#this is decidedly a Process Post and part of my ~process~ is apparently... a lot of whining...

[aeide-thea]

the thing that's frustrating about trying to read german is that i'm so used to being able to precisely identify what's going on with each word in a sentence, and how all the parts stand in relation to each other, and i'm just not familiar enough with this language to do it yet! grr, argh, &c.

Erster Teil

Eine Art Einleitung

have we talked yet about how irritating it is that feminine forms in this language are so often so fucking vestigial? i didn't get tripped up by it here, but this whole ‘how would you like some words without any clarifying endings?’ thing is just. deeply offensive to my sense of order. anyway. ‘First Part. A sort of introduction.’

I

Woraus bemerkenswerter Weise nichts hervorgeht

so... ‘From which notable manner nothing results’? or ‘develops,’ or ‘emerges,’ or whatever you like for hervorgehen; i'm increasingly resenting having to try and select the correct nuance in a vacuum! also i didn't know you could use woraus as a determiner [q.v. usage #11, here], but that seems to be what's happening here? you learn something new every day.

the ~Wortstellung~ also isn't quite clear to me... or rather, it's clear from it that ‘Woraus bemerkenswerter Weise’ constitutes a single noun-phrase, and that the verb is behaving as if this were a dependent clause... which didn't quite make sense to me until i typed those last two words, because of course, it isn't an independent clause, is it? in the sense that while it may not have an explicit antecedent, it's also very much a phrasal clause, not a full sentence that stands on its own. so i guess that does make sense after all.

moving on to the first Actual Sentence, and discarding a number of ~humorously self-deprecating~ remarks about how long it has taken us to arrive there—

Über dem Atlantik befand sich ein barometrisches Minimum; es wanderte ostwärts, einem über Rußland lagernden Maximum zu, und verriet noch nicht die Neigung, diesem nördlich auszuweichen.

‘Over the Atlantic stood a barometric minimum; it moved eastwards, to a maximum settling over Russia’—i think the dangling zu here is actually a separable prefix belonging to wanderte, but i don't quite understand the comma after ostwärts or why einem... Maximum is in the dative, so i might be construing this all entirely wrongly! but: ‘it drifted eastwards, reaching a maximum where it settled over Russia, and did not yet betray the tendency to divert away from this’—what is ‘this,’ though? the Maximum?—‘to the north.' the definite article before Neigung is a little strange in english—i'd expect ‘a,’ or ‘its,’ or even ‘any,’ but maybe this is just an idiosyncrasy of the language? other than that—while i feel more than a little like a foal taking its wobbling, stilted first steps—the rest all seems more or less okay, as far as it goes...

okay. second sentence!

Die Isothermen und Isotheren taten ihre Schuldigkeit. Die Lufttemperatur stand in einem ordnungsgemäßen Verhältnis zur mittleren Jahrestemperatur, zur Temperatur des kältesten wie des wärmsten Monats und zur aperiodischen monatlichen Temperaturschwankung.

...i love (““love””) when german uses very precise, very esoteric technical terms very casually, as if they weren't deeply jarring to encounter in a scene-setting paragraph of a novel! i mean, don't let me pretend i'm knowledgeable enough to understand style or tone yet, but. ‘The isotherms and isotheres did their duty. The air temperature stood in a proper relation’—god, ordnungsgemäß is my new favorite word maybe, there's just something about compressing ‘in accordance with the regulations’ into a single adjective that... i don't know, it just feels like there's a lot of iceberg below the surface there. anyway—‘to the average yearly temperature; to the temperature of the coldest, as of the warmest, month; and to the acyclic monthly temperature variation.’ wow, this is riveting. sure am feeling glad i picked this novel to work laboriously through!

Der Auf- und Untergang der Sonne, des Mondes, der Lichtwechsel des Mondes, der Venus, des Saturnringes und viele andere bedeutsame Erscheinungen entsprachen ihrer Voraussage in den astronomischen Jahrbüchern.

‘The rise and fall of the sun, of the moon, the changing phases’—lit. ‘the light-shifting,’ but i get the impression this is all supposed to be boringly technical rather than poetic so it seems like smoothing it out auf englisch is the way to go?—‘of the moon, of Venus, of the rings of Saturn and many other important phenomena corresponded to their forecast in the astronomical almanacs.’

at this juncture we find our hero increasingly missing the readings A— came up with, and thinking glumly, maybe i should've tried kant or something, instead of this enormous Midcentury Modernist Novel... but then, i haven't even read a paragraph yet; there's no english classic i'd be giving up on this quickly. courage, dear heart, & onwards—

Der Wasserdampf in der Luft hatte seine h��chste Spannkraft, und die Feuchtigkeit der Luft war gering. Mit einem Wort, das das Tatsächliche recht gut bezeichnet, wenn es auch etwas altmodisch ist: Es war ein schöner Augusttag des Jahres 1913.

‘The water vapor in the air had its highest’—i don't really understand Spannkraft here. ‘concentration,’ maybe? ‘saturation’? or actually, let's try: ‘pressure, and the humidity of the air was slight.’ ...okay, here's a dumb science question: if there's a lot of moisture in the air, wouldn't that translate to high humidity, not low? color me confused. anyway: ‘In a word (which describes the actuality quite well, although it is also a little out of fashion): it was a beautiful August day in the year 1913.’

i! hate! having to look up so many words! this is like greek all over again, & without any beaux yeux to gaze upon my efforts approvingly, even—not to disparage the yeux of those of you who have been kind enough to engage with my deutschposting, which i am sure are perfectly beaux! but you know. ughhhhhhh. okay. paragraph zwei:

Autos schossen aus schmalen, tiefen Straßen in die Seichtigkeit heller Plätze. Fußgängerdunkelheit bildete wolkige Schnüre. Wo kräftigere Striche der Geschwindigkeit quer durch ihre lockere Eile fuhren, verdickten sie sich, rieselten nachher rascher und hatten nach wenigen Schwingungen wieder ihren gleichmäßigen Puls.

‘Cars’—or no, that isn't right, is it; we're in 1913 still, it ought to be ‘Automobiles darted down narrow’—wow, tief is remarkably hard to translate here! streets aren't ‘deep,’ so i imagine the image is one of overhung dimness... maybe ‘plunging streets in the shallowness of bright’—places? squares? spaces? when in doubt, go generic: ‘places. Pedestrian gloom formed cloudy strings.’ okay, okay, i'm sorry i was catty about how unpoetic i found the previous paragraph—peccavi, domine, miserere mei! ‘Where bolder streaks of speed drove straight through their nonchalant haste, they clotted, subsequently trickled faster, and had, after some oscillations, their regular pulse once more.’

an odd place to stop, that—mid-paragraph, even!—but i think that's all the focus i can muster for the night. stay tuned and idk, maybe we'll meet some characters eventually? looking back on what little i have so far, i can at least see that in a language i read more fluently i might find it charming, which goes some way towards my finding it charming in this one...

[lazyevaluationranch]

On a post about the Blue Haired Girlfriend's quixotic citrus breeding experiments, @voidingintotheshout​ asked:

I mean, if you wanted a hearty citrus relative, why didn’t you just grow Osage Orange? They can grow as far north as Michigan which is surely further north than anyone could reasonably expect to grow a citrus tree. They’re not edible but then hearty orange isn’t either. Osage Orange are so cool and such a interesting historical plant from the Shelterbelt era of American agriculture. Apparently they do smell like citrus.

This is part three of three. Part one. Part two.

Now you've done it! It's time for A Very Brief (But Also Insufficiently Brief) History of Twentieth Century Hardy Citrus Cultivation! Growing citrus trees this far north is kind of nuts, it's true, but I promise you it is not even close to the weirdest things people have done to grow citrus in places where the citrus doesn't think it should grow.

A note: This post will written using the Swingle citrus taxonomy system, including things that are definitely wrong. The citrus taxonomic tree looks like that one box of orphaned computer cords I keep moving with me to new houses "in case I need them" except some sort of adorable five-dimensional kitten has entertained herself with them and some of the resulting knots are not technically possible in our space-time continuum. 

The powers that be gave us citrus because nothing pleases them like seeing a geneticist cry.

1. The Migrant Trees

The Soviet Union wanted lemons for tea, and they wanted to be independent enough not to have to trade with anyone else to get them, which meant they wanted to grow their own citrus. That part of the world is not a great place to grow plants that die when the temperature goes below zero, but at the foundation of the Soviet Union, there were citrus orchards in the warmest part of Georgia, along the Black Sea. Specifically, there was about, uh, one and a half square kilometers of somewhat implausible citrus orchard.

Hang on, it is about to get way less plausible.

This is the great citrus migration: any tree that did well in one spot, they'd try planting its seeds a few kilometres further north, or a few kilometres further east. Prizes were offered for breeding hardier citrus. Slowly the orchards spread, but they were extremely weird orchards.

It's usually a few degrees warmer at ground level than up in the air, and there's way less wind. So as the trees grew, they were bent over and tied along the ground. Some of them had the central trunk run in a straight line along the ground, with branches spreading out from it like the leaves of a fern, like an espaliered tree on its side. Others were starfish shaped, with the central trunk looped down until it ended up next to the base, and the branches sprawling out along the ground from the centre like starfish legs. The citrus trees were no taller than particularly vigorous strawberry plants, but they survived the winters, and you could throw a blanket over them to help them stay warm.

None of that helped if the ground froze solid, so they needed Underground Citrus. You'd dig a ditch, down below the lowest area where the ground froze, and you'd plant flat Starfish Trees or Flat Frond Trees running along the bottom of it, too deep to freeze. In winter, you'd just cover the ditch with boards any time the temperature was expected to go below freezing - citrus would tolerate the lack of light, but not the cold. Mandarins (Citrus reticulata) seemed to do best, so that’s most of what was grown.

It is a nearly unimaginable amount of work to grow citrus this way, along the bottoms of pits and trenches. We are experimentally trying to grow a Soviet-developed mandarin breed of unknown parentage, Shirokolistvennyi, but we will definitely not be putting in that level of effort.

2. The Mixed Up Trees

There are a couple species of citrus that tolerate cold well, but taste awful. A lot of effort has gone into crossbreeding them with more edible citrus. The results are ... mixed.

The Ichang Papeda (Citrus cavaleriei) generally survives temperatures down to -18 degrees C. It is stoic and calm and has mastered emptiness. Unfortunately, it has mastered emptiness too well. The fruit smells like lemons, with maybe a hint of rose, but there's nothing to eat here. It has a rind and seeds. No juice, no flesh.

(Photo by Michael Saalfield)

The Ichang Papeda is the parent or grandparent to several delicious, extremely sour Asian citrus types. Yuzu/yuja smells like grapefruit and clean wet stones from the bottom of a fast-flowing stream. Sudachi smells like grapefruit and leaves with dew on them. (I haven't met kabosu or any other papeda hybrids personally, but they are numerous.)  They're all too sour to eat plain, unless you really need to turn your face inside out for some reason, but make for excellent flavouring. 

(We have a yuzu tree and a sudachi tree and they're surviving, but no fruit yet.)

Trifoliate orange (Poncirus trifoliata) can survive temperatures down to -30 degrees C. This may be partly because, uniquely amoung citrus, they can drop leaves in autumn or winter and regrow them in spring, like a maple tree. They also produce an internal antifreeze. They are angry, twisted, thorny little plants that yell swears when you walk past them. They make a great hedge. The fruit is furry, smells like flowers and pine trees and taste like burnt, bitter plastic. It may or may not be possible to breed the horrible taste completely out of trifoliate oranges without losing cold-hardiness, if it's due to their antifreeze chemicals. Here’s Stabby:

(Photo by Rob Hille)

Even the least terrible trifoliate crossbreeds are bitter enough to qualify as “acquired tastes.” There are recipes for trifoliate marmalade: put a dozen trifoliate oranges, a kilogram of sugar, and a kilogram of pebbles in a pot, cook until it gels, then sieve out the oranges and eat the pebbles. 

