loose clothing and those who wear tight trousers or show some of their hair, some who have tattoos, and some who may date or even have sex before marriage. However, this isn’t a carte-blanche not to do research when writing a Muslim character, because even if they break a rule of Islam, they will be conscious of it, may be concerned about their community’s response to it, and in any case will be affected by it.

For instance, I know many Muslims who drink alcohol. Some interpret the text differently, saying that since the sin is getting drunk then they won’t drink enough to get drunk, just buzzed. Some only do it on special occasions or on vacation, saying they know it’s a sin but it’s fine on occasion and they’ll repent later. All of them would probably dive under a table if they thought their family was nearby.

For more opinions on Muslims and dealing with alcohol, take a look at the “Islam and Alcohol” article linked in the reblog of this post.

Here are things that a character who is a practicing Muslim might do or be concerned about in their day to day life:

Checking ingredients to make sure they’re all halal. This goes for things like food, drink, medicine, anything consumable. Things like gelatine capsules are only halal if the source of the gelatine is itself halal, for instance.

Keeping up with their prayers. With five prayers a day, some will inevitably happen while they’re out of the house. Some Muslims prefer to just group their prayers when they get home, but since it’s preferable to do prayers on time, others may try to pray while out and about This means considering the following:

Finding a bathroom for wudu. Part of wudu involves washing feet and the head, which isn’t feasible in a public location or if the person is hijabi and doesn’t want to unwrap and rewrap their hijab. In that case, they can generally wipe a wet hand over their socks and top of their head covering.

They may carry a prayer carpet or have one stashed in a convenient location, but it’s not a must.

Finding a clean and secluded place to pray. Generally, it’s not done to pray in a place where someone will pass in front of you, and a woman must also take care to pray away from men’s eyes.

Figuring out where the Qibla is. Luckily, there are apps for that.

If a woman is not hijabi, she would have to carry a veil and, depending on her clothes, something to cover up so she can pray.

If they’re hijabi, they’ll probably have to adjust or re-wrap their hijab throughout the day, depending on the material and their activities. This would typically happen in bathrooms or any other space that doesn’t include men, as they can’t reveal themselves to any men who aren’t of their immediate family. For more on the hijab, and the day to day realities of wearing and wrapping one, take a look at the links provided in the reblog of this post.

A Muslim woman may choose not to accept handshakes from men who aren’t family. She has probably considered how to deal with that potential awkwardness.

If they’re fasting, they might carry some dates or biscuits or something in case they need to break their fast while on the go.

If making plans, they might say, “Insha’allah” which means “God willing.” I was always admonished to do so to acknowledge the future is entirely within God’s hands.

If asked how they are, they might reply with “Alhamdullilah” which means “Thanks be to God.”

When starting to eat, they may say, “Bismillah,” which means “In the name of God” and when done eating may say “Alhamdullilah.” These can also be invoked silently.

As you might have noticed, Allah’s name is invoked pretty often. While it’s not preferable to swear using God’s name just to make a point (“Wallahi”), there’s nothing against it, really.

Fundamentally, an important thing to remember is that Islam is a religion of ease and not hardship. This is an actual Quranic quote. What this means is, it may seem like there are a lot of rules to keep in mind, but there are also a ton of allowances for when those rules aren’t feasible, just like the case for fasting above. Other allowances include how an elderly or disabled person who may not be able to perform the motions of prayer can pray while sitting in a chair or even lying in bed. If there isn’t any clean water to purify before prayer or if using the water would mean lack of drinking water, a Muslim can use dust or sand to purify, and if no dust or sand is available then they don’t need to purify at all and can simply pray.

This means that, say, if your Muslim Jon wants to pray while kidnapped by the circus, he can, even without being able to perform wudu, even without knowing where the Qibla is, even without being able to move or say anything at all.

For more day-to-day tidbits, check out the “More on writing Muslim characters” link in the reblog of this post.

LGBTQ Muslims:

Needless to say, Queer Muslims absolutely do exist, and their being Muslim doesn’t cancel out their queerness or vice versa. While there are Quranic verses that have been interpreted as condemning homosexuality, there are also other interpretations, and queerness has existed in Muslim societies for ages. There was a ton of homoerotic imagery among Abbasid poets during the Golden Age of Islam, for example.

However, modern-day attitudes can be difficult to get around, and queer Muslims may have difficulty finding their place in both Muslim spaces and queer spaces, the latter which often expect them to reject religiosity.

Although I am queer myself, I don’t feel it’s my place to speak for queer Muslims and their relationships with their communities beyond this, so I’ll let some queer practicing Muslims speak for themselves. Please see the reblog of this post for valuable contributions from queer Muslims about their experiences.

Miscellaneous:

This is mostly for all the random tidbits I thought up while writing this that didn’t fit anywhere else and also because I don’t know when to quit apparently, SO!

Allah is just Arabic for God. Muslims can and do use these terms interchangeably, such as saying “God willing,” instead of “Inshallah,” even in an Arabic-speaking country.

Also, God has 99 names! Just a fun fact for you there.

The Devil in Islam is pretty different from his Christian counterpart. Referred to as Iblis or Shaytan, among other names, he is not a fallen angel and there is no great revolt story, nor is he considered a root of all evil. Instead, he is a djinn made of smokeless flame who refused to bow down to Adam, as he felt he was made of superior stuff and not about to bow to a creature made of mud. His disdain for humanity is what has caused him and other shayateen/demons to try and tempt humans.

A person’s right hand is considered purer than their left, so it’s encouraged to always eat with your right hand. Unfortunately, this does mean left-handed people face something of a stigma—or at least that’s the case here in Egypt. My cousins, both lefties, both eat with their right hand, though they do everything else with their left.

Similarly, it is considered better to enter spaces with your right foot, though only the most devout are likely to think of this all the time. This is especially considered for entering a mosque or new home.

A Muslim might say or write “Peace be Upon Him” whenever the Prophet Mohammed is mentioned, written as (PBUH), and “Subhanuh wa Taala” when mentioning Allah, written as (SWT).

The Evil Eye is mentioned in the Quran as “hasad,” and considered to be a very real thing. This jealous or envious energy is considered able to ruin good things in your life, even if the jealous person didn’t intend to. There are some surahs that are considered good to ward against it, as well as incense, the colour blue, the number five, and the symbols of the nazar (which is a round, blue-ringed eye) and the khamsa (an open five-fingered palm, also known as the Hand of Fatima). The nazar, khamsa, and belief in the evil eye aren’t unique to Islam at all. What is unique to Islam is that a Muslim might preface a compliment with “Masha’allah” which means “As God wills it,” to ward off their own evil eye.

Much of the Quran in Arabic rhymes and is very poetic, which can make surahs easy to memorise by rhythm. It can also make recitations by a skilled reader very lovely.

#the magnus archives #tma #writing resources #muslim characters

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lovee-infected · 4 years ago

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I enjoy reading character analysis to understand them more and I've also noticed that some insert fics are like too exagerated and their personalities are far from the canon twst. I think some writers are just basing their fics to others and and makes conclusion about it and ignore important details or text on their cards?* And as a reader, I do sometimes think that "this" character are like that. Like Vil, being portrayed as narcisstic and beauty obssessed charac, I think he isnt like that and theres more to him than we think. Sorry for the long ask✌️

You're totally valid anon and I see your point, you know while I agree that each idea and interpretation on characters is worthy on its own and no one is bound to having a specific opinion or belief, getting too wild with personal fantasies and ignoring the originals can totally ruin the writing. Characters are often mischaracterized especially in reader insert fics and the most annoying part is that almost everyone is making the same mistakes about him-! Like some of the noticable mistakes would be:

(1) Femininely has nothing to do with Vil's terms of beauty

Oh lord what can I say- It's even against what Vil himself directly said through chapter five and how he cleared his point on male and female equal, and you can tell he is pretty strict about it.

Like did you just forget what he told Epel when he complained that he doesn't want to act like a girl: “a boy getting embarrassed about ‘acting like a girl,’ -- what year is your head stuck in??? did you take a time machine from 100 years ago??”