We are growing a trifoliate orange / minneola orange hybrid. And, of course, someday our own trifoliate hybrids. The Blue Haired Girlfriend planted 200 trifoliate oranges a couple years ago. There are fewer now, but the survivors have lived through two winters of snow and frost, and they might have somehow gotten more stabby. We're going to breed them, to each other or to less angry fruit, try and make something new and good from them.

I've limited this post to twentieth century hardy citrus breeding, but I have to give a shoutout to somatic hybridization, a decidedly twenty first century technique, where you take a cell from each of two different plants, remove their cell walls, put them next to eachother, and shock them with electricity until they merge into a single cell whose nucleus contains all genes from both plants. Then the new plant is like, "Wow, I guess these are all my genes? It seems like a lot, haha, but it's not like somebody made me from dismembered body parts and electricity, that is not how science works. Anyway I guess it's time to do some plant stuff now."

3. The Mutant Trees

In the 1950s, people started using radiation to randomly scramble the genes of plants. You'd irradiate seeds enough to change the genes somehow, and then you'd have to plant them to see what had happened. Maybe it was people horrified by the atomic bomb desperately wanting to find some life-supporting use for atomic fission, maybe it was government-supported cold war "atom bombs are good actually, look how many we have, USSR" propaganda. Probably both. 

This time period also saw serious plans for Orion, a spaceship with a huge metal plate for a butt, intended to be propelled by exploding atomic bombs under it, which I am not actually making up.

Thousands of people in Europe and the US signed up to receive seeds with random mutations in the mail, plant them, and report back on what they heck they grew into and if it had any useful weirdness. (The gamma radiation used to mutate the seeds did not make them radioactive themselves - the seeds were completely safe.) There were also more formal and carefully controlled university research programs in China, Japan, and the US, where plants where grown in a circular research garden with a coverable radiation source at the centre, so that the farther you got from the centre, the less radiation the plants got. Radiation breeding is less popular than it used to be, but Japan still has a very productive citrus radiation breeding program.

The most popular radiation-bred citrus is the "Rio Red" grapefruit and its offspring, which has a much deeper red than non-mutant red grapefruit.

There aren't many radiation-developed citrus breeds noted for cold-hardiness - with radiation you get whatever you get  - but there are a few, and I want one just because I think they're neat, a monument to that lovely human vision that looks at terrible weapons and somehow sees glossy-leaved trees with bright fruit.

4. The Monster Trees

Citrus are usually grown via grafting. That is, you plant a seed from a fast-growing sturdy breed, you let it grow roots and all that, and then you cut the top off and replace it with a branch from a more delicious breed. The two citruses grow together, and you end up with a tree that's disease and cold resistant in the roots, below the graft, but makes tasty fruit above the graft.

Occasionally, this process goes Wrong. 

The first recorded instance is the tree called Bizarria, discovered in 1640. Someone attempted to graft a sour orange branch onto a citron. But instead of a clean line between sour orange branches and citron roots, the graft was damaged somehow, and the two different species of cells got tangled and mixed through the whole tree. It has branches that produce citron fruit. It has branches that produce sour orange fruit. And it has branches that produce, uh ... these:

(Photo by Labrina)

Most graft chimeras are made accidentally, when the graft site is damaged. Trifoliate orange is often used as rootstock, so there are many reported chimeras involving trifoliate orange and a nicer fruit. The mixed-up cells can be arranged a lot of ways, but it's possible to have the outside layer of the tree be trifoliate orange, and the core of the tree be the other citrus (periclinal chimera). This means you could theoretically get a tree with frostproof trifoliate leaves and branches, but fruit that doesn’t taste like burnt plastic rolled in quinine.

This lucky monstrosity has, in fact, reportedly happened. Twice. There is the Prague Citsuma, discovered in a greenhouse in Prague and suspected to have been created by a Soviet breeding program. And then there is the Hormish, discovered in China and thought to have been made by frostbite messing up the clean lines of the graft. The Blue Haired Girlfriend has managed to track down budwood from the Prague Citsuma - I’m so excited! - so we'll see how the fierce thorny monster tree with a heart of gold, or at least heartwood of gold, does for us.

5. Conclusion

Humans have been trying to grow citrus trees where they don't belong for nearly two thousand years, at least since the Jewish Diaspora and people trying to grow holy etrog trees - trunks gnarled as barnacle stones and the whole tree scented like the best dream you can't remember - in Europe. Maybe longer.

The Blue Haired Girlfriend's citrus-breeding schemes aren't going to singlehandedly transform Canada into a net citrus exporter. But history shows us: it might be possible to have a little gleaming sweetness from the stony ground here, with the ravens and the fir trees and the auroras. A sweetness we made ourselves, that exists nowhere else. 

Or maybe we'll just have a bunch of weird inedible fruit. I don't know, but it's worth finding out, worth weaving together leaf and thorn and stone and the light of our hands as the years unwind. Worth it to have a quixotic project we can expect to spend decades on together, hands and hearts. This is how home is made, sometimes, with a balcony full of angry thorny little trees that shout swears at passerby.

[madhyanas]

a place at the table

Pairing: Din Djarin x gender-neutral!Reader

Rating: T/PG-13 [mild]

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Spoilers for s2ep3, Chapter 11! Reader uses they/them pronouns. References to drowning, not explicit. Descriptions of freezing/extreme cold. One reference to Chapter 9 (s2ep1). Din being as self-sacrificing as always. Din’s particular brand of Mandalorian family values. Pining, yearning, affection - just think soft.

A/N: well then. first time posting for din! this has been cooking since ep3 came out, i’m just slow. it’s soft!! and worried!! and din severely procrastinating his own identity crisis!! they’re really fuckin married, guys. lovely stuff. also, if you can’t tell, i adore frog lady. and bo-katan. mwah.

BIG thank you to @justrunamok​, @pettyprocrastination​ and @generaldamneron​ for beta-reading <33

gif credit: @captrex​ - from the post here. thanks!

masterlist

You thought you knew cold.

Days and nights in the Crest have acquainted you with it. A hollow metal hull in the depths of the galaxy, surrounded on all sides by a vast expanse of nothing. Keeping the heater on burns fuel that you can’t afford, not with three mouths to feed. Space is cold, as cold as it could get.

And then you nearly drowned.

The briny depths of Trask are frigid, you’ve come to realise. Logically, you know it’s nowhere near the freezing vacuum of space. That’s real cold; true, absolute zero. But the thing about water is that it gets everywhere. The searing, ferocious chill of it had slammed all mental processes to a halt, petrifying your rationality before all else. It drenched your clothes, your hair. Snaked into your nose and seeped into your lungs. Rushed you as a swarm; no other sensation was relevant.

At the time — scrabbling at a grate hanging overhead, right there but always just out of reach — it’s what you imagined carbonite to feel like. Conscious but consumed.

Space is cold from a distance. Water freezes from the inside, cracked and jagged and burning.

So you should be grateful for your saviours. Mandalorians, unlike any you’ve ever seen before.

Which is to say, unlike Din.

There’s a lot to think about. So many things have happened in the span of a day that you can barely keep track. And beyond all else, you want to ask how Din’s coping—

“Trask is a black market port. They’re staging weapons that have been bought and sold with the plunders of our planet. We’re seizing those weapons and using them to retake our homeworld.”

—but there are more important things to deal with at the moment.

“Once we’ve done that, we’ll seat a new Mandalore on the throne,” the red-headed woman explains.

Bo-Katan. She speaks regally, like she’s been on that very throne before. More importantly — like she’d earned it. In truth, she scares you. All three of them do, these new Mandalorians who show their faces — they scare you in the way Din did back when he was just a gruff, faceless employer. A tinge of instinct; a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

What she’s saying is important, you know that, and you can’t place the onus on Din to handle it after the day he’s had. But you can’t bring yourself to focus either. You’re barely holding it together as it is, taking mild, balmy comfort in his and the baby’s presence on either side.

The three of you, together. Right now, at this table, that’s the only thing keeping you from splintering right down the middle.

Even with a steaming bowl of broth in your hands, your fingers ache with the chill. It hurts, regaining body heat. Hurts as feeling returns to your toes. Hurts to clench your jaw, to stop it from chattering. Hurts the delicate skin of your face, thousands of icy needles jabbing into the nerves. There’s a pounding between your ears and behind your eyes. You’re tired, and you suspect Din is, too.

You really do want to ask how he’s dealing with…this. The Way has been part of his life — and part of yours, in as much of a lifetime as you’ve known him — for many, many years. An oak tree, offering security and strength to the garden. How must he feel, stoic at your side, to see these three fell theirs so easily?

An identity crisis is the last thing Din needs.

What he needs is a break. You need him to want a break.

A coo at your elbow catches your attention. The baby — safe and warm, thank the Maker — seems fascinated with the water dripping from your hair, patting his hands into the small puddles forming on his high chair and giggling at the splashes. It’s as if he was never swallowed whole in the first place; that’s another thing you’re going to recall decidedly later. Nonetheless, he bounces back fast, your child.

You smile, hearing your teeth click, and pet the sensitive spot between his ears. He blinks at you sweetly.

Someone clears their throat.

You look up, startled, to find three pairs of eyes on you. Expecting. None of them saying… anything.

The other woman, the one with braids on her forehead, slurps her slithering noodles without blinking. Unnerving, to say the least.

“Sorry,” you blurt, more on reflex than anything else. “Did I… miss something?” The uncertainty in your voice doesn’t escape anyone’s notice.

Beneath the table, a broad thighs shifts to press against yours. Comforting. You glance at its owner.

“It’s… Mandalorian business.” Bo-Katan tilts her head. Her gaze flits between you and Din, polite and clear. “I’m sure you understand.”

You blink, bemused. “Oh?”

And then you realise.

She’s asking you to leave.

“Oh!” Your brows shoot up. One of her partners smiles ruefully in your periphery, and you are struck with the distinct feeling of being other. “Of course.”

That’s… well. It’s justified, is what it is. She’s right. You aren’t Mandalorian.

You stand quickly, and the chair grates against the floor unpleasantly. You manage not to cringe, somehow.

There’s a free table on the other side of the cantina, you think you saw it as you entered. Should you take the baby? No, Din’s never liked being away from him, even if you’re there. But they’re armed, all three of them, and you don’t know them, even if they did save your life, saved the baby’s, saved Din’s—

There’s a hand at your elbow.

“They stay.”

Din’s voice is unyielding. He hasn’t moved at all besides his grip on your arm, keeping his visor trained on Bo-Katan, who raises a brow.

No one says anything for a long, tense beat. Until—

“They’re not Mandalorian,” Bo-Katan says bluntly. It’s something you don’t have the nerve to state aloud. Something Din is apparently ignoring, however much you’d never believe it.

He stays silent.

“It’s okay,” your murmur, and the silver helmet you know turns to you fractionally. Barely anything, and you know you’re heard. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s still staring Bo-Katan down. “I don’t mind.”

There are three sharp, foreign gazes on you, and your newly-rejuvenated toes curl in your boots. After so many days bundled up in the Crest, you’d forgotten what it felt like to be watched and unwanted. The company inside had never made you feel that way.

“They stay,” he insists, making you jolt. “As is their right.”

Bo-Katan’s half-smile is faintly amused. “And which right is that?” she asks, like she already knows the answer. It seems like they all do, daring Din to state this mysterious ‘right’ that you’re in the dark about.

“It is their right as a member of my clan.”

The gloved fingers on your elbow tighten, leather creaking ever so slightly but just enough to remind you to breathe.

You blink at the silver helm dumbly, forgetting your onlookers for the time being.

He’s— He means that. Din doesn’t say what he doesn’t mean. Every word is measured, deliberate. He chooses his words like he chooses his weapons; they’re specific, well-cared for. Only to be used when necessary. Which suggests that—

Well. Maybe you should sit down.

As you do so, the woman opposite Din releases a slow, steady breath — Maker, you’d almost forgotten she was here — and squares her shoulders.

“Very well,” she says coolly. Her eyes flit to you, appraising, searching, before returning to Din. “As I was saying…”

And then you tune out again, ever so slightly. The information is going in, but you’re not truly registering its significance. Stupid, really, considering Din’s quite literally just fought for your place at the table. But you do.

You stare at the chipped, stained wood as if it holds the answers to questions you don’t know how to phrase. The baby babbles something incoherent, trying to get your attention, so unjustly denied to him, and you offer a finger for him to hold.

Clan. As in, part of. It’s new.

It feels like a small, three-fingered hand, gravelly warmth next to your thigh, and a hand pulling you back to the table.

———

Tracking down the Frog Woman and her husband isn’t too tedious. Trask’s daylight hours are long, for a moon, so even after Din’s aside with Bo-Katan and her people, it’s barely dark as you make your way to the inn.  

“It won’t be long,” Din had assured you. “I go with them, assist with their mission, and come back within a day. Routine transport raid.”

Them. Their. It didn’t bode well that his so-called brethren are this… dissimilar.

“Last time you helped someone out, you got swallowed by a desert dragon.”

“That wasn’t last time.”

“Still counts.”

Childish, perhaps. Petulant. But correct.

The problem was, so was he. There was no choice.

Now, Din leads your party of three briskly down the street.

Since his father had manually adjusted the drift range on the crib beforehand, the child has no issue being carted along express-style, making curious noises at the various fishing apparatus he sees scattered around the port.

You don’t have such luxuries as the little womp rat, so you’re left to frantically try and match your Mandalorian’s pace. The lingering shivers wracking your frame are shoved aside for the wheezing burn beginning to creep up your sides.

“Hey, uh, Mando?” you ask, somewhat out of breath. “You think you could slow down? You’re going a little fast—”

Your shoulder clips a passing Quarren roughly, spinning you round with the force of the collision. The point of impact throbs unpleasantly, painful but superficial. Stunned, you can only blink as the tentacled man snaps something unintelligible in your face. An apology sits ready on your tongue and you open your mouth to speak, before a solid wall appears between you.

A breathing, unyielding wall of leather and beskar, glowering at the Quarren silently as you’re turned away, closer into the gentle bend of his hold. Quietly surrounding, protecting. Something else you’re not used to, from when it was just the three of you in the ship. But this feels… good. It feels like it’s yours.

The other man balks, and leaves with a grumble under his breath.

Din glances around above your head, ever aware, ever cautious. “Stay close,” he murmurs and—

You could probably pinpoint the exact moment your body temperature spikes, as a large, gloved hand comes to rest on your lower back. “Oh. Okay.”

The rest of the walk passes you by.

“I wasn’t trying to rush you,” he says tersely, having slowed his pace considerably. There’s an apology in there somewhere; you can hear it. “But you’re soaked, and you’re cold. You need to get warmed up.”

You smile. It’s really not the time, but— “Are you offering?”

A huff from the modulator, and he shakes his head silently. Less rejection, rather than fond exasperation.

“You must be cold, too.” The realisation dawns on you in an instant. Oh, Maker. He’s been freezing for just as long as you, now. If not more, since he hasn’t eaten anything warm.

The next shake of the helmet is more insistent, purposeful. “No. I wear more layers than you do.”

“You dived into the ocean, Din.” His name is hushed, spoken after a quick look to confirm that no one can hear you.

“So did you.”

“I was pushed, that’s not the same thing.”

Din doesn’t respond, and your smile dims. He seems to hesitate for a moment, before pressing a button on his vambrace, and the baby’s crib floats a little closer.

Oh.

He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the walk. You regret bringing it up.

But his hand doesn’t stray from your back.

——

The building is small, cozy. Barely a couple of stories tall. And, to your delight, it’s warm.

“Thank you for having us,” you tell the Frog Woman gratefully. One of their towels is wrapped around your shoulders; a placeholder until you can find a clean, dry change of clothes. You feel better already. “We’re sorry to impose like this.”

She croaks something vaguely welcoming and you smile, keeping a shrewd, wary eye on the baby — now staring at the egg canister with wondrous intent, reaching his stubby little hands out from his place clutched to your chest. Now there’s something to keep you occupied for the evening.

A hand on your shoulder, warm and light, and you turn around. Din tilts his head towards the door. “I’ll be going,” he says, barely a whisper past the lip of the helmet.

“What? Uh, Mando, hold on!” Halfway out of the chair already, you stare at him incredulously, before turning back to the expecting parents. “Just— Just a second, please. Could you take the baby?”

However disinclined she may be to your carnivorous terror, the Frog Woman takes him into her hands gently. She’s sweet, kind. You hope she understands the depths of your appreciation.

A polite nod from Din to the couple. “I’ll be back for them soon.”

He follows you into the narrow corridor. The door slides shut behind you both.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You stare at him for a moment, tugging the edge of the towel at your shoulders. Your mouth opens and closes, faltering around words that don’t have the courage to form.

“I…” You deflate. “I just— I wanted to ask you that. Before you left.” It’s a foolish question. What’s wrong, like his entire way of life hasn’t been upended in a heartbeat by a careless show of face. Like the Way hasn’t just crumbled at his feet like wet sand, trodden on by three strange pairs of boots, scorched by familiar jetpack fuel.

He doesn’t say anything. No tilt of the helmet, no sinking shoulders. Nothing. Just keeps looking at you, visor tilted down to your face.

There’s a reasonable distance between you. Not professional by any stretch of the imagination, but enough for him to be comfortable in semi-public. The corridor is empty, and you can’t hear any footsteps.

Except Din’s, when he steps forward.

You feel your features soften in time with the pounding of your heart. “Din, love, please—”

He pulls you into his chest, plucking the wind from your lungs in a surprised, candied puff into the worn fabric of his cowl. His arms snake around you, securing you to his sturdy frame, and by reflex, yours mirror the movement on him. The helm’s hard, flat surface presses against the side of your head tightly; an anchor tugging on the seabed.

You feel him inhale, a ragged, rattling thing that has your stomach sinking. You only hear that sound when he’s injured, stumbling back to you with a bounty and a nasty, jagged stab wound or two. Only when he’s injured but oh, isn’t he?

It’s hard to tell how long you remain like that. Wrapped around and in between each other. Feeling each other breathe in and out, like the push and pull of the tides. It’s worth it, for the fading of tension in Din’s shoulders. Not removal. But an ebb for the flow. You’ll take it.

“There is a lot,” he rasps, modulated into your hairline. “You know that. And I can’t focus on what needs to be done if I think about it.” You feel him sigh, draping into your arms even further. “I can’t afford that.”

You try to keep your voice calm, soothing. To avoid the hot press of tears threatening to clog your throat. “Okay. That’s, that’s— Okay.”

You sound like a fool, parroting your own words. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Okay,” Din agrees. There is something shaky in his voice, and you would give anything to wrench it from his chest and throw it into that Maker-forsaken ocean. Let it drown for all you care.

For now, though, this is enough.

You move to step back, just a palm’s breadth away, and his arms unlock to let you do so immediately. His gloved hands slide down to nestle in the dip of your waist.

You look at Din consideringly, wondering if you could push for later. Later, to discuss the revelations he’s been bombarded with. Later, to talk about what you’re doing to do. Later, to finally get him to rest his weary bones.

Urgent, but. You decide to let him be. For now.

There’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask about anyway.

“So.” You smile wanly, treasuring the jewelled glint of beskar through the thinnest film of tears. “As a member of your clan, huh?”

Din sighs. Bracing, grounding. Returning to the present, where you’re just here to see him off. Where you have a baby waiting inside to keep from snacking on your hosts, and he has a hijacking to initiate. His fingers press tighter into your skin.

He appreciates the subject change.

“You already know my name,” he says quietly. Shrugs. “I’d say you know more about me than anyone else.”

You take a second to mull that over. Enjoy the taste of it in your mouth, the weight of it in your heart. He is such a precious thing to know.

Without thinking, the word leaves your lips in a bright gust of affection. “Same.” The helm tilts. “You know more about me than anyone else, too.”

He nods, a small, barely-there movement. More to himself than to you, you suspect.

“Good.”

Elastically, achingly slow, Din leans his head down. You lift yours up. When your warmed forehead meets beskar, a kiss from which you feel deprived, yet glutted, you’re inclined to agree.

“Stay safe,” you whisper. Your heart fogs and clouds on the metal, right above where his lips would be.

His thumb strokes across your waist. And you know he will.

——

[jincherie]

tentacledipity | six

➛pairing: jimin x reader ➛genre: alien au, space au, soulmate au, wanted au, smut, light angst ➛rating: m ➛words: 9k ➛warnings: cheeky shenanigans on the outskirts of the palace grounds, smut, vaginal fingering, light nipple play, squirting,light dirty talk, light angst ➛notes: I cannot believe this one long scene is fucking 9k, I’m out of control. Anyway! Here’s the relief you’ve all been waiting for!! There aren’t any tentacles yet but it will be worth it when they finally arrive FJBHGHV. p.s. this does have a read more!

This tale starts, as any good fiction does, with a girl crash landing on a foreign planet. And, like any good fiction, it follows a theme of serendipitous happening, and tentacles. Behold, serendipity and tentacles— or dare we call it…. tentacledipity.

— posted; 30.04.2020 // ↞ prev. || six || next ↠

In the entirety of your life, you’d probably been truly nervous approximately… three times. 

The first time was when you were a child. On a trip to the store with your guardian at the time, you’d wondered off to the section that had all of the rows of sweets and candies in clear boxes with scoops so that you could make your own mixed bag. Even when young, you were apparently still very self-indulgent at your core, and a little too quick to entertain the urges flitting through your gut. Urges that were also a little too quick for your brain to catch and filter them. You loved candy, or more specifically you loved Purple Planets, something like a gobstopper that changed flavours with each layer of the candy that wore down in your mouth. These little candies were the equivalent of magic in your eyes, and the second you caught sight of them in that row you wanted one. Of course, you’d wondered too far from your guardian and they weren’t nearby for you to ask them. That was when you got the urge, the sinful little whisper in the back of your mind that maybe you could just sneak one—taking a single candy couldn’t hurt anyone, could it? You quickly decided that no, it couldn’t, and reached in and swiped one of the orbs with nimble hands. You threw it in your mouth straight away, and when you looked up you met eyes with a cranky-looking older woman that had evidently been staring at you the whole time. She’d leaned over the boxes and whispered to you, “You’re going to go to jail now. The guards are on their way.”

Understandably, you’d run away to find your guardian after that, too young and trusting of adult authority to realise that woman was just being nasty and old. You’d been so nervous while leaving the store, clinging to your guardian, that you’d nearly passed out. Of course, no one was waiting to arrest you outside the store like you feared, and once you were on your way home you decided you hated old people because they’re mean and liars.

The second time you truly felt nervous was when you were leaving your home planet for the first time. By that point you’d become more than disillusioned with Earth, but still… you worried that leaving would be a decision you’d regret, and that the life in store for you beyond its atmosphere wouldn’t be anything like you hoped and dreamed. You were also, understandably as a first-time flyer, nervous that something would go wrong as you left the planet and the ship would blow up, or something along those lines. That, of course, didn’t happen—and you quickly decided to never be nervous about anything like this again because you really didn’t like the feeling. 

Which brought you to the third time you’d ever felt decidedly nervous—which, incidentally, happened to be right now.

You were standing outside Jimin’s room, impressed with yourself that you managed to find it but unable to enjoy the pride for the nerves currently rioting in your stomach. Why you were nervous, you couldn’t quite pinpoint—you were reluctant to even attempt it because you had a feeling that you weren’t going to be too fond of the reason you unearthed. 

You had no idea what he’d called you here for – possibly part of the cause for your nerves – and so hadn’t known exactly how to dress. It was a hot, humid night though, something that persisted even despite the breeze that filtered through spacious halls and bare windows. So you’d simply worn one of the singlets you’d brought with you to this planet (a nice change from the usual high neckline of kelkie dress) and some of the loose, satiny pants that have slits up the side of the legs, all the way to just below your hip. You’d assured yourself it was a practical choice and not just one you made because your most base instinct is to seduce a certain alien.