He doesn't seem to be one to appreciate the concept of labeling beauty as a female-only thing and on the other hand, he doesn't really seem to like the way women can be looked down on while being compared to men either. He seeks equality, and beauty wasn't ever defined as a feminine act in his dictionary; while there are tons of requests asking for: Vil forcing their trans s/o to wear more feminine clothes/ Vil asking their fem! s/o to wear more feminine stuff an look cuter/Vil complimenting s/o's appearance for not being feminine enough/... And literally TONS of requests like this. Please, you're forgetting one the most important parts of his personality, he considers male and female to be equal and it's so hecking important to show that he holds respect for all genders nonetheless.

(2) Vil's maturity is often ignored

Honestly, within all twst characters Vil's maturity on its own really impresses me. From the way he speaks to how serious and sincere he is all I gotta say is this man is waaay different from the way he's charactetized in most of the fics. Idk why but, he's sometimes charactetized as a guy who's ready to boil you alive if you dare touch any of his expensive make up pallettes or eyeshadows. Oh please, Vil isn't an angry child.

Also he often decides to keep his anger in, though you can tell when he's mad by just looking at his face. Clinching fists, trying not to talk and most likely, walking off or asking people to leave him alone until he calms down a bit is most likely his usual way of expressing his anger, but I've seen him being described as a loud, feral figure like Riddle is! Oh god no- Are you just ignoring how calm and collected Vil often tends to be?

(3) What's with the potato fetish?

While it's canon that Vil can sometimes call people around him potato. You may like to know that in some languages, potato is translated as "Apple of the ground", which can be an interesting reason of him using this nickname for people.

Watching Vil call students potatoes can be as entertaining as watching Malleus play with his tamagotchi, but again, it's important to realize that you don't have to only use potato when you're thinking of what Vil might say in a reader insert/situation!

Come on there are hundreds of different statements and sentences you can use other than just 'potatoes' and it'll get boring to read him saying the same nick name over and over in a fic. Good lord of course this isn't the only word he uses in communication so please try to avoid using it too much. This, is NOT the only word that he knows to use! (Seriously though I've seen being used like 6 times in a 500-word drabble)

(4) Please avoid spreading false information about him and his personality

Funny how I'm saying it here, but don't forget that you do not own him! Vil Schoenheit is a property of Disney/ Aniplex and all, which means that no one can certainly decide on his sexuality/ background/ unexplained character details unless it's officially announced.

Why am I saying this? Because some people are seriously going to far! I've seen people attacking others saying that Vil's pronouns are She/Her and not He/ Him like: EXCUSE ME...???

I don't want to get into details explaining how this drama is going but I've got to say something anyway, YOU DON'T HAVE THE RIGHT TO DECIDE ON HIS PRONOUNS! None of us do!

It's totally okay to have your personal preferences on his pronouns or anything else, but you must avoid spreading such information and forcing them on others as long as they aren't confirmed! Please keep your headcanons for yourself and don't confuse the fandom with them. Everyone's free to have their own headcanons but it's never okay to force them on others!

(5) Vil has a LOT to talk about other than just beauty!

Man... sometimes I feel like the fandom is just doing him dirty. Most of the reader inserts, fics , and even Vil memes have something to do with beauty while it's important to try and look through his personality as well instead of just sticking with the beauty aspect.

For example, through the Halloween event, I couldn't be any more surprised when Vil found the crying child who had lost their parents through the crowd and instead of just leaving them to headmaster or asking someone to take care of them he actually started to play with the child and entertrain and confront them on his own! That was probably one of his sweetest moments through the whole game and it really changed my mind about him! It was great to know that Vil as well can have a softer side when it comes to children, just imagine how good this can be used while writing a father AU for him!

His talents on the other hand need to be recognized, for example: his acting skills back in the ghost marriage proved how much of a great actor he can be and this can also give us lots of ideas to use in writings. On the other hand he's much of a celebrity on his own ( Woop- he's also got 2m followers on magicam) which gives us another great plot to write for him.

The way he is around close friends, how he compliments them and gets complimented by them in return, the way he manages Pomefiore and tries to put the students into doing their best in using their skills and lots of more interesting details that can be found through his stories are there to tell you that he's a lot more than just a beautiful Queen. A considerable part of his background as well is going to be released at he end of chapter 5 (Yes baby after the overblot Vil) and I hope that gives us all the opportunity to come up with stronger personalities and plots next time that we're describing or even, characterizing Vil!

Lmao I kind of rushed to finish this so I didn't get to talk about him as much as I wanted to, but hope that this is useful anyway.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted Wonderland x reader #character analysis #vil Schoenheit #vil Schoenheit x reader

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raymondebidochonlifechoices · 3 years ago

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All fans are equal but some are more equal than others. NOT.

There’s been quite a few people in the fandom lately getting very stressed, feeling they’re obligated to constantly be on the defensive re: their fandom choices.

Apparently, whoever has a different opinion about a character or a ship must be said character’s/ship’s stan i.e. overzealous and/or obsessive, i.e. not an objective viewer. Even worse, they must be a dreadful person, who condones a number of moral offences that said character/ship perpetrated (or is thought to have perpetrated). Because, of course, the only acceptable reason for appreciating/enjoying a fictional character or dynamic is their morality. And, by that reasoning, fans who support the correct character/ship must be better fans and better people.

Nothing is more ridiculous than the notion of the objective fan. An “objective” fan is called a “viewer”. You and I, Riverdale friends, we are not just viewers. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have created blogs and dedicated hours of our lives to a fictional couple from an extremely mediocre show. We are still undoubtedly capable of critical thought and objective analysis but we are also aware of our own emotional investment in the show. (Or, at least, one hopes). As a fandom, we engage in activities that exist independently of the show. Fandom is a space of free expression. No one gets to play the higher moral card here. Needing to loudly tell everybody how wrong they are? That’s not the sign of an objective viewer. That’s the sign of a viewer who is also extremely invested, just for different reasons than I am.

Are we seriously holding the morality card over people’s heads for a show that used a poc woman’s pregnancy (Toni) as the means to retroactively establish trauma for a white male (Kevin), all the while touting it in every media possible as a woke response to the BLM movement?!

Are we seriously holding the canon card over people’s heads for a show that treats its 5th(!) season as a tabula rasa?! If the Lodges new backstory in 5x12 shows anything, it’s that s5 is not a time-jump. It’s a reboot.

There are so many people “enlightening” others on their inability to understand canon …

Seriously? That’s the hill you’re willing to die on? Canon Riverdale? You think that people don’t understand what they’re watching? That they’re interpreting canon incorrectly?

No, but seriously: canon for a TV show consists of what the characters say, what the characters do and how the actors portray them. Does this really apply to Riverdale?

Let’s take Donna for example.

Canon explicitly tells us Donna did what she did to avenge her grandmother. At the same time none of her canon actions were against the people who were actually responsible. So, riddle me this, fandom friends: why did Donna do what she did, as per canon?

Let’s try this another way:

Donna is a psycho bitch. Both in terms of Riverdale’s canon (the writers’ intention) and real-life criteria. To create a tag that reads “Bonna for ever uwu!” is deranged.

On the other hand, her character is (like a lot of Riverdale’s characters) an inconsistent caricature. Canon uses ridiculous dialogue and a lot of the Bonna scenes are cartoonishly enemies-to-lovers tropey. To create a tag that reads “Bonna for ever uwu!” is hilarious.

This doesn’t mean that Bonna is a canon couple. It does mean, however, that a Bonna crackship is based on Riverdale’s campy and over-the-top canonic writing.

A viewer who thinks Bonna is disgusting is not more “objective” or more “correct” or more “true to canon” than a viewer who thinks Bonna is funny. Nor are they a better person for it, and this cannot be stressed enough.

Similarly, who is canon Cheryl?

1. Cheryl is an absolute bitch: if a privileged student was calling an actual homeless boy a hobo in your real-life school, you would neither think her a queen nor use “hobo” affectionately in your tags, comments etc.

2. Cheryl is a deeply traumatized person: her father killed her brother, her mother killed half the town and forced her in conversion therapy, she attempted suicide and more.

(Note #1: this more does not mean more than the other Riverdale characters).

(Note #2: nor is it an excuse for her rudeness, affectionately called “mood for chaos” by the writers).

3. Cheryl is also a caricature of the archetypal mean girl who’s there for laughs and meta comments. She’s not to be taken seriously.