You also had to do some guesswork on what was meant by ‘midmoon’, and went with the assumption that it was like midday but for night time—so midnight. You really hoped you weren’t too wrong with this one because if you were late you had a very strong feeling that Jimin wouldn’t let it go for a long time. Which was something you decidedly didn’t need, considering how pissed he’d seemed earlier this evening. 

This, you’d realised, was probably a big factor in the rare appearance of your nerves—apart from the fact that Jimin had never been truly angry at you before, you also had no idea what had pushed him so far earlier that he looked so pissed. He was angry and had called you to be at his room at midnight and you had no idea why. You decided that just this once you couldn’t blame yourself for being nervous, especially when you recalled how many times you’d joked about finally making the kelkie snap. You sincerely hoped that this wasn’t karma, but you weren’t feeling too optimistic about it considering how much she’d been riding your ass lately. 

A while ago you’d turned your gaze to the window in the hall that opened onto Jimin’s gardens, wanting a distraction and finding it in the luminescent foliage that glows beneath the moonlight. You didn’t realise just how out of it you were, standing there staring into the untamed beauty of Kilkea’s flora, until a voice sounded beside you and you honest to god almost jumped right out of your skin. 

“You’re on time. Good, I won’t have to track you down.”

“Holy FUCK, Jimin!” you whirled around, hand flying to your chest and wide eyes finding him quickly in the almost-dark. Your cheeks heated at the squeak you’d let out in fright before, and then further at the way the alien’s eyes were boring into you, dark and swirling. His gaze raked across your collarbones and then up the length of your neck before it settled and met your own, a trail of prickling heat rising in its wake across your skin. “Please don’t scare me like that, humans can die of fright, you know.”

His brows rose, the intensity of his eyes lightening slightly and allowing you to breath. “I did not know,” he murmured, taking a step closer and sending your nerves haywire once more. “I will keep it in mind, petal.”

You tried not to watch his mouth as he spoke, but his pillowy lips proved too much for you to resist, especially when he was this close. Swallowing, you tore your eyes away and attempted to get some sort of control back in this situation.

“So, uh…” You began, trying to take a step away as discreetly as possible. You weren’t as successful as you might have hoped, his eyes tracking the movement easily. “Why did you call me here? At this time? I’m sorry about the whole, uh… thing, earlier. It wasn’t on purpose, I promise. That bastard Seokjin kicked my stool—”

Up until you mentioned Seokjin, Jimin’s expression remained so neutral that you might have been inclined to believe that he’d forgotten, or at least forgiven, the incident entirely. As soon as the other male’s name fell from your lips, though, something like irritation flitted across Jimin’s features. As soon as you noticed it, you snapped your mouth shut; you decided you probably shouldn’t push your luck too much tonight. You know, for survival reasons.

“There is something I have to do,” he said, cryptically. His brow quirked and in the next second he was turning on his heel and beginning to stride away. “And since you made such a mess of helping out earlier, I figured that you may as well make yourself useful where I can see you. Come, this way. We’re going outside the palace.”

You were confused and also kind of turned on at how bossy he was being; hastily you started after him, attempting to keep up as best as you can. True to his word, he was leading you in the direction of one of the exits that sits in the back of the palace, near the kitchens. 

“What do you—uh, I mean we, have to do that we have to leave the palace?” You asked, arms swaying as you walked. He had a quick stride tonight, not as attentive as he usually was to how fast he was going in comparison to you. You feared that by the time you reached your destination, wherever that may be, you’d be a dripping, sweaty mess.

Jimin hummed, as though he was pondering whether to give you the answer or leave you hanging; you liked to think you were getting better at reading him, but you wouldn’t put any money on it. He turned his head slightly, eyes catching your own over his shoulder—if it weren’t for the magnetic draw they currently had to them then you might have been hypnotised by the shimmering mauve colour of his marks instead. 

Actually, there was a lot about him tonight that threatened to distract you completely. His arms were out, sleeveless silken shirt hugging each curve and dip of the muscles in his back; the material of his pants did a fantastic job of emphasising his behind, too. The last one was almost your undoing when you were so focused on your observation that you nearly missed the words he threw your way. 

“A lot of the plants on this planet present a beautiful front during the daytime hours, but some only truly bloom beneath moonlight.” Jimin turned the next corner that approached the second he finished speaking, almost losing you in the process. You had to hurry to catch up to him, glimpsing an amused quirk of his lips as you did so. Bastard, now he’s just being a pain. “There are some fruit we need to harvest for some of the dishes on the menu for the celebration. They sit on the furthest reaches of the grounds, almost outside of them, and the fruit are only revealed at night.”

“Oh,” you said, thoughts rushing to catch up before getting caught on one thing in particular. You wondered, did this mean there would be pies on the menu? Oh, you hoped so. The chefs in the palace kitchens really knew how to make good desserts, and you didn’t doubt they could take any ingredients they wanted and turn it into a mouthwatering dish. Gods, you were so excited already that you swore you just felt your stomach rumble. 

You followed Jimin out of the palace and onto the grounds, the two of you finding one of the stone paths and proceeding down it. To your credit, you didn’t bother him all that much, for once. He seemed to notice, if the curious looks he was shooting over his shoulder every time you were silent for more than a few minutes were anything to go by. 

Although, to be fair, it wasn’t just your fantastic self-restraint that you had to thank for your sudden ability to shut up for more than a few minutes at a time; you were, for a majority of the walk, caught up in looking at the scenery around you. Just as you mused earlier, you didn’t think you’d ever get sick of looking at the environment here. The luminescent hues and hypnotic patterns that trail along branches and swirl across leaves and petals; it’s breathtaking, and you’d never get used to it. 

Despite the fact that you’d actually listened earlier and therefore knew that you were heading to the edge of the palace grounds, you were still surprised by how far out the two of you were venturing at this time of night. You weren’t scared, had no reason to be, and your surroundings were actually illuminated nicely by moonlight and the glow cast from crystals and stones that line the edge of the path, so you didn’t have to worry about stumbling or anything like that. It added to the magic of the moment, if anything. 

You thought it couldn’t get any better, or any more beautiful, than this, but you were quickly proven wrong when you trailed after Jimin around a curve in the path and came upon a dead-end of sorts. You audibly gasped at the sight before you, rooted to the spot in awe—you don’t even notice the weight of a gaze on you. “Oh my gosh… it’s so pretty…”

In front of you was a clearing of sorts that backed onto a looming cliff face, lush shrubbery peaking over the ridge, the descent covered in thick, curling vines that glowed turquoise and emerald beneath the moonlight and danced jubilantly in the breeze. The flowers that bloomed across the cliff were rosy, petals curling back like lilies and speckled with bioluminescent blue, but at the very centre of the flowers was a fruit that you instantly longed to put in your mouth. It appeared like a blackberry, but supersized—it was plump and juicy looking, and if you had to guess you’d say it would probably be about the size of your hand. 

Surprisingly enough, the fruits weren’t the first thing to catch your attention. No, that was the waterfall that split the cliff face to the right, shimmering waters flowing into a large, deep lake at the base. Black pebble-like stones lined the shore, and larger obsidian chunks jutted into the water along its girth. The way the water danced beneath the moonlight almost had you well and truly hypnotised, if it weren’t for the sound of Jimin’s voice breaking through your thoughts.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it.” He hummed, and you didn’t realise he’d begun to walk away until you turned and caught him moving to the side. Any questions you might have had as to why were quickly answered when you saw him procure two woven baskets from a weathered table by the cliff. He turned back and halted when he saw you in the same position as before. “Come on, petal, these aren’t going to pluck themselves into our baskets.”

Cheeks flushing for some reason unbeknownst to you, you hurried over to take one of the baskets in his hold, following him when he moved to the part of the cliff closest to the table and furthest from the lake. Well, you decided that you didn’t really have any reason to be so nervous earlier. Yet another reason to banish the emotion from your being. 

“These are pippura,” Jimin informed you when you approached him, looking to make sure that you were listening. You offered him a bright, shit-eating grin to reassure him and he rolled his eyes before turning back to the vines. You caught the way his lips had quirked before he did, though, and filed it away in your victory drawer for later gloating. “They only grow on cliff faces near running water—we are lucky enough to have such a place as this on the grounds. If we didn’t, then we would have to venture much further to procure some.”

“Are they special?” you found yourself asking, swinging the basket around your wrist idly and then stopping immediately when he sent you a warning glance. “I mean, are they important for celebrations?”

“They are used in a lot of traditional dishes that feature in celebrations such as this one,” Jimin confirmed, muscles of his back shifting as he reached to grab one of the fruits hanging a little above his head. “You will be happy to know that many of those dishes are desserts.”

He was right—you were happy to hear that. You couldn’t stop the stupid, excited grin from slipping onto your face at the thought of all the delicious possibilities you were going to be able to try for the first time. If these fruits tasted as good as they looked, then you were going to be in for a good time. 

Jimin might have been somewhat tense at the beginning of this little venture, but as the two of you went about plucking the vines bare of their fruits and filling your baskets with their bounty, he seemed to ease into himself a little, growing a little more playful and a little more sassy. Which is to say, he returned to the Jimin you knew and loved. Of course, the second you noticed this, you were unable to help yourself from resuming your usual shithead antics. You poked and prodded at him playfully with a few verbal jabs, all of which either got you a small snort and a grin, or a look loaded with tension and restraint. It was exhilarating—you didn’t realise just how much you’d missed this! Granted, it hadn’t been all that long since you’d been a thorn in Jimin’s side, but you were a simple girl who enjoyed the simple things in life. 

It was still a humid night, and although the breeze did help some in keeping you from overheating, you still found yourself casting longing looks towards the water behind you. Gods, it had been so long since you last swam—now that the idea was in your head, you couldn’t get it out. Of course, that idea followed the path in your brain that most thoughts take these days, and your gaze flicked from Jimin, to the water, and then back to Jimin. No… you shouldn’t. You only just got back in his good graces, you didn’t fancy another near death experience today. But still…

You couldn’t rid the thought from your head, trying not to let your scheming show on your face. Jimin was a lot sturdier and a lot stronger than you, so the only way you’d even be able to get him in the water by surprise would be to full-body tackle him. You didn’t think you’d come out of that unscathed. Still… the longer you stewed in the humid air, the weaker you found yourself becoming to the idea. By this point, you knew you were going to end up going for a midnight swim in that lake, it was just a matter of whether you were going to be able to convince Jimin. Well, admittedly your definition of ‘convince’ was becoming looser by the minute, so the nature of Jimin’s impending entrance into the lake was, at this point, very subject to change. There were a number of scenarios playing out in your mind’s eye.

It was when your basket was nearing overflowing, and you grabbed one last fruit a little too hard and landed yourself with a hand covered in sticky berry juice, that you had an idea. The juices were an odd, shimmery dark blue and seemed eager to stain, just like the berries you knew from earth. Fantastic. You shuffled closer to Jimin, who had become so enraptured in the task by this point that he didn’t even pay you any mind. You were planning on pretending to trip, but karma had its kiss for you and you ended up actually tripping on a rock on your way to him, like a loser. As regrettable as it was, it did get the job done all the same.

“Oh shoot—sorry!” As would be the natural instinct of any red-blooded woman, you’d reached for Jimin’s bicep when you fell and ended up bursting the fruit against it, spilling its juices all over him. You did feel a little bad, despite the fact this had been your plan all along, but you were more surprised when instead of recoiling like you’d expected, Jimin had whipped around and attempted to catch you from tumbling to the ground instead. You didn’t have time to relish in the resulting flutter of your heart, because he quickly realised what you’d spilt on him and proceeded to send you an exasperated look.

“Are all humans such trouble? You are almost as clumsy as Namjoon,” he remarked, but you caught the twinkle of amusement in the darkness of his eyes as he righted you to your feet. 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” you informed him, before pulling out your most innocent smile. “And at least there’s a lake here to wash off in!”

Jimin’s eyes flicked back over his shoulder, taking in the body of water nestled against the cliff. He hummed for a moment, before shrugging and letting you go to place his basket down and make his way over to the pebbled shore. “I wouldn’t need to wash off if you had watched where you were walking, petal.”

You rolled your eyes, watching for a moment as he slipped his boots off, placing them by one of the rocks wedged into the shore and proceeding to roll his pants up before stepping into the water. You snapped yourself out of your staring—now was the time to strike!

“Is it cold?” you asked, trying not to betray your intentions as you slipped your own shoes off and began to creep over. He was bending slightly, trying to scoop some water into his palms, and if you had to hold yourself back from being a bastard a second longer you were going to combust. 

“Of course not, it’s lovely,” he muttered, somewhat absentmindedly. His marks shimmered neutral blue as his fingers swirled through the water. Now that you knew you weren’t going to make him freeze to death by pushing him in, you had no qualms acting on the urge that had been bothering you for the better part of the last ten minutes. 

“Oh, good,” you remarked, before taking a moment to accept the very real possibility of death after this. As soon as you were at peace with it, you disengaged your rational thought machine and enacted your plan. Quick as you could, you darted across the grass and planted your hands on Jimin’s butt with all your strength (not! For the reason one might be thinking! It was a purely strategic move to make him most unbalanced), miraculously succeeding in pushing him off his feet and, subsequently, into the water. 

“Y/N—!” 

The way he just barked your name in shock made you as excited as it did scared for you life—although, if you were being honest, the line between those two had been getting more and more blurred lately. Tumbling into the rippling waters of the lake he went, deep enough where he fell that for a moment he was completely submerged. You couldn’t help the laugh that tore from you at the sight, but it quickly tapered into an alarmed scream as he burst back to the surface, absolutely drenched, and sent you a murderous look. 

You’d been intending to get in right after him, but perhaps it would be more prudent to run while you still could—

“You little—” Jimin’s sputtered words were all the warning you got before he launched towards you, tearing through the water and up the shore much, much faster than you had ever anticipated. You yelped, spinning on your heel and scrambling across the pebbles, stumbling in your attempts to flee before he reached you. Of course, as you knew from the second he locked eyes on you after exiting the water, you hadn’t stood a chance of getting away; you would never be a match for his sheer speed and strength. You barely got three steps in before two strong hands snapped around the small of your waist, water seeping into your shirt where his fingers pressed into the material.

“You are such a pain,” he chastised, twisting you and throwing you over his shoulder so quickly that it almost made you dizzy.

“Aw, come on, it was an accident! I’m sorry!” you lied through your teeth, scrabbling for a grip on the drenched shirt that was sticking to his every line and curve like a second skin. “Let’s be rational about this—”

Smack! 

You yelped, back curving slightly as your hand flew to your ass in shock, the likes of which was now smarting as a result of the firm smack he’d just delivered. Your entire face flushed with heat, brain flatlining as the raven-haired alien carried you back towards the lake; the sight of the grass growing further and further away, along with your chances of survival, was very condemning. 

“Be quiet and accept the consequences of your actions like a good girl, petal,” Jimin said, voice so low and raspy it was almost a purr; you couldn’t see his marks from this angle but you were dying to know what colour flushed across them when he said that. You felt your stomach drop and butterflies swarm to replace it, giddy anticipation tingling up your spine. You didn’t know if you were in a place emotionally where you could deal with being this horny right now. 

You made one last attempt at pleading for mercy, “I didn’t know that you’d fall in! I thought you had more balance than that! It’s not my fault youAAAH—”

Evidently, Jimin was not in a merciful mood. He didn’t even wait for you to finish talking when he reached mid-shin in the water and promptly threw you from his shoulder and into the depths.  It happened so quickly you could do little more than yelp before the water cut you off and you were sinking below the surface, the lake so cool against your overheated skin that you almost let out a blissful sigh before catching yourself just in time. Your feet found the smooth, pebbled bottom and you propelled yourself back up, breaking the surface with an affronted gasp. “Hey! That was rude! Do we even know how dirty the water is?”

At this point you were just being annoying, but he simply rolled his eyes before trapping your own in his gaze, the heat contained in the dark pools making you shudder. He began moving towards you, striding back into the lake like a predator, so smoothly that the most the water did in response to his entrance was ripple around his legs. “It’s not dirty,” he informed you, a sly look crossing his features for the barest second. “There is a certain type of algae in here that means it is self cleaning—actually, the algae is part of the reason why the pippura vines grow here.”

You launched yourself backwards as he grew closer, spouting off little tidbits of information like he wasn’t currently in the process of cornering you in the lake; your arms couldn’t seem to propel you fast enough, because each second you spent splashing about frantically he gained on you. By the time he was about a metre away from you, the water was up to his ribs and he looked like he was preparing to pounce. So, you did the only logical thing you could think of in that moment, and used your legs to kick a massive splash of water in his face. 

It smacked him dead on, drenching his hair once more and making him sputter, hands coming up to wipe water out of his eyes. His marks shifted rapidly, from rose to teal to petal pink and then back again. You didn’t know what it meant, but you knew your time was running out. 

“y/n,” he said, voice low as he flicked water from his face and levelled you with a heated look, lashes wet and sticking together. “Didn’t I just tell you to be a good girl?”

His words made your stomach flip and a shiver roll down your spine, and yet you were too proud to let it show. Instead, you offered him an innocent expression and a flippant, “Oops?”

That seemed to set him off.

You spent the next few minutes cackling as he attempted to grab you, apparently much less graceful in the water with slippery pebbles beneath his feet than he was on land. Something about games with a chase, like tag, just made your blood sing— and from the glimpse you got of his lively expression as he tailed you through the water, the feeling was mutual. You didn’t know how long you managed to evade him before he caught you, but it was long enough that your pride remained safe by the time his hands landed on your shoulders and you were promptly dunked beneath the surface. When you returned for air, you splashed him for cover and made a break for it once more. Fun, it was so much fun it felt like you were floating in your elation. 

Every time you would just barely manage to slip from his grasp with a mad giggle, you’d hear a laugh of his own tumble into the air, the sound downright melodic and so decadent against your ears you immediately did everything you could to hear it again. This was a side of him that you’d hand to wrangle out with your bare hands, but damn if it wasn’t worth it to see the way his eyes shone and disappeared into crescents with his smile. 

Of course, though you were incredibly gifted in many areas (not to toot your own magnificent horn) stamina sadly wasn’t one of them. Jimin might have been engineered for speed, agility and athletic grace, but you most definitely weren’t. It was only a matter of time before you grew too tired to continue fleeing as well as you had been up until that point. 

“I give up! I surrender!” you announced, proceeding to flop backwards and float, almost panting. The water had cooled you down greatly but it was still a warm night and Jimin was unfairly fast. You’d been kept on your toes the whole time. 

“I am surprised that you lasted so long,” he mused, sinking down in the water until it was up to his neck. The mirth had yet to fade from his eyes, his marks still glowing an exuberant teal that fluctuated between bright green and cyan.

“I’m full of surprises,” you informed him, still somewhat breathless. You shifted from your floating position, treading water lazily as you leaned back and sent him a cheeky look. You just needed a moment to recharge, then you’d be giving him a run for his money once more.

Jimin hummed, breaking the hold he had on your gaze for a moment to glance up at the sky; your breath caught in your throat at how beautiful he was in that moment, raven hair an unruly mess and water still dripping down his skin, freckles luminous and the entirety of his form bathed in the kind of moonlight that made him seem ethereal. You snapped out of it a second later, propelling yourself slightly behind him so he wouldn’t catch you slipping if he happened to look down. 

You’d only meant to hide your face and the current heated nature of your cheeks from him, but as you floated behind him your goblin brain, of course, came up with another idea that would rile him up. You weren’t sure if you should enact it so soon, when you hadn’t even caught your breath completely yet, but you were also aware that he wasn’t going to be distracted much longer, especially when it was you in his company. By this point he’d learnt the hard way to keep his eye on you. 

Twisting your body in the water smoothly so that your feet braced against the bottom once more, you prepared to jump. You needed to get a good grip, or else he would throw you off too easily and that would be nowhere near as fun.

Throughout the whole time you were plotting that move, you forgot completely about what lined the skin of his lower back— you were soon to be reminded, however, when you proceeded to pounce on him from behind and he stiffened immediately in your hold. 

Your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms around his neck, but he was more slippery than you accounted for and you had to fight to keep your grip. This, of course, meant that you were pressed that much tighter against his back.

“You—” he seemed at a loss for words for the briefest moment, stuttering slightly as his hands whipped to your thighs.

“Boo!” you announced belatedly with a ruffle of his hair, even as you felt your grip begin to slip. Well, it seemed it was time to cut your losses and jump back into the water— you were completely prepared to do so, until he twisted slightly beneath you and you slipped prematurely. 

Having expected to fall back into the water, you were surprised when Jimin managed to turn in your grip and scoop you into his hold, saving you from an abrupt reunion with the surface of the lake. It didn’t do much for the state of your heart, however, when you realised that now you were clinging to his front, legs around his waist and his hands supporting you at your ass and thigh. Uncharacteristically— or rather, quite characteristically since this was Jimin you were dealing with— you were at a loss for words, reduced to simply blinking at him with wide eyes and mouth slightly ajar in shock. 

If the position alone hadn’t been enough to send your heart racing, then the way he was looking at you would have definitely finished the job. His marks were flushed deep, dark rose, and his eyes were so intense as they bore into you that you felt goosebumps raise across your skin. You felt oddly… vulnerable, for a moment, but you didn’t have time to ponder that realisation before his lips were quirking slightly in something like triumph.

“You are full of surprises,” he agreed, head tilting slightly; water lapped lightly at your skin and it took you a moment to realise he was moving towards the cliff, near the cluster of large, obsidian rocks that skirt the edge of the waterfall. “But you are also very predictable, petal. You pulled the same move twice.”

Huh, well. Maybe you did! What’s it to him?! You opened your mouth to express just that, but all that came out was a squeak when his hand shifted its place on your thigh and slipped through the slit in your pants, palm cool against your heated skin. For a moment you forgot how to breathe— this was just like what you told Seokjin. Going from nothing to a lot of something, just wasn’t a situation you were equipped to handle!

“Oh,” you managed to say, finally. He seemed amused at your fluster, and you were willing to bet that he was probably enjoying the way the tables had turned since you’d first arrived here. Cocky of him, but hot nonetheless. You just called it as you saw it. “Well, maybe this was my plan all along, and you played right into it. Victory goes to me, peach cheeks.”

His brows rose, apparently thinking it very bold of you to be bringing back that pet name when it was you currently at his mercy, as much as you might have currently been trying to make it seem otherwise. 

“Your plan, or mine?” he asked softly, holding your gaze as he halted and you felt cool rock press against your back. You shivered, unable to help it, and he let out a pleased hum. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it most definitely wasn’t for him to rock his hips forward, grinding against you and pinning you to the rock all at once. The gasping noise that came out of you was kind of embarrassing, but he didn’t seem to think so. 

Once more, he had you at a loss for words as you attempted to process his utterance amongst the pleasant, heady sensations burning through you. It didn’t help your ability to think either, when his hand slipped from your thigh to trail up your side; with bated breath, you felt it as he dragged his fingertips over your ribs, skirting the underside of your chest before dancing up your sternum, where your neckline ended and his fingers met your skin. It wasn’t all that much, but the action alone had been enough to leave a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. When his gaze flicked down momentarily, you were slightly embarrassed to see that his wandering hand had also elicited another unwitting reaction from you, your nipples standing beneath the material of your shirt. Wearing a bra tonight would have been prudent, but you hadn’t exactly accounted for this, had you?

This felt surreal, almost. For however long and loudly and explicitly you had expressed your desire for him, for some reason you hadn’t ever counted on being in this position. It was almost like you had to acclimatise yourself to it, but you didn’t have time to ease yourself into the scalding heat of his touch and the sinful burn of his gaze against your skin. You had been fully immersed and molten desire was devouring you whole.