4. Cheryl is lgbtq+ representation …

5. … who canonically shits on other lgbtq+ characters.

6. Cheryl is one half of Choni, who are canonically presented as an uber couple.

7. Choni is also, as per canon, a couple with an acute power imbalance (cough!gaslighting!cough) that visually very clearly panders to the male gaze.

But most importantly:

8. Cheryl canonically is not the sum of her parts. The different facets of her character do not intermingle in any meaningful way.

Was Betty kissing Archie specifically a sore spot for Jughead?

Canonically no [2x14]. But, also, canonically yes [5x03, 5x10].

Are there seriously fans that are astonished that Betty is making some highly questionable choices while investigating?! Did they just discover Dark™Betty/Killer Genes Betty? That is canon Betty! Was it ok before because she was then smooching Jughead instead of giving him the cold shoulder? Honestly, the only newly outrageous part of s5Dark™Betty is the fact that she still believes in “killer genes” despite having spent 4 years at Yale …

As for liking/disliking Betty and morality …

Look, I’m going to be very honest: I am NOT particularly enjoying s5 Betty. And it’s not because of b*rchie.

S5 Betty has 99 problems but the sexcapades ain’t one.

For me, it’s the fact that she’s turned into s1 Alice 2.0. But surely that’s not news either? Ever since the first info about the time jump, everyone and their mother have been speculating about the teens becoming their parents …

Just because Jughead is better written (and written to be more likable), it doesn’t make him more worthy of redemption. Just because the writers are keeping Betty’s redemption “secret” (insert eye roll) for their big reveal in the season’s penultimate episode, it doesn’t mean she won’t have one.

Simply put, the writers have made Jughead more likable. He’s still the underdog. He’s the only character in Riverdale actively trying to deal with his trauma, since the very first post-time jump episode (working at Pop’s explicitly to fend off the debt collectors). He has scenes with a new and extremely likable character (Tabitha). He has the only new plot line (the Mothman). Said plotline is narratively already tied to both his unknown past and the town’s destruction by Hiram. His behaviour is explicitly explained, even as his recent trauma remains unknown. He’s transparent.

In comparison, s5 Betty is traumatized but not the underdog. Her trauma (TBK killer) is both known to us and a repetition of previous storylines, which makes it narratively less exciting. She is completely disconnected from any other storylines. She comes out as being judgmental and self-interested: telling Tabitha Jughead’s not her business while previously accepting his help? Berating Polly for lying while not keeping in touch and lying about her own life (TBK)? Please note: I’m not saying there isn’t a reason behind her behaviour, just that it comes out in a negative way.

You don’t like Betty’s current behaviour? You don’t consider trauma a good enough excuse? Cool.

You feel sorry for what she’s going through? You consider trauma to be a valid explanation for her behaviour? Also cool.

Personally, I don’t give a flying fig, either for Betty’s trauma or Jughead’s. Because, even though Trauma™ is s5’s actual mystery plot, narratively speaking, trauma never affected the plot of the past 4 seasons, nor s5 trauma will affect future plots, once revealed. And you know what? That is also cool.

None of the above is better.

And just because I’m not enjoying Betty right now, it doesn’t mean that I don’t want her to overcome her current situation or that I won’t cheer for Bughead like a River Vixen on fizzle rocks, once they reunite.

This thing though, where people are made to feel as if they owed anyone in the fandom an explanation about why they like the things they like, because, somehow, their preferences are a reflection on their character or their cognitive abilities to read a TV show? This is a joke.

There is no “wrong” way to consume any show, let alone Riverdale, with its fractured format, its short-term memory and its see-sawing characters.

Look, everybody’s here for their own reasons. For most people this is a place of escape. No one’s escaping better than the other, because of how they enjoy their teen TV show ...

#Riverdale writers negativity #fandom negativity #fandom entitlement

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sketching-shark · 3 years ago

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I think we should start a protection squad (although they don’t need it because they can protect themselves) for Sun Wukong and Guanyin

“Begone monkie kid fandom trying to down grade these really interesting characters with interesting personality’s and backstory ( the both of them like seriously Guanyin backstory is so cool) to a villain wile trying to justify your angsty backstory (that are no where near as cool as monkey who fights gods and Person who has 1000 arms and heads to help people in need) for the actual villain”

So who wants to join

Me:*raises my hand*

Ps: sorry if I got Guanyin backstory wrong am not an expert on it.

Haha okay so some critiques on the jttw & associated media western fandom & fandom in general coming up, so please skip this upcoming text wall if you don't want to encounter my undoubtedly ~devastating~ words (i.e. don't like don't read as people love to say, & if I have to be inundated with images of my notp every time I go into the sun wukong tag then I imagine people can be chill with me expressing my opinions & giving people fair warning that I WILL be critiquing common fandom trends, but no need for you to see that if you don’t want to. Cool? Cool.)

-----

PFFFFFTTT oh man there are many times when I feel like signing up for such a protection squad...when it comes to the current western jttw & Sun Wukong fandom I do feel like I'm often swinging at a rapid pace between "well it's fandom & people are allowed to make the stories they want" & "I am once again begging my fellow monkie kid enthusiasts (& sometimes creators) to do more research into the og classic/show it more respect so you can avoid any potentially offensive/off-the-mark misunderstandings of the status & cultural context of the characters in their country of origin (I promise it's super interesting & I can provide you with links to free pdf copies of the entire Yu translation, i.e. the best one ever created, so feel free to ask!) & maybe also stop constantly stripping away all the nuance of Sun Wukong's character for the sake of either making him an entire asshole so your little meow meow can look completely innocent in comparison and/or making the monkey king's entire life & character revolve around said meow meow."

Like I get that fandom's supposed to be a kind of anything-goes environment, but one thing that honestly seems to be true of a lot of fandoms--and the western one for Sun Wukong & co. is certainly not immune from this--is that there often seems to be a kind of monoculturalization at work in what stories are created & what character interpretations are made popular. Across a multitude of fandoms, you frequently see basically nothing but the exact same tropes being made popular & even being insisted on for the canonical work (especially hasty redemption arcs & enemies to lovers these days), the exact same one-dimensional character types that characters from an original work keep getting shoved into, the exact same story beats, etc. And I get it to an extent, as fandom is generally a space where people just make art and fic for fun & without thinking too hard about it & without any pressure.

This seems to, however, often unfortunately lead to the mentality that it’s your god-given right to do literally whatever you want with literally any cultural figure without even the slightest bit of thought put into their cultural, historical, and even religious context, even (and sometimes especially) when it comes to figures that are really important in a culture outside your own. For such figures--even if you first encounter them in a children’s cartoon--you should be a little more careful with what you do with them than you would with your usual Saturday morning line-up. It of course has to be acknowledged that there exists a whole pile of absolutely ridiculous & cursed pieces of media that are based on Journey to the West & that were produced in mainland China, but for your own education if nothing else I consider it good practice for those of us (myself certainly included) who aren’t part of the culture that produced JTTW to put more thought into how we might want to portray these characters so that at the very least (to pull some things I’ve seen from the jttw western fandom) we’re not turning a goddess of mercy into an evil figure for the sake of Angst(TM), or relegating other important literary figures into the positions of offensive stereotypes, or making broad claims about the source text & original characterizations of various figures that are blatantly untrue, or mocking heavenly deities because of what’s actually your misunderstanding of how immortality works according to Daoist beliefs. Yet while a lot of this is often due to people not even trying to understand the context these figures are coming from, I do want to acknowledge that the journey (lol reference) to understand even a fraction of the original cultural context can be a daunting one, especially since, as I’ve mentioned before, it can be really hard & even next to impossible to find good, accessible, & legitimate explanations in English of how, for example, the relationship between Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque is commonly interpreted in China & according to the Buddhist beliefs that define the original work.

That is to say, I do think it’s an unfortunate, if unavoidable, part of any introduction of an original text into a culture foreign to its own for there to be sometimes a significant amount of misinterpretation, mistranslations, and false assumptions. There is, however, a big difference between learning from your honest mistakes, & doubling down on them while dismissing all criticism of your misinterpretation into that abstract category of “fandom drama.” The latter attitude is kind of shitty at best and horrifically entitled at worst.

Plus, as I’ve discovered, there is a great deal of interest and joy to be drawn from keeping yourself open to learning aspects of these texts & figures that you weren’t aware of! I can say from my own experience that I’ve always really enjoyed & appreciated it when individuals on this site who come from a Chinese background--and who know much more about the cultural context of JTTW than me--have taken the time to explain its various aspects. It often leaves me feeling like woooooaaaahhhhhHHH!!!! as to how amazingly full of nuanced meaning JTTW is like dang no wonder it’s one of China’s Four Great Classical Novels.

And I guess that right there is the heart of a lot of my own personal frustration and disappointment with the ways that fandoms often approach a literary work or other piece of media...like don’t get me wrong, a lot of the original works a fandom may grow around are just straight-up goofy & everyone’s aware of it & has fun with it, yet the trend of approaching what are often nuanced and multi-layered works in terms of how well they fit and/or can be shoved into pretty cliche ideas of Redemption Arc or Enemies to Lovers or Hero Actually Bad, Villain Actually Good etc...well, it just seems to cheapen and even erase even the possibility of understanding the wonderful complexity or even endearing simplicity that made these works so beloved in the first place. Again, I feel like I need to make it clear that I’m not saying fandom should be a space where people are constantly trying to one-up each other with their hot takes in literary analysis, but it would be nice and even beneficial to allow room for commentary that strives to approach these works in a multi-faceted way, analysis & interpretations that go against the popular fandom beliefs, & criticism of the work or even of fandom trends (yes it is in fact possible to legitimately love something but still be critical of its aspects) instead of immediately attacking people who try to engage in such as just being haters who don’t want anyone to have fun ever (X_X).

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Anyway, I know I didn’t cover even half of the stuff you brought up in the first place anon, but I don’t want any interested parties to this post to suffer too long through my text wall lol. I was asked to try my hand at illustrating Guanyin, but as with you I’m nowhere near as informed as I should be about her, so I want to do more research on her history and religious importance before I attempt a portrait. I’ll try my best, and do plan to pair that illustration with my own outsider’s attempt to summarize her character. From what little I do know I am in full agreement that her backstory is so incredibly amazing...just the fact that she literally eschewed the bliss of Nirvana to help all beings reach it, and even split herself into pieces in the attempt to do so (with Buddha granting her eleven heads and a thousand arms as a result)...man, I can see why she’s such a beloved & respected deity.

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As for what western fandom commonly does with everyone’s favorite god-fighting primate...I can talk about this at length if there’s interest, but for this post I’ll just say that I guess one lesson from all of this is that for all the centuries that have passed since Journey to the West was first completed, literally no one drawing inspiration from the original tale in the west (lol) has come even slightly close to being able to equal or even capture half the extent of the nuance, complexity, religious, historical, and cultural aspects, and humor that define Wu Cheng'en's story of an overpowered monkey who defied even Buddha.

So thank the heavens we'll always have the original.

#journey to the west #jttw #guanyin #sun wukong #monkey king #monkie kid #fandom #fandom critical

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baticorngirl · 3 years ago

Text

Title: Names and Knowledge

Rating: General Audiences Fandom: Batman/DC Relationship(s): Ra's al Ghul & Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Characters: Damian Wayne, Ra's al Ghul, Bruce Wayne, Talia al Ghul, Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth,

Summary:

In an alternate earth where Ra's and Bruce's allyship (as appearing in Batman: Son of the Demon) works out, and where he was raised by both their parents with their families at peace, Damian Wayne-Al Ghul --now raised as anything but an assassin-- finds himself with much more mundane kindergarten problems than if he were a child soldier; homework being the prime opponent. At first, the kindergarten-level "fun homework" type questions are easy for him, causing no stress at all, until one much more puzzling question comes up. Despite his usual intelligence, Damian cannot seem to think of what his parents names are. With the paper due tomorrow morning, and fate constantly edging at his back to keep him from getting his much-needed answers, will Damian be able to find an answer before his school-day bedtime gets the best of him? And if so, will the answer he gets truly be worth all his effort?

But most of all, Damian's biggest doubts lie in a completely different question... is 'Beloved' a real name?

Part 1 of 3 (7.5k of 24.2k total words)

Author's Note:

This fic was... actually supposed to be short, believe it or not, and CERTAINLY not multiple chapters long. Unfortunately, it seems I'm incapable of that. At least you get more content this way! That being said, because this story ended up being so long, most of the characters/relationships aren't actually for this first chapter, but future ones.

Oh, also, Damian calls his father "Baba" in this, which (I think) means "dad" in arabic, and besides, I've seen other fanfics have him call Bruce this too, so you know... it just seemed cute. I don't actually know anything about the arabic language though (just looked this up), so please let me know if I used it incorrectly.

One more thing I'd like to address is Ra's' characterization in this. If you find it odd and need an explanation for the way I portrayed him, please read the following (but if not, you're also welcome to skip it-- I understand it's kind of long):

It's not how I usually portray him (and definitely not how the MAJORITY of fandom does), so it may come off as out of character to some readers. You are completely allowed to prefer a different characterization (as I've already said, this is rare even for me), and feel free to click off due to that, but it IS still supposed to be based off of canon-- just specifically Batman: Son of the Demon's version, which could be considered slightly out of character in itself compared to some other stories. That being said, I do think it's an interesting take, so using it for this one fanfic was actually quite fun writing-wise. Ra's always has a lot of different perfectly-canonical interpretations (some of which ARE similar to Son of the Demon) of his character anyway, so it's only fair to experiment. I also took some inspiration from Ra's' more recent characterization in the Robin series, since it A) went well with Batman: Son of the Demon's interpretation, and B) I just like it.

Anyway, now I'll let you go ahead and read it! Enjoy!

Damian knew a lot of things.

He knew how to spell "cat" and "dog''. He knew how to count to a hundred, and how to write his name in cursive. He knew that the earth orbited the sun. He knew that there were around three-hundred-sixty dog breeds, and that they were all amazing. He knew his family were all criminals, in one way or another, and that he wasn't supposed to tell anyone that. Damian even knew basic addition, too.

He also knew that if there's one thing kids hate, it's homework– in all of its forms.

"Here, children. These papers I'm passing out will serve as the homework for tonight. Be sure to fill every single question out! We'll need them completed for an activity tomorrow." The teacher's voice rang out loud and clear over the kindergarten class of 21 students. Some were shuffling around in their seat, or letting out whispered giggles with a friend nearby, leaving only around half the class truly paying attention to the words, but she didn't bother to repeat herself.

The anticipated groan of those who were listening, loud yet low in tone, did the job for her. In a mix of realization and mere solidarity, everyone quickly joined in on this loud grumble, flopping over in dramatically exaggerated motions of frustration. The sounds only got louder by the second until, for a mere microsecond, it reached the point of almost sounding like the growling of a lion, just before fading out to let the teacher speak once again. Or, more accurately, for them to go back to their shuffling and side conversations as they ignored her.

The teacher rolled her eyes half-heartedly, "Just look at it before you get too upset, please. It's not even academics." She finished a full circle around the class, putting down a copy on the final desk, leaving only one –her own– left in her hands. Her fingers gently patted that copy, pointing to the words written on it. "In fact, I was hoping it could be fun."

As if on cue, all the kindergarteners immediately bobbed their heads down to look at it, a few squinting at the words.

Damian was not squinting, though. Damian read it swiftly. He was seated at the back of the class, in a bright orange child-sized chair that was directly behind a tan-colored desk, which of course was also much shorter than adult height. A fan, which sat only a few feet away from his desk, blew at the corners of his sheet.

He'd always been one of the better readers of his class; Damian had been read many bedtime stories when he was younger, and had been encouraged to give his best attempt at reading every one of them on his own. Besides, he was generally considered naturally gifted at school work. Thus, as he stared down at it, words like 'different,' 'everyday,' 'common,' and even 'passions' stood no match against his curious little green eyes.

"It's a list of questions about you and your families, that's all." The teacher explained, "Nothing to stress about, it shouldn't take too long. Although it's preferred, I don't even ask you to necessarily write in full-length sentences. Just try to answer each question in some way, and ask a parent or sibling for help if you need it. Now, before we start getting ready for dismissal, does anyone have any questions?"