His fingertips had remained at your sternum, but his gaze flicked along the column of your neck and it wasn’t long before his hand followed suit. Over your collarbones, the dip of your shoulder where it met your neck, and then up the column of your throat. His touch was gentle as his thumb settled under your chin, fingers slipping into the hair at the back of your neck, and ever so slowly he tilted your head backwards so the expanse of your neck was bared to him.

Your gaze now centered on the stars, your breath hitched when a hum drifted through the air and he nosed along your neck, the occasional brush of his lips against your skin eliciting shiver after shiver. Of course he would enjoy toying with you, not that you could blame him. 

He didn’t make you wait all that long, though, before his pillowy lips finally pressed to your skin over your pulse, soft and silken as a petal. You didn’t doubt he could feel, if not hear, the way your heart was racing right now.

“Always so bold,” he murmured, pressing his lips directly over your throat, and then to your collarbones. You could barely breathe, feeling dizzy from just his proximity alone. “But you’re awfully quiet now, petal.”

“Can you blame me?” you said, eyes fluttering closed as you felt his tongue brush against your skin. “I’m only— only one woman—”

Your ability to speak ceased completely when his teeth made an appearance, scraping ever so tantalisingly against the junction of your neck and shoulder. He hummed against you, pulling back a moment later.

“Look at me.”

With his grip beneath your chin eased, you tilted your head back somewhat dizzily, head a little hazier than before. 

“I want you to answer me seriously when I ask these,” he said, and there was no room in his tone for any of your usual cheeky behaviour. You nodded obediently, holding his gaze and watching as his marks shifted colours hypnotically.

“Do you want to feel me?” 

He rolled his hips, a prominent bulge grinding against your core and making your nerves tingle to life as he did so. You nodded, breath catching and your hands coming to grip his arms.

“Do you want me to touch you?” 

His hand drifted from your throat to your shoulder, finger slipping beneath the strap of your shirt and waiting. You nodded, more fervour in the movement this time, and slowly, oh so slowly, he dragged the strap of your singlet down over your shoulder. He seemed to be attempting to hold himself together too as he continued the movement and pulled the rest of your shirt with the strap, peeling it from your chest until it slipped beneath the curve of your breast and bared it to his gaze. 

Almost with a sense of reverence, the back of his fingers brushed along the swell of your breast, forefinger coming to trace around your areola before his thumb finally shifted and swept across your hardened nipple. You had all the time in the world to prepare for it, and still you were unable to help the sharp mewl you let out in response, heat flushing across your face and chest. Jimin’s dark eyes flicked back up to your own, lips parted ever so slightly as though in awe. Idly, his thumb continued rolling your nipple, the sensations making your thighs clench in their grip around his waist; instinctively, his hips rocked into your own, and you registered in the back of your mind that something smooth was brushing against your feet. 

The two of you had drawn closer without even realising, his eyes hooded slightly as they bore into your own from beneath damp lashes.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

For a moment, your heart stopped. This time you didn’t nod, the whisper escaping you of its own accord. “Yes.”

He didn’t need any more confirmation beyond that. Before you could blink he was dipping forward, fingers digging into your ass for a better grip as his lips finally met your own and the heat swallowed you whole. 

When his mouth moved against yours, lips just as plush and pillowy as you’d dreamed, it was as though something shifted, snapped into place within you. There had never been an absence or a void inside you, and yet the second his lips caught your own in a kiss, it was like something had returned home. Like your insides before had been messy and muddled, and he had brought clarity and order and everything had fallen into place.

You sank into each other like clockwork, every move of his lips and tongue against your own all but stealing the breath straight from your lungs. So inebriated in the touch, smell, taste of him were you that you hardly batted an eye at the sensation of something thick and firm curling around your ankles and up your legs. 

Suddenly emboldened, you nipped his bottom lip with your teeth, before sucking it into your mouth; the groan that escaped him in response was guttural and low, hips rocking into your own roughly. He only let you play for a moment, though, before he was reclaiming control of the kiss and the situation in one go.

“So eager,” he gasped a moan when he broke from your mouth to suckle along your jaw. “The smell of your desire is so strong, petal— intoxicating…”

You should have been embarrassed to discover he could smell your arousal, but at this point you were beyond shame. He nipped and sucked along the column of your throat, each one wringing out a new, special noise from you just for him. You forgot to keep track of the rest of him until you suddenly felt his hand shift, fingers toying along the waistband of your pants. 

“I’ll give you what you want…”

In the next moment his grip had shifted and he was lifting you up with ease, placing you onto the surface of a rock just to the side; from this position your hips were at the same height as his shoulders. He wasted no time adjusting his position, moving closer and slipping your pants down in such a fluid movement that you were reeling for moments after. You felt no shame in being almost completely bare before him, not when he was slipping your thigh over his shoulder and easing forward, looking at you as though mesmerised by what he saw.  It was a heady look that swirled in his eyes, molten and promising.  As he moved closer he rose slightly, almost hovering over you and pushing your leg back to your chest. 

His mouth parted, words on the tip of his tongue but unable to pass as he simply drank you in. The fingers of his free hand came to trail up your slit, collecting a generous amount of slick as it did so. The look Jimin then gave you was full of such heat that you almost felt lightheaded; the sensation of being completely at his mercy was absolutely intoxicating. 

“So wet,” he murmured, pushing his finger a little deeper between your lower lips and making your hips cant up slightly. It was like he was no longer even aware of the words tumbling from his mouth. “So pretty… I wonder how well you would….”

You weren’t left wondering what he could have meant for long; in the next second he was pushing a thick finger to brush your entrance; the anticipation alone was almost too much for you, more arousal gushing forth to greet his inquisitive touch. 

“Jimin,” you gasped as his thumb brushed your clit by accident, the noise making him double back and go again. “P-please…”

He met your eyes, and for a moment you thought he might have made you ask for it, might have made you beg, but to your surprise a small smile slipped onto his lips and, without a word, he pushed his finger completely into you. 

Of course you were so absolutely turned on by this point that there wasn’t a stretch, but the sensation alone of being filled, even a little, was so delicious that you didn’t even have the presence of mind to try and squash the abrupt, keening moan that escaped you. You hadn’t realised how much you’d ached to have something inside you before now, clenching around even a single finger like a wanton whore.

Jimin swore in his native tongue, groaning at the tightness you offered. He pumped once, twice, finger a torturous drag against your walls as he did so until he added a second finger and was rewarded with more unwitting noises from you. 

“Fuck!” You gasped as his fingers curled, searching for something along your walls that it didn’t take him long to find. He seemed all too pleased to have found your sensitive spot, and that knowledge in combination with the way he began working his thumb over your clit as he pumped his fingers into you was what ultimately spelt your doom. 

“Does it feel good, petal?” he asked, breathless. When you nodded, he rewarded you with a third finger— the noise you let out in response was positively sinful. Pleasure thrummed along your limbs, burning beneath your skin and turning your bones to magma. So much pleasure throbbed in your core at his slow, purposeful strokes that you felt like you were going to lose your mind.

And then he decided he wanted to pick up the pace. 

Your hands scrambled for purchase as he began to fuck his fingers up into you in earnest, each pump slamming into you and ending with his fingers curling into your g-spot and making colours explode behind your eyelids. You didn’t realise your eyes had closed until you felt something soft brush your chest and they shot open— only to flutter closed once more in the next second as Jimin’s lips wrapped around your pebbled nipple and he sucked it roughly into his mouth.

“Jimin—!” The words caught in your throat, “F-fuck, please d-don’t— don’t stop—”

Jimin’s fingers weren’t long, but they were thick, and the sensation of them dragging against your walls again and again and again was absolutely heavenly— but the way he stimulated your g-spot with each roll of his wrist drove you absolutely mad. You weren’t one to usually reach your end all that quickly, but already at his ministrations there was a ball of tension forming in your stomach, more and more ready to snap with each sharp jolt of pleasure to your core.

Jimin trapped your nipple between his teeth, tugging it lightly before releasing it and moving his mouth to your ear. “Let go for me, petal. I want to feel you unravel around me.”

A low, heady murmur dripping with desire and promise. He returned his mouth to your chest, and you didn’t even have time to tell him you were close before he hit the final nail into your coffin.

While he’d been maintaining long, precise strokes before now, he suddenly shifted tactics. Within the blink of an eye he began fucking his fingers into you that much harder, that much faster— but it was the combination of his fingers pressing into your g-spot and his thumb rolling your clit that sent you well and truly over the edge. 

The coil within you snapped and you gasped out his name in a lilting moan as your orgasm burst forth and you came hard, pussy clenching around his fingers like a vice as your back arched off the rock in the woes of your pleasure. Even so, he continued to fuck his fingers into you as you rode out your high, only stopping when you placed a trembling hand against his chest and tried to squirm away from overstimulation. 

It took a moment for you to come back to your senses somewhat, gaze centering back on Jimin; you were surprised to see droplets glistening along his arm and across the damp silken material of his shirt, but quickly realised with heated cheeks that he’d actually made you squirt. He didn’t seem to mind; if anything, he seemed to approve, expression strained as he gazed over the mess you’d made of him.

As he gently slipped your thigh from his shoulder and set it down, giving you a quick rinse with the water before slipping your pants back down, your ability to speak finally began to return to you. 

“H-holy fuck…” you murmured, slipping from the rock and back into the water as soon as your pants were back on. It might have been a mistake to move so fast, though, because your legs were jelly and you almost dipped beneath the surface were it not for Jimin’s hands coming to brace you.  You fixed your top as you looked at him, taking in the tension riddling his firm and the shadows swirling in the water behind him— now, of course, you recalled a certain predicament that affected him. You read the heat and desire still burning in his gaze and moved forward, slipping your hands to his waist. “Now, to return the favour—”

To your surprise, the alien halted your movements, shaking his head. Your confusion was only increased when a light smile slipped onto his lips. He closed his eyes a moment, taking a deep breath, and you caught it from the corner of your eye as the shifting shadows in the water behind him began to still and slip out of sight.

“It’s okay, I will be fine,” he assured you, tone soft and just as airy and mellifluous as ever. “We should really be getting back.”

“Oh… ok.” For the third time that night, you were rendered speechless. Except this time, it was out of sheer confusion. He placed a hand on your back, guiding you from the lace and back up to where you’d left your baskets; thankfully, a part of you reflected as you emerged from the water, the material of your pants was comfortable and unlikely to chafe even while dripping with water.

As you retrieved your baskets, Jimin offered you a somewhat strained smile, before tilting his head in the direction of the castle. “Let’s go, petal.”

And then he turned and simply began on his way back, leaving you to follow and trail behind him distractedly. Something twinged behind the protection of your ribcage, replaced only by a sinking sensation that settled and weighed down your stomach and didn’t leave for the entire duration of your trip back to the palace.

The high you’d felt earlier was quick to fade in the wake of Jimin’s odd behaviour. He’d literally just fingered you to completion, you should be euphoric right now. And yet… for some reason, it felt as though something had been carved out of your gut and left a gaping hole in its wake. He wasn’t even being mean— hell, he’d smiled at you! Twice! So why did you suddenly feel so...down?

You struggled to entertain a plausible reason for Jimin’s odd behaviour, but you were coming up dangerously blank. In the wake of it all, you couldn’t stop the self-destructive thoughts you usually fought off so well from slipping in amongst your thoughts.

Had he done it just to get you off his case? Had he just been… humouring you?

The thought of it made you feel sick.

The trek back to the palace passed in the blink of an eye, and before you knew it Jimin was easing the basket from your grasp and you were in front of your door. The walk had dried you off enough that now the only true reminder of what had happened in the lake was the current damp and unruly state of his hair and the way his marks had been stained dark maroon ever since leaving the clearing.

“Thank you for your help,” he murmured, drawing your gaze to his own at the sound of his voice. “Go and get some rest, petal.”

With that, he leant forward and pressed a soft kiss, the barest brush of his lips, against your temple. Your heart suddenly hung heavy in your chest, stomach wringing in tumult. You watched him pull back and begin to move away, words caught in your throat.

“Goodnight.”

He was gone before you managed to say it back, disappearing into the darkness of the hall like a shadow returning to the night.

Returning to your own room had you vulnerable, the walls a chamber for your sudden loneliness to echo back and hit you in the face. You tried to brush the feelings aside; it was fine. You were tired and overthinking it, reading too much into the little things. 

After all, if he didn’t like you then he wouldn’t have kissed you on the forehead.

...Right?

a/n: as always i hope u enjoyed,, tysm for waiting so long and for reading!!! lmk what u think and whether u enjoyed with a like or rb,, it helps keep me going lol. thank u i love u!!! <3 

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[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 8/10/21

got a bunch of followers (many of you are Cool Teens, so also a reminder im 26 and an adult and you’re responsible for curating your own internet experience) anyway there’s a bunch of new folks since the last time this was a regular series, so i am going to pre-answer some things that popped up in my inbox last week.

a quick reminder that this is empathetically NOT a recommendations or review blog series. this is a quick snapshot of what i’m thinking about with regards to mass media this week, and sometimes i’m funny about it and sometimes i also do interesting diy shit

a work can be culturally or historically relevant and important in the history of a genre AND be extremely difficult to recommend unless i know you very well due to. hm. let us say many pitfalls due to the inherent nature of the genre or the time it was made in it any number of other factors that make it unpalatable to modern audiences but still worth knowing about. doesthedogdie dot com will be your friend here for anything i talk about ever

being critical of a work doesn’t just mean pointing out its flaws- was it successful in telling the story it wanted to tell? were the techniques it used effective? were the emotions it elicited in me probably the ones the creators set out to elicit? these are key components of a good review and often help me break down what i want to say about a particular piece of media in any given week, but this isn’t a review series of blog posts either.

i am literally just some guy and you should question everything i say

listening i’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair (from the musical South Pacific) brought to you by a random mix of classic movie musicals bc apparently im that kinda gay this week.

like a lot of other fifties media that aged like milk, i have fond memories of watching this with my grandmother. this isn’t even my favorite song from the musical (that would be bali hai’i) but i think it is one of the more technically interesting non-solo ones. specifically, the faint siren-y dissonance on “ahoy, ahoy!” has really been stuck in my head. the melancholy “ah fuck we’ve broken our hearts again” vibe on “rub him out of the roll call/and drum him out of your dreams” with all the girls singing is probably a result of a soprano-heavy cast, but it’s almost chimey in a way? the rhyme scheme of those lines has an excellent mouthfeel. ms gaynor singing “cancel hiiiiiim” has a very different vibe in 2021

two (really three? maybe four? the world is large and mysterious) things can be true at the same time: i don’t think i could watch this musical again as an adult because i don’t think there’s a good way to salvage or update it. the very qualities of this musical that make me go “fuckin yikes” as adult were the very qualities that made my grandmother love it so much. i can hold a bittersweet memory of a rare late movie night with a complicated lady and at the same time wish she were a better person. the dead never leave you with answers.

reading yet another fallow week. this field is turning back into forest

watching i often say “AAA video game (derogatory)” when talking offline about the bad batc/h, but this was a real bioshock ass lookin episode. i don’t think this show is succesful at making or having a point. mostly because it cannot contradict any existing lore in one of the most traversed time periods of this franchise, even with the expanded universe reboot. it falls into the uncomfortable realm of most starred wars media: this is a franchise for children but it also has to cater to legions of grownup fanatics with lots of money. but by god does it “feel” like starred wars. something not all the sequel trilogy movies or much of the clone wars series were successful at.

as a sidebar to that last sentence. the most memorable (imo) scene of the fucking sequel trilogy is the back-to-back battle couple thing in ep seven, which i have just rewatched, and it simply does not hold up. there are too many cuts to other sideplots, which kills any tension dead, and it’s mostly fighting on opposite sides of the room in frantic desperation instead of what i wanted, which was more than five seconds of synergy. it’s a bad rhyme of the final throne room fight in rotj and my memory of the thing is so much better, which is always disappointing.

back to the main point, i think a big part of something “feeling” like starred wars is big setpieces and fights that make you go “HAHA YES FUCKIN SICK WHY NOT!!!!” like, nobody ever Just gets shot in the head and temporarily incapacitated, they get half-vadered by the engines of a derelict ship trying to go to hyperspace while it’s grounded. this franchise has never met a location it couldn’t destroy in a beautiful and awful shower of light while the string sections of three combined orchestras play their hearts out.

this franchise is so fucking stupid and i am so invested in it

playing got my hands on the death trash early access, very hype to play it, have been too busy turning this apartment into a functional and comfortable space to live in for three separate people with their own separate toiletries and groceries and work from home/school schedules

making related to the above, the fucking kitchen table and chairs are done.

things wot i did friday night/saturday morning:

new rubber feeties on everybody

wrapped the legs that structurally couldn’t get new rubber feeties in jute to be kinder to my rental linoleum

bolted the legs back on the table and rebalanced it bc the jute wasn’t quite even

did a very halfassed job of fixing the drawer rails on the table

bolted the chair tubing back together

took all the old decorative tacks out of the backs of the chairs

scrubbed the seats and backs and the pieces the tacks were holding down with mild detergent (partially effective, it still has some patina but is sanitized)

re-covered the bottoms of the chairs in remnant black polyester to replace mildewed black canvas

put in new decorative tacks on the seat backs

bolted the vinyl parts to the chrome tubing parts (a long and frustrating process since there were two sizes of decidedly non-standard nuts and bolts)

wiped everything down again for idk good luck

sitting at my kitchen table in the sun eating a breakfast sandwich and some terrible iced tea on sunday morning was very nice. i lived in the south just long enough to get Opinions on iced tea and how the north can’t get it right. shouldn’t be gritty. shouldn’t be bitter. how is this even happening

some very very halfassed “during” pics

[anonniemousefics]

The Nine Terrifying Moons | Chapter Three

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten

Fandom: The Folk of the Air | Jude + Cardan

Synopsis: Based on the response to this post. :) Jude’s not sure what she expected motherhood to be like, but it isn’t this.  

(SO MUCH FLUFF HERE. Really. Just. The fluffiest. I can’t help myself.)

Chapter Three: The Third

I think maybe I am meant to be a cautionary tale, not a happy ending.

I think that someone who has manipulated and lied and schemed as much as I have is destined only for tragedy.

And now it’s finally come for me.

I think this over and over again, like a spell I’m chanting to grant myself some measure of grim acceptance, while Cardan and I ride a ragwort horse all the way to the mortal realm. It’s the best course of action we can come up with in the moment of panic.

The moment I knew we were facing a potentially devastating complication, I wanted – no, needed – a human doctor.

Pregnancy is rare among the Folk, and I now find I’m not interested in trusting faerie midwives with a decidedly human condition. If there is something wrong with me, or with our baby, I want to know what it is, everything about it. I don’t trust anyone who might want to strike a deal for my child’s wellbeing or concoct some potion that, while saving the pregnancy, also gives our baby a third eye or snaggle-teeth or an appetite for blood. I’m also having flashbacks of a conversation long ago with Oriana, when she divulged details of Oak’s horrific birth. How there’d been complications that had cost Liriope her life. How Oriana herself had carved the baby out of her friend’s stomach.

I shudder hard at the recollection and press my cheek hard against Cardan’s back as we ride, my face between his shoulder blades. Hard pass. On every bit of that. Just – one massive hard pass. We are finding a real doctor.

Cardan didn’t even argue. Though he insisted it was time to tell The Court of Shadows, if only for safety reasons while we made an unannounced, unplanned emergency run to the mortal realm.

Nothing goes like either of us had hoped. There are no tears of joy. There are only tight, grim expressions and tense words while plans are made. How we will prevent our enemies from learning of the child and our absence. How we will remain protected while among mortals.

I have hardly a word of help to offer, and that alone is horrifying. I have always schemed and survived – it’s what I am. But there, instead, I can only sit with a hand at my flat stomach, my sole focus on willing this little rebel in me to hear her mother’s first command.

Don’t go. Please. I love you.

Please stay.

Please.

I’ve resented this for weeks, and now I’m begging for the nausea, the aches, the exhaustion to stay – all of it. Any reassurance that I’m not losing this newfound love before I’ve even really gotten to know it.

But I also wonder if I should just accept fate. I have always felt from the beginning that I did not deserve this. That I am stealing a happiness that I have not earned.

“How are you faring?” Cardan asks me over his shoulder, the whine of the wind in my ears. We’re somewhere over the sea, jostled by the roll of the ragwort horse’s gallop beneath us.

“The same,” I answer. Sick. Dizzy. Terrified of what comes next. Unconsciously, I grip his body to mine harder. He’s tense, every muscle on edge. This is unlike any journey we’ve made yet. There’s nothing to fight, and still everything to lose.

“Nearly there,” says Cardan, but it sounds like he’s saying it more for his own benefit. He hates the journey over the sea, the precariousness of ragwort horse travel. I’m not in any state to offer reassurances, or even tease him to lighten the mood.

Sure enough, the clouds part, and the city lights along the coast of Maine wink up at us. It’s evening, and dark beneath a heavy rain cloud, and as soon as we’re low enough, we’re being pelted with sheets of rain. By the time the ragwort horse alights its oaken-hooves on the pavement, Cardan and I are both soaked to the skin.

We dismount, invisible beneath a glamour, at the far end of a hospital parking lot. The sign at the entrance glows with a red cross and the name, Down East Community Hospital. It was the best I could think of to do at a moment’s notice: instruct the ragwort horse to find us an emergency room.

I wrap my arms around myself as Cardan holds out a hand to gather up the horse. The leaves of its mane and the bark-like coat of its body begin to curl in on itself, like a plant rolling in on itself for the night. A moment later, it’s only a few leafy twigs that Cardan can hide in his pocket.

We both look absurd, and I’m just now realizing it. We look like we’ve just run out of a community theatre dress rehearsal for a low-budget melodrama. Cardan’s tried to dress down, but he’s still Cardan, and he’s wearing tight black trousers and tall boots over his calves. He’s thrown one of the zip-up hoodies I keep in my wardrobe for trips to the mortal realm over a loose white shirt. He also must have been feeling particularly festive this morning after last night’s romp, and he’d gone and added a bit of kohl to his eyes before I’d woken up and shit hit the fan. And he’s still wearing gold rings all over his fingers and in his pointed ears. Combined with his soaked, inky hair, he looks a bit like a member of an 80’s rock cover band who’s recovering from being pushed into a pool.

It’s kind of nice. He rarely looks a mess. It makes me feel like we’re in this together, at least.

For my part, I didn’t let Tatterfell braid my auburn hair today, and now it’s just long and windblown, so I’ve tried to pull it all to one side to keep it managed. I’m wearing a simple pair of brown trousers with little silken flats that were my least flashy pair of shoes. I’ve got a shirt and olive-colored vest on beneath a hoodie similar to Cardan’s that was supposed to keep me warm, but now it’s sopping wet.

We both pulls the hoods on our sweatshirts up over our heads as we make a mad dash for the automatic sliding doors of the ER, racing against the onslaught of rain. Once we’re inside the vestibule between sliding doors, I stop a moment to grab Cardan’s arm and gather myself. He puts a bejeweled hand over mine, his expression tightened in concern.

“I’ve never done this before,” I confess, breathless. Hospitals, emergency rooms, doctors. It’s all foreign to me.

“I’ve done it even less.” Cardan’s looking more pale by the minute. The rising terror in both of us is palpable.

“I should call Vivi,” I spout, and Cardan’s nodding furiously in agreement, for once graciously not pointing out how he’s been saying this very thing for weeks.

But when I look around, there’s not a phone in sight. There’s only a poorly lit waiting room on the other side of the glass vestibule, and bored-looking nurses waiting at intake windows. Shit. Shit. How do mortals do this? How to they get treatments for mortal ailments and weaknesses and not fall to pieces fretting over their inherent, inevitable vulnerability in the process?

Suddenly, the surety of immortality is looking rather cowardly by comparison.