A couple kids raised their hands, both of which got their questions answered in less than a minute. Mostly, they were about what a particular word meant or what they should do if they can't find a specific answer, so Damian stopped paying attention. He began to scan his eyes over the paper, quietly thinking each answer to himself.

"No more questions? Alright then, let's start p–" The loud announcement made Damian's head pop back up. His mouth drifted open, but in a mindlessly aloof manner. It hung there in a blank expression as the teacher glanced at the clock. "Actually, it appears we have some extra time, so why don't you guys get started on the paper? I'll give you, let's see… three minutes? Hopefully by the end of that you kids will have little enough work left to stop your groans."

She let out a small laugh, but then swiftly plopped down on her desk and looked down at her own stack of papers. With a sigh, she began her own much more challenging work.

Clack! Damian grabbed his pencil up from the desk, only to immediately throw its tip directly onto the papers so he could begin writing. It was undeniably basic, with him knowing most answers immediately upon sight of them. Damian smirked. His arm swung left and right, up and down as he wrote each answer down as fast as he could, as if racing to be able to complete it before the time ended.

'What's your (full) first name?'

'Do you have any nicknames?'

'What's your last name(s)?'

'Do you have any siblings? If so, how many?'

It was easy. Other than perhaps a spelling mistake or two, Damian had several questions fully completed by the time the first minute was up. His smirk only grew, pushing at his cheekbones. Damian's eyes narrowed with a sudden burst of determination, and yet again, he sped several questions ahead.

'When is your birthday?'

'What's your favorite song?'

'What's your favorite food?'

'Do you have any pets? If so, what animal(s) are they?'

Damian especially liked this question. He wrote not only in full sentences, but managed to come up with an entire 4 sentences detailing his love for his pets. In fact, as he scribbled in the last couple words, he just barely didn't run out of room on the piece of paper. At this point, the corners of his lips had risen so much he was outright grinning at the thought of such beloved animals.

"My parents' names?" Damian's eyebrows suddenly furrowed, letting the grin get swiftly wiped off of his face. This one, unfortunately, was not as easy. For a split second, he'd almost let his pen drop down and write "Mama" and "Baba" but the unfortunate truth was that he knew, as much as he used them, those were not their names. Not the ones the school was looking for, at least.

He bit his lip. Damian would not settle for an inadequate answer. Specifically, the Son of both the Bat and one of the most intelligent assassins around, would not settle for an inadequate answer. He was not that weak.

His mouth flopped into a pout, unable to recall any other names besides the ones he'd been taught to call them. His mind felt blank.

Damian knew a lot of things, but apparently, he did not know his own parent's names.

Now frustrated, he shook his head furiously before skipping over that question and moving on to the rest of the papers. He could do his figuring once he was home, where surely he'd hear their names said more than enough times to be able to write them down– or his idea of how their names seemed like they should be spelled, at least.

Fortunately for him, or perhaps even unfortunately, depending on how his rushing hands considered it, dismissal came quickly. The teacher hollered out instructions to the clumps of children as they all hurried off to the hooks and cubbies where their belongings were kept. Hands reached over one another, so buried in chaos that from an outsider's perspective, one could never truly tell which hand even belonged to each child. It was messy, to say the least, but as they did every dismissal time, these shoves and grabs sorted out the bags in a timely-enough manner.

Damian quickly slung his backpack over his shoulder. It had little faces dotted all over it, each one the face of a different cartoon-ishly-drawn animal. Although perhaps it was childish or even 'uncool' by a certain kind of person's standards, Damian liked the backpack. Animals were an interesting matter, with each species that was shown on his backpack having its own complex body and genetic makeup. He felt the undeniable sophistication and maturity of the scientists that discovered those things lay upon his back as he walked through the halls and out to the front door.

He was smiling again as he went. His swift legs carried him to the front of the clump, arms swirling about with a sense of confident eagerness. As they reached the doors and the windows nearby, his eyes were the first to peer out and get a good glance at the crowds of parents parked outside, all waiting to pick up a child or two. Even in those mere seconds he could look, his eyes immediately scanned the area for his own family, searching for a parent, Alfred, or even a limo to show they were out there.

Damian couldn't seem to find anything, especially before the impatient students behind him quickly nudged him forward and out through the door.

Outside, Damian scanned again. Nothing. He frowned. They normally got here on time, or even early. His eyebrows furrowed in a way that almost imitated his detective of a father, evaluating which one would be more likely to be late. His father had Batman duties that jumped up at even the most random or uncoordinated times, so perhaps it was him. His eyes then opened wide with delight at that thought. Surely, if it was his father that had come to pick him up, he'd figure out his name soon based on what his 'Dad friends' called him, and possibly figure out what his mother's name was, too, if she came up in their conversation. It was a good plan, assuming his inherited detective skills were not wrong.

Suddenly, interrupting Damian's train of thought, an arm reached around him and grabbed his whole body up from the ground. His mouth dropped open in surprise, speechless as someone squished him up against themself and patted his back with a firm grip.

It was not Talia. Her arms were not this big, and judging by how far up from the ground he'd gotten picked up, Damian doubted she was this tall, either. It was not Bruce, either, for his pick-up style was always much more passive, yet also swifter than this. It was also not Alfred, who wouldn't have picked him up without giving a formal greeting.

Damian twisted his head upwards to look at this unknown person. He blinked at the man, more than startled.

The Demon's Head. Ra's Al Ghul. A Demon in every right, and one worth legends. A murderer, but also a conquerer. Someone to be feared by every inch of one's mind and body, and someone to give up on all hope of survival once he determines you his enemy. In fact, once you even see the sight of such a sinister and powerful figure, you shall give up most of that hope already. The Head of the Demon, in all his glory, stared down at Damian with quiet eyes.

Ra's smiled, "How was school? I hope you paid attention to every little detail, as knowledge is p–" Abruptly, he cut himself off and frowned. "Damian, you look a little shaken, did you forget I was picking you up today?"

The Head of the Demon…. Otherwise known as Damian's grandpa.

"My parents never told me about it," Damian replied. He looked downwards, awkward in the carrying position Ra's was holding him in. He shifted slightly, subtly fidgeting. "Are you sure you're even allowed to pick me up? I thought you were a very dangerous, heavily-searched-for criminal!"

"Shhhh. First of all, there's no need to announce it in front of all these protective parents… Second of all, just because the authorities hate me doesn't mean they necessarily know who it is they're attempting to take captive." Ra's shrugged, "Your parents have probably already emailed your teachers that your grandparents were picking you up today, assuming even that much is necessary, so no one will suspect a thing. I keep my profile low enough that the world will recognize me by nothing but possibly my name, and even then, those legends only circulate in certain areas. There's no reason I'm more incapable of picking you up than Mr. Pennyworth. Don't worry about it."

"Oh," Damian's eyes squinted in quiet thoughtfulness. He bit his lip. "But what if you do get recognized? My parents told me that the police will try to chase you then! That doesn't seem worth picking me up for."

"Seriously, Damian. You have no reason to be concerned in the slightest." Ra's' mouth rested in a slight frown, but one that did not curl downwards, instead making a harsh straight line between his lips. "If worst comes to worst, it's astonishing what the fear factor can do on an exhausted teacher."

"Oh," Damian repeated. This time, he stayed silent in his thoughtfulness.

"Your parents just needed a break, Damian," His grandfather continued to explain. To Damian's delight, he slowly began to lower Damian to the ground, switching from picking him up to simply holding his small hand. "Besides, I was more than happy to spend some time with my grandson, and have some quality time to advise him before he gets too far in life for the advice to help…. That's the job of grandparents, isn't it?"

Damian shrugged, but then nodded, "But it's also to spoil us. You don't have a drop of candy in your house, do you? That needs to change." He let out a quiet, mischievous giggle.

"Unfortunately, that would go against the advice I'm trying to guide you with," Ra's' mouth creased into an even more distinct frown. He began to lead Damian away from the school and towards the parking lot, head high in the air where Damian couldn't even catch a glimpse of his eyes anymore. "We're going to need to allow someone else to pick up that duty, instead."

"You're failing in your duties, Grandfather?" Damian giggled again, "That's sad."

To his dismay, he got no answer, but rather was simply pulled along at an increasingly rapid pace towards the neat arrays of colorful cars in front of them in silence.

After a brief minute of this, Ra's spoke again, "I know what you're really wondering. How did I convince your father to allow me to take care of you without his supervision, especially for such a long period of time?" His frown quickly faded with the change of subject.

Damian felt his grandfather squeeze his hand as they crossed the street. Both their shoes made thumping sounds against the bumpy gravel, bouncing over bold, thick white lines. At this point, they'd made it past the parking lot, and over to the sidewalks on the streets nearby. Damian looked left and right unsurely as Ra's tugged his hand around each bend or turn in their steps. When he glanced backwards, his school was getting increasingly smaller in the distance.

"He's unbelievably protective of you, Damian. I'm your grandfather, so you'd think he'd trust me to protect you if danger arose, but –as the whole kilometer-long list he gave me would prove– that's clearly not the case." Ra's' eyebrows in subtle amusement, "It's as if he doesn't even realize that I took care of your mother constantly when she was a child! If I'm capable of raising a child, you would think I could be trusted with one for a mere afternoon! …Although your father is an intelligent man, sometimes he really can be quite unnecessarily paranoid."

Damian's eyes squinted in the bright sunlight, getting only more confused when Ra's led him around another corner and down another road. Now, he couldn't see even the tiniest glimpse of his school in the distance, with both buildings and the space between them and the school getting in the way. He frowned. Ra's brought him to another crosswalk, pulling him over it the moment the traffic cleared.

"As a matter of fact, one of those rules was to always hold your hand at crosswalks,"

"Wait, you both read and listened to the rules my father gave you?" Damian's eyes opened wide in surprise, "That's new. I thought your goal was to advise me, and generally your advice includes taking risks and regaining courage so you can not be afraid to get world domi– world domina…. World taking-over."

"Oh, no. Although I respect him, those rules are too much to be respected," Ra's replied, immediately shaking his head side to side in a rapid motion. "I did no more than glance over the list –which by the way, you will not be telling him– and happened to notice that one, mostly because it seemed so utterly ridiculous that I had to take a moment to let out a chuckle about it to myself. In fact—"

Without a moment's warning, Ra's ripped his hand away from Damian, who's eyes then opened even wider.

"—Surely you can handle following me across the road on your own, no?"

Damian stood there, blinking with a shocked expression plaguing his face, without moving another inch. He looked around himself, searching for some kind of reason for Ra's' sudden departure. He spun around in a full circle, only to see Ra's even further ahead of him, beginning to leave him behind. Fortunately, Damian finally followed, frantically running to catch up.

"See? I'm telling you, he's completely underestimating not only my ability, but yours, as well. If I were you, I'd be offended by the assumed incompetence." Once Damian caught up, Ra's looked down at the child, pure frustration in his gaze. "Please, don't make his mistakes. Don't underestimate your enemies, but also do not underestimate your family and friends. They're capable of a lot, as well, both to your benefit and to your demise. You must be aware."

Still a bit confused, Damian softly shrugged.

Soon, they arrived at a fancy car, big and luxurious like Bruce's limousines but with even more complex, old-fashioned details. It made a gentle vrooming sound as they sped off, over to a League of Assassins hideout placed just outside Gotham's borders. Damian uncomfortably laid his backpack next to him. His eyes bounced around the new vehicle, taking in its uncommon and abstract yet undeniably impressive features. He fidgeted in his seat with excitement and intrigue.

Once they got to the hideout, Ra's immediately ushered Damian to a table for some afternoon tea.

"As I was saying way before, when we got so quickly interrupted with your confusion, did you learn anything of interest while you were at your education institution?"

Damian and Ra's were seated in one of the courtyards, letting a soft breeze tickle at their backs as they sipped their tea. The sun glared down on them, bouncing on the rims of the cups, teapot, and sugar bowl, shimmering on their reflective, glassy surface. The table underneath the dishes glinted a bit as well. It wasn't a very large table, with the ability to seat only maybe one more person before they ran out of room, but for two people drinking nothing but tea, it served its purpose fine. Damian leaned back on his chair, feeling the rough fabric of the backpack strap, which he hadn't had a chance to do more than casually hang on his chair, itching at his back. Meanwhile, Ra's sat up straight with a much crisper, neater appearance than the child.

Damian thought about his grandfather's question for a moment, "No….Well, they taught us about penguins and how they protect and warm their eggs before hatching, but nothing you'd find to be of interest." He ended up shaking his head, slow but certain, just before quietly snorting and letting out a soft chuckle. "You would've hated it! They didn't even say a single thing about the meaning of life at all!"

"I didn't say I was expecting them to," Ra's replied monotonously. He didn't return Damian's upbeat laughter in the slightest. "It is their duty to teach you the basics of the world– the concrete, hard facts. But the meaning of life? That's my job to teach you."

A smile did begin to creep out with the last line, drastically contrasting his previous lack of emotion.

"And your job…. To learn and discover for yourself, Damian."

He pushed himself up from his seat to lean in closer to Damian. His hand, firm in its movements, reached over to pet the soft hair that stuck up from Damian's head. He ruffled it up playfully, letting his smile quickly increase. Ra's' eyes stared into Damian's, much more upbeat but still sincere in every word he spoke.

"It's your life. You decide the meaning, not those teachers. You can decide it based on their concrete facts, if it is what pleases you, but you can also base it off of the facts you find in your own experiences, as you're out there finding yourself." He jolted his chin downward, almost as if he was mimicking half a nod to settle the statements into Damian's head. "All that matters is that you must give your life meaning, and you must make an impact… For not only yourself, and for the sake of proving yourself worthy of the privilege of life, but for proving yourself worthy of the legacy your family passes down to you, and the privilege of that. You must make every minute worth something, Damian. You cannot settle for less than your full potential and you cannot be any less than fully ambitious, for no other reason than that you can. You must be powerful, because whatever do you get from being less than such? That…. Those intricate meanings and ways to see past simple choices– they are my job to teach you. Perhaps it is not my business to decide what defines you, but I will guide you on the right path to prove yourself in the most honorable ways. I am your elder, therefore I have wisdom I shall pass down to you. Do you understand?"

Damian nodded, but as Ra's continued prattling on and on about every little detail of what the meaning of life meant and what it means to find your own meaning, all of which meant just about nothing to a five-year-old, he stopped paying the slightest bit of attention. Ra's' 'wisdom' got boring quickly. He tapped his fingers on the table and let his eyes wander away from Ra's in exasperated boredom.

Suddenly, his back felt the backpack strap again. Damian's eyes lit up with a realization; he still had his backpack, right there and handy to grab.

In a single swift motion, Damian grabbed the backpack right off the back of his chair and into his lap. Damian carelessly flung the zipper to the opposite side and tugged out his homework papers, sticking his tongue out in speedy focus. He pulled out a pencil, as well, and immediately continued writing down answers. Ra's titled his head at the sudden action, but, to Damian's delight, was too deep into the spirit of his speech to bother doing any more.

As Ra's went on and on, getting just the slightest bit louder in hopes it would make Damian pay attention to his 'important advice,' Damian kept working on his homework and paying absolutely no attention. But Ra's still thought he was, if only a little, so Damian reached the end of his homework questions on what was probably only the sixth paragraph of the 10-page-long meaning of life essay Ra's had mentally constructed. He frowned. This meant he might have to start listening to his grandfather again.

Then Damian remembered about the question he'd been forced to skip.

He flipped back to that page, purposely making more noise with the papers than necessary to drown Ra's out. He narrowed his eyes at it, then glanced back at Ra's. He likely wouldn't get a chance to see his parents, or hear what people called them, until much too late in the day. Damian's eyes bounced back and forth rapidly. Ra's was not a preferred person to ask. He was too serious about these things, and not casual enough to shrug a question off, but also too casual with his conversation-starting to give a swift answer. But, nevertheless, there wasn't exactly anyone else to ask, so he gulped down his doubts and opened his mouth.

"...of which Talia showed in many ways, including her achievements as one of my most trusted assassins, and when conflicts came, proved herself even a relatively worthy enemy. If that is her life choice, then…"

Damian, who had just then leaned forward to Ra's to speak, started listening to a small section of his grandfather's rambling. He suddenly smirked. As if meant to be, he'd managed to overhear what was clearly his mother's name in just that fragment.

'Talia.'

He scribbled it down as quickly as he could before going right back to listening. Ra's wasn't mentioning his father's name at all. Spit welled at the back of his throat, which he quickly swallowed and opened his mouth for a second time. He would not be as lucky with his father as with his mother, it was clear.

"...illustrates the importance of earth in all our lives, therefore embarking the mea–"

"What's my father's name?" Damian blurted out, cutting Ra's off mid-sentence.

Ra's' eyes opened wide, blinking in surprise. His eyebrows furrowed and tilted downward, as if attempting to sort out the reasoning behind Damian's sudden question, and what, exactly, his father's name had to do with the meaning of life. Did he seriously think 'Batman' was the meaning of life? Ra's' mouth gaped open.

"I– I was given this homework sheet, you see. His name is, um… needed." Damian's cheeks turned red as the slightest bit more self-awareness made it into his mind. He looked downward at the paper. "But I'm afraid I've forgotten his exact name, so if you could–"

Ra's still had one more question, which he swiftly interrupted with, "Damian…. You– You don't know your own father's name?"

Damian's cheeks, already so flushed with embarrassment, got even more red.

"How old are you again, my boy?" Ra's began to let out a stifled laugh at Damian. "I thought you had already matured from toddler age."

"Five years old," In some desperate attempt to impress his grandfather out of laughing, Damian puffed his chest out with forced confidence. He crossed his arms and lifted his chin up high. "But, in my 'education institution' we recently did the complex figuring of our age by a different measurement. Months, to be specific. I easily cal– calcul… calculated that my age was, um, 66 months. 12 months in a year, they told us, so with the time since my birthday, that's what it obviously added up to."

"Ah, I see," Ra's' laugh faded, but his amusement did not, "That's good. They're teaching you basic common sense."

Damian frowned, letting his confident pose quickly slip away from him. He popped his mouth open again, only to close it after another second. He looked downwards, unsure what to say. Ra's paused in his chatting, as well, but only for a moment. As Damian's cheeks returned to their embarrassed redness, he began to speak in a slightly less patronizing tone. His eyes looked so upwards that they didn't quite look at Damian, but looked right over the short child's head.

"I say that with the utmost sarcasm, of course. Not that I expect you to be able to fully recognize sarcasm at such an inexperienced age." Ra's' head tilted to one side, but then, in a quite abrupt motion, switched to the other. "But, in all reality, it is very much a good thing that they are teaching you common sense. I expect you to graduate, hopefully quite soon, to more complex subjects like science and literature of those wiser than you so you can get an uncommon sense of the world, beyond those around you– yet common sense is still undoubtedly important. It is the baseline of all sense, truly. It is where you start. First, you are saying the amount of months old, then the days old, then the maturity and brain stages on a scientific level. It's all connected, and hence, it's always good to be learning common sense. It will always come in handy, in everything, so in some ways, it may be superior to even the–"

Throughout Ra's' second speech of the day, Damian's body language quickly faded in its nerves. Instead of hunching over, he looked back up at Ra's with once-again eager eyes. With a gentle thwap, Damian slapped the side of the table as a sudden burst of assertiveness came rushing in. He crossed his arms neatly over his chest before repeating his original question, this time much louder.

"Yes yes, of course, but more importantly," His hand hit the table once again, "What is my father's name? I suffered this cruel humiliation, all to not even get my question answered?"

"Cruel humiliation?" Ra's cocked an eyebrow at Damian, "That's a strong word for a few teasing sentences, Young Boy. I'd like to believe you're only being sarcastic or making a subtle joke, but if you really do view that as humiliation or even cruelty, I can respect a fellow man's internal suffering. After all, you were quite… courageous asking such a meaningless question. It's always important that–"

"Just. Answer. The. Question." Damian's mouth flopped into the biggest pout he'd done all day.

"Of course. I apologize, Grandson," Ra's swiftly nodded, but he paused in his speech immediately after. Damian tapped his fingers against the table as aggressively and loudly as he could to express his pure frustration, all while watching Ra's calmly pick up his teacup, press it slowly to his mouth, only to take even longer lowering it back down. "The detective's name is–"

Just as Ra's was finally beginning to say it, Damian jumped up from his seat, "Oh, wait! Of course! 'The detective!' You're always calling him that. No wonder you believed me to be foolish before. It's so obvious that 'the detective' is my father's name. I apologize for ever making a fool out of myself by not realizing it before."

He grabbed his pencil, shoving it down hard onto the paper before aggressively scribbling down the words as fast as his fingers could possibly manage. His mouth curled upwards on one side in a pleasant smirk, completely unaware of the look his grandfather's own face was quickly spiraling into. Ra's leaned over, pressing his forehead to his palm in a facepalm, all with exhausted limbs.

"My god," He muttered, letting a breath huff out of his nose loudly, "You're hopeless."

"What do you mean?" Damian had just finished writing the words down, and was beginning to lift his eyes back up. He had finally noticed Ra's' reaction to the whole name assumption, and despite his earlier confidence, was less than pleased. "I just figured out the name, all on my own. Aren't you proud?"

Ra's sighed, "The 'Detective' is not a name, and if it were, your father would be made fun of to a torturous level. It's just a nickname, Damian. It's quite obviously just a nickname… or a title, really. Something I call him out of honor and respect, to signify our relationship as equals. Just like how your mother and father will sometimes call you things like 'sweetheart' or other terms of endearment, 'Detective' is a term of, well… respect."

"Oh…" The excitement immediately fell out of Damian's eyes. For a moment, his body language portrayed passiveness, just before getting abruptly more aggressive. He scoffed, "Well how was I supposed to know that?"

"Perhaps the fact that it's just a word? It's not even something like 'violet'. I doubt there's one person in the whole world named 'Detective'. Nobody is that insane." Ra's held out his hands out in slow but expressive gestures, rolling his palms up as if showing Damian imaginary physical objects in the air.

Damian scoffed repeatedly a couple more times, but didn't say another word. He slowly began to erase 'the detective' from his homework answer.

"Now, since you wanted so badly to know what his actually name is, it's B–"

Boom! Just as Damian was writing down a B at the mere glimpse of the sound, a giant noise cut off their conversation. Out of instinct, both Damian and Ra's threw their hands over their ears, expecting another boom, which unfortunately did follow. Ra's' eyebrows furrowed with concern. He quickly got up to deal with the matter, completely forgetting the previous topic.

"Get under the table, Damian. I haven't had a chance to teach you any defense skills yet, so if this situation is as bad as it sounds, you could be in real danger if anyone too bad were to find you. I don't want to see you get hurt. For your sake, and for mine… but also for the sake of not having to break the news to your poor parents."

Then, without another word, Ra's grabbed a sword out from his belt and sprinted away.

Damian stood in shock for a moment, but as soon as he recovered, he quietly began to pull himself underneath the table as demanded. He was not used to being in these kinds of situations, even with the dangerous parents he had, so his body was a bit shaky as he did so. Fortunately, nothing happened while he waited for Ra's to return.

Apparently, it hadn't even been quite as bad as it sounded. Ra's had later explained the situation as he calmly reached his hand out to Damian to help him out from under the furniture. There were simply several very noisy accidents at the weapon-holding centers, and no dangerous intruders at all.

"The accident involved several grenades going off at the same time, due to some issues with them A) having the pins put in improperly when they were first made, and B) having some incorrect stacking on part of the transporters." Ra's had said in a smooth monotone, "An entire pile in the storage wing went down and exploded. Obviously, that does pose a certain level of danger, but not to fear– there were very few people nearby when the incident arose, and even those who were, got lucky. The doctors have assured that all injuries of theirs are not permanent in the slightest."

Ra's still didn't finish answering the previous question, though, as the entire ruckus had immediately sprung his brain far elsewhere.

"It's… a pity that you were so helpless you had to hide under furniture like a mere civilian, Damian." He tapped a finger against his chin and rubbed it in deep thought. He spoke slowly and carefully with each rebellious word. "If I let you train with a gun here, and your father found it, he'd kill me, and I wish I were exaggerating even in the slightest. But a sword? Oh, I think he'll survive, as long as we're nice and careful. You'll be careful, won't you, Damian? Can you keep a secret for your grandfather?"

A glint of sparkling mischievous joy glimmered from the corner of Damian's pupils. He could figure out his homework later, when he wasn't being given the chance to turn into a real-life ninja. He immediately nodded.

They spent the rest of the afternoon not just starting the beginner training of the sword and hand-to-hand combat (the tiniest bit of the latter, Ra's was happy to discover, Damian already knew), but also breaking nearly every other rule on Bruce's list. Although Ra's didn't train him in it, he showed Damian his favorite gun with a smile on his face, and then took him to talk to all sorts of dangerous assassins before leading Damian over to the Lazarus Pit room for a quick peek at the majestic liquid.

All of these things, Damian was fascinated by. The time passed quickly– even quicker than he would've hoped, as a matter of fact. Before he knew it, it was after dinner and he was already leaving to go back home.

As Damian was on the car ride back, with his backpack by his side for the second time, he realized something. His homework was still in there, unfinished. In all this madness, he'd forgotten about the previous question obnoxiously quickly.

Damian knew a lot of things, but he still did not know his own father's name.

His heartbeat quickened in his chest, beginning to thump in his ear. Damian's eyes popped wide open in a dreadful startle. He started to kick his feet back and forth, quicker and quicker while he processed the severity of his issue, all of which he could've solved earlier by simply reminding his grandfather. Now, when he considered the time his parents would be making him go to bed, he realized something bad; there was less than two hours left.

Frantically, Damian looked over to his grandfather, getting ready to ask him for a second time. After the tormenting humiliation of even asking such a dumb question once, he surely couldn't mentally bear another person knowing of his forgetfulness. He had to ask now, or never.

"Grandfather, you never told me what his name was," Damian's tone sped up with his nervous breaths, "You know. Baba's."

"Hurry up!" Hardly listening, Ra's shoved Damian towards the door. He swung his arm around Damian, opening the door in front of him, only to pick the child straight up and plop him down outside the vehicle. Damian's mouth opened wide with confusion and surprise as Ra's put his fingers back into the door's handle, already ready to close it and leave Damian there, but not before he said one last piece of explanation. "Go, Damian! Run in there! It's over ten minutes past the time that I promised to give you back, and for all your parents know, I dropped you off earlier only for them to not notice you until n–"

"But my question!" Damian frantically interrupted, "As I've already said, I've been tormented by your mocking, only to not receive an answer. Do you really want me to have to be tormented for the second time, asking my parents?!"

"You don't have to admit your lack of knowledge fully if you are so set on it, Damian. All you must do is be observant. As I've already said, you can ask the 'teachers' of your life for the concrete facts, or you can discover them for yourself." Ra's advised. His jaw sprung up and down, as did his tongue, in a rapid motion. Every word came out in the quickest manner his mouth could do, not thinking about the statements at all. "Just…. Watch what your mother calls him."

Immediately after finishing saying this, Ra's slammed the door shut on Damian. The driver, perfectly on cue, took less than a second to slam down on the gas pedal and tug the car straight out of there. Ra's picked his hand up, pushing it close to the window as he quickly waved at Damian, all while the vehicle gradually pulled him farther and farther away.

Unaccepting of this type of a farewell, Damian followed the car's path. He reached his arm straight out in some desperate attempt to stop it. His short legs scrambled over each big, rushed step, going as fast as he could with his run while also losing the car at a terribly quick rate.

"But in the time you were saying that, you could've just told me his actual name!" Damian reasoned between his panicked breaths, "It would've only taken a second…. Or two, I'm not sure how long his name is, but would that not have been easier than giving me that long explanation of your advice? It would've saved you some time, at least, unless he's got the longest name in the entire world!"

Did he have the largest name in the entire world?

Suddenly, Damian was very unsure. He blinked, attempting to process the puzzling idea.

Unfortunately for him, though, Ra's didn't hear a single word of his pleas. The vehicle was already far, far ahead at this point– much too far away to hear one small boy's frantic cries for help.

Damian slid to a stop, letting his sneakers make a loud squealing noise at the sudden loss of movement. His chest, which earlier he had puffed out with such confidence, could do nothing but sorrowfully cave deep into his body with each wailing cascade of rapid breaths. The exhaustion suddenly kicked in, making him lean forward as he caught his breath. His eyes still kept their gaze upwards to the fullest extent, though, and they stayed glued on to the dark vehicle that was making its way up the next road out from the house.

He managed to pull out a few more steps in front of him, only to see the vehicle become smaller and smaller in the distance.

With the evening mist swarming in to cover its tail, the car faded off into the distance, and as the dark paint of it seemed to glimmer just one last time only to disappear completely, so did Damian's hope.

Bam! His knees promptly hit the ground, right as his lips began to silently quiver. The feeling of rough gravel scraped at his lower legs, even through his pants. His head hung, letting the weight of his pressing struggle push at his back.

Damian knew a lot of things, and one of them was that he couldn't possibly admit to his parents that he didn't know their names. No matter what, he had to find another way.

As he sat there, on the cold, uneven ground, he considered that thought. He considered his grandfather's rushed suggestions, and he considered the thoughts of his parents and siblings, all of which were right inside the manor's fancy blue door, which he also considered. His pants were getting dirty and dusty from this position, as were his hands, but Damian did not move. Not even when he considered the long bath his parents would surely make him take if they saw him like this, and how boring that would be –possibly even more boring than Ra's' old voice– for him once he returned back inside. He considered the rubber duckies, too, which hardly made it any better for him. He rolled his eyes for a second, but then thought back to his father's name again, and his eyes softened. Although a bit gloomy in the sky, it wasn't actually storming, but Damian was pretty sure he heard some thunder boom in the distance at his utter misery. That misery being, of course, having to take a bath… and, of course –as his distracted mind had to quickly remind himself– losing his dignity over the horribly forgotten name.

It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps sitting on the ground and getting dirty, instead of observing his parents' discussions for clues, probably wasn't helpful.

He pouted, wanting to wait longer for some actual lightning so he could let the power of it wrestle through him dramatically like his father did at night. It was so unfair, how only adults got to do those stuff, sometimes even at midnight, while he just had to sleep through it. But, nonetheless, he slowly pushed himself up.

Damian kicked pebbles on the ground as he made his way over to the door. He plotted each foot heavily, still deep in his melancholy. Dawdling, lingering, or even loitering on his own family's property. The air was still. He felt no rush anymore, no pounding in his chest to get the answer he wanted, even as the time until bedtime was quickly running out behind him. There had been a very light sprinkle of rain an hour before, leaving puddles surrounding Damian, but he was so quiet that he resisted the urge to even splash in those.

His heartbeat was completely and utterly calm…. Until it wasn't.

All his 'symbolic' dramatic sadness and movie-style defeated-hero poses (which he, of course, had been making for several minutes now) were quickly thrown out the window, leaving just his average five-year-old life, when he saw his parents swing the door open. They paraded out to greet him, and in unison, both their arms wrapped around him in embarrassingly affection hugs.

Despite this, Damian was grateful for their interruptions. It meant he was back to his mission, back to his clean focus of achieving his goal. He was not giving up.

He would never give up, no– Damian was an achiever, not a quitter. Specifically, the Son of both the Bat and one of the most intelligent assassins around, was an achiever, not a quitter. Just like how he was not weak enough to settle for an inadequate answer, he was certainly not weak enough to fail to get any answer at all.

Damian quickly checked his watch, reading it with a focused, ambitious gaze too strong to let the worrisome numbers scare him.

He had to find his father's name, double check it for accuracy to make sure it wasn't just as inadequate as 'Baba', and then write it down with a decent-enough spelling that night, before he went to bed….

….All in the 1 hour and 34 minutes he had left.

Damian gulped.

Ending Author's Note:

Even though he's the currently the main adult here, I do not condone Ra's' actions/attitude or think anyone should repeat them in real life. First of all, I do not believe in his definition of the meaning of life. Although my own perspective is similar, I actually believe that what he says about "proving yourself worthy of the privilege of life" is quite harmful. Life is a right, not a privilege, and it's your life to do what you please with it. You should not have to prove yourself "worthy" to anyone, including your family and everyone else in your life, blah blah blah...

Okay so basically, don't trust this fanfic to know the meaning of life.

I also do not condone him letting a five-year-old cross the road without holding his hand. Oh, and there's also the fact that he's an assassin... don't murder people either, kids!

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