“Maybe one of the nurses will let me commandeer a phone,” I mutter, and I let my fingers slide from Cardan’s arm to his hand. My palm is starting to sweat when he laces our fingers together, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

The glass door to the waiting room slides with a hissing whisper, and inside there are people crowded in the cheap chairs lining the walls. Somewhere, a toddler is wailing out of sheer boredom while the evening news anchors jabber on a TV mounted in the far corner above a potted plant. Cardan’s already drawing stares with his ominous, messy appearance. He found a beanie in the pocket of the sweatshirt to cover the pointed tips of his ears, but there’s still kohl streaking his prominent cheekbones. I’m gonna need to clean him up at some point.

Right now, all I’m focused on is slipping into the first open intake seat and figuring out how in the hell I’m going to see a doctor for the first time in my mortal life. I am going to be brave. I have trained for nothing less.

“Hi, how can we help you today?” says a warm-looking middle-aged nurse behind the desk. She has short grey hair and floral scrubs, and a pair of readers perched on the bridge of her nose. Her badge says her name is Josie.

“Um.” My mouth feels dry, but I push on anyway. “I am—I am pregnant, and, um, I’m having some…” I draw in a shaking breath. Why is this so hard? “Some bleeding. I think I need to see a doctor right away.”

“Of course, honey,” Josie says, and peers over her readers. “Have you spoken with your OB?”

“I don’t have one,” I shake my head, my face starting to flush as Josie’s concern increases. I’ve never felt like I belonged in the mortal realm, and it’s never felt more apparent that I’m an outsider.

“Okaaay,” Josie says, slowly, adjusting her readers as she turns to her computer. “Let’s get you registered. Name?”

I hesitate again. I’ve never given my name in any sort of official capacity here among mortals. Especially not since I’d gotten married. What do I want to be called?

“Jude Duarte-Greenbriar,” I hear myself answer. From the chair beside me, Cardan titters a little amused laugh to himself and then bites it back when I shoot him a look. He likes the sound of it, too.

“Okaaay,” Josie says again, pecking at her keyboard. “I’m gonna need you to spell that for me, honey.”

I appall Josie further as the registration process yields the fact that I have neither a driver’s license nor an insurance card. With each of Josie’s judgmental sighs, I can sense Cardan stiffening with repressed irritation next to me, and it’s only stressing me out more. I should have had a talk with him first about promising not to curse anyone. I’m half-expecting Josie to sprout cat ears at any minute.

“While we can’t legally decline services based on insurance,” Josie says, doing little to suppress her concern, “I will need you to sign this agreement that says you understand that, since you are not presenting insurance today, you will be personally responsible for the entire cost of today’s visit.” And she shifts a clipboard toward me.

“Oh, look, love,” Cardan suddenly chimes in. He slides a wet leaf from his pocket across the registration desk as his voice takes on the heady, dangerous quality of magic. He’s conjuring a glamour. “I think you can see all of the insurance information you require here.”

“Oh, good, you found your card!” Josie exclaims, delighted, as she takes the leaf and begins happily clacking away at her keyboard.

“Do not get carried away,” I hiss at Cardan while Josie’s distracted. “That should be a one time thing.”

But Cardan just slits his kohl-lined eyes at me, looking like the smug bastard he’s always been, and leans an elbow on the registration desk, throwing Josie a coy smile. The glamour in his voice when he speaks again is just as sinfully seductive.

“And Josie, my sweet,” he says, “you’ll let my wife borrow your phone to speak with her sister, won’t you, dearest?”

“Of course, Mr. Greenbriar,” Josie replies, with the charmed-sweet smile of the glamoured. She shifts her desk phone to me, handing me the handset. “Just press nine for outgoing calls, honey,” she tells me.

I’m frowning at Cardan’s wicked smirk as I accept the phone.

“I don’t think that was entirely necessary,” I whisper to him while Josie types away. He grins at me. I don’t really want to admit that he’s just been pretty useful, and he knows it.

Regardless of how ill-gotten this privilege is, I do need Vivi. I dial her cell phone, one of two numbers I know, and wait while it rings.

And rings.

And rings.

“She might be screening her calls,” I say to Josie, sheepishly. “Her father is…” Oh, how to describe what Madoc is like these days. “…over-bearing and tricky.” And I hang up and try again. Josie gives a tight, uncomfortable smile, peering over her readers.

“You are not concerned about how unusual this is,” Cardan tells her, the glamour dripping off his voice, and I smack his arm to get him to stop. Josie settles again as the phone keeps ringing.

I have to hang up and dial two more times before Vivi finally picks up. She sounds irritated when she answers.

“Vivi, this is Jude,” I say, slumping in relief that she’s finally answered.

“Jude? Seriously? What?” The annoyance in her voice vanishes as she’s scrambling to understand. “You’re calling me? Where are you? Are you ok?”

“I’m at the Down East Community Hospital emergency room,” I say. “Can you come?”

“Oh, my God.” It sounds like Vivi’s suddenly frantically looking for her keys. “Yes, I’m coming. I’ll be there. Why are you there? What’s going on?”

“It’s a lot to explain over the phone,” I say, slowly, white-knuckling the handset. “I’m ok, and Cardan’s here, but I just really need you.” I hate it more than anything, but I can’t keep the frightened younger sister out of my voice now that I’m actually talking to Vivi about this. The first rush of relief hits me when Vivi replies without hesitation:

“Ok. It’s gonna be ok. I’m on my way.”

I let out a long breath as I hand the phone back to Josie.

“The nurse will call you back when they’re ready for you,” says Josie, and gestures to the crowded waiting room. “Have a seat.”

“Or--” Cardan starts, leaning forward, and I know he’s about to throw out another glamour to speed things along. In the blink of an eye, I clap a hand over his mouth before he can say another word.

“Thank you,” I tell Josie, through a gritted smile, and urge Cardan to move along.

“Your moral stance on glamours ought to have a loophole where our child is concerned,” Cardan gripes as we shuffle to the nearest available two chairs.

“You Folk are like addicts with glamours,” I snap back as we take a seat. “You don’t know when to stop.”

“I believe I’ve proven myself capable of great restraint,” Cardan says, looking miffed for a moment until a People magazine on a nearby table catches his eye and his curiosity of mortals gets the better of him.

He has the right idea, I think. Distraction would be the key to getting my mind off the blood and not falling apart right now. I’ve done everything I can at this point, and now we must wait.

I busy myself for a moment by wrapping the cuff of my sleeve over my fingers and wiping off the rain-splattered streaks of kohl off Cardan’s face, so that the father of my child looks less like the troubled D-list celebrities his People magazine is trashing. He’s not drawing any less attention, but there’s not much either of us can do about that. If you’re not accustomed to the allure of the Folk, it’s nigh impossible to not stare and stare and try to decipher what it is about them that’s so otherworldly. But at least now they’re staring for the right reasons and not at his ruined eyeliner.

With nothing more at arm’s length to distract me, I rest my head against the wallpaper behind me and let my vision go unfocused in the general direction of the TV in the corner. I don’t want to think about the whining toddler in the room, who’s mad at his mother for not bringing the right stuffed animal with them to the hospital. What would I do with a half-human child in Faerie who fell ill or wounded? What would we do? Would the land let Cardan heal him? Would we have to make this journey again? What if I forgot the right stuffed animal, too??

Amazing that I’m suddenly assuming this child is going to survive whatever’s happening now, I realize, and this worry spiral is helping no one.

Once upon a time, I’d been the girl determined to become a thing feared. What has happened inside me, that I’m now this terrified woman? I hate it. I hate it, and I don’t know how to stop it.

“You’re not afraid of that everything will change?” I remember asking Cardan, three moons ago. I had thrown out the last of my birth control that day. We’d snuck away from a revel to lie beneath the massive tree that grew out of the top of the palace of Elfhame, staring at the stars above and dreaming of what they could hold.

Cardan looked to me, his hands behind his head in the loam, his crown slightly askew. He smiled, and the moonlight made him almost too beautiful to bear.

“I cherish every change you’ve ever brought me, Jude,” he said, and he stretched out a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers softly lingering at its rounded edges. “I don’t see why this should be any different.”

“You’ve not always felt so gracious about the changes I’ve foisted upon you,” I pointed out. “And you don’t get to exile me now if my parenting pisses you off.”

I’m not sure what I thought he’d think of such a statement, but it was out in the night air anyway. His gold-rimmed eyes darkened as he pulled his hand back, folding it over his chest. I watched him as he stared up at the stars again, waiting for his response, and with each second, regret began to sink in.

“I consider myself fairly thick-skinned,” he said at last, “but that was uncalled for.”

“I was teasing--” I started, but he shot me a dark look.

“There was a measure of truth in your voice,” he countered. “You don’t lie as well as you think you do.”

“I don’t see what you’re so put out about,” I huffed, pulling back to glare at the night sky. “You weren’t the one living in exile.”

“Not this again,” Cardan groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Five years, Jude. It’s been five years,” he sighed into his palms.

“And now we’re discussing children, and it’s a very large and potentially aggravating change,” I said. “Maybe I am a little wary.”

“Of me?” The moment I saw the unguarded devastation on Cardan’s face, it was like I’d slapped him, and not in the fun way. I wanted to be swallowed down by the loam, covered in a grassy grave. Everything about this was awful. I wanted children with this man. Why was I dredging up ancient history?

But Cardan had been right. There’d been a measure of truth to it. It’s been a deliriously wonderful five years, but we are not entirely new people. We have a terrible past. And I feared what demons a significant change like this could summon.

When I didn’t answer right away, Cardan sat up so his back was to me, burying his head in his hands.

“Cardan…” I shifted so that I was propped up on my hands.

“What else can I give you to make this right?” he fretted to the ground in front of him. “I have given you everything. Every part of me, everything you see before you. It was wrong for both of us to take our games as far as we did, but I would have thought by now--”

“It was an off-handed comment made in poor taste.” I wanted to put a stop to everything that was happening. Rewind the whole evening.

Instead, he looked over his shoulder at me, visibly aching.

“I will not be like my father. I refuse it,” he retorted, and when I cocked my head to the side, not understanding, he went on. “Eldred collected consorts and sired children the way some people curate shoes: to suit his vanity. And I have that in spades already; there’s no need to spawn more. What I would want for a child, more than anything, is to not know what it is to grow up as an accessory. To not fear that his mother will be discarded. Jude, if you cannot trust so little of me, then this is poorly timed. Perhaps we need another five years. Or ten. Or however long you require.”

I sat up and scooted next to him, tucking my chin against his shoulder.

“I trust you,” I assured him in a whisper, and, as if he couldn’t help it, his eyes closed as he leaned his head towards mine. He smelled like oakwood and leather, like everything I’ve ever wanted. “I would not still be with you if I did not trust you.”

I wanted to push back the thick curls from his forehead, and so I did. And held my palm against his jaw as I leaned my forehead to his while the stars twinkled overhead.

Five years later, and sometimes we’re still finding little bits of armor that need to come off. For me, becoming a fearsome thing is not an option for handling motherhood, just as Cardan refuses to mirror his father’s vanity. But when I take off this bit of armor, this need to be feared and respected, it feels as if there is nothing underneath yet. Only vulnerability. Only terror.

I think of it now, in the ER waiting room of the Down East Community Hospital, while I snake my arm through his, looking at him while he’s ogling People magazine. He looks a mess, and there is no one I trust more. I’m still not convinced we’re shining examples of excellent would-be parents. But I’m afraid and vulnerable in the worst ways, and there’s no one I’d rather see me through it.

“Eldred would never have done something like this for any of his consorts,” I point out to him in a whisper, and he looks back at me with a pleased smirk.

“You are my wife,” he indicates, and gives my cold knuckles a swift kiss before turning back to whatever filth is engrossing him in People.

“Jude Duarte-Greenbriar?” There’s a nurse at the emergency room door calling my name. I draw in a breath. Here we go.

The nurse in blue scrubs takes my vitals and makes us somewhat comfortable in a makeshift space where we’re surrounded by taupe-colored curtains on three sides while I wait on a hospital bed. There’s a squeaky grey plastic chair for Cardan to sit on, and no more TV or People magazine – just the assurance that a doctor will see me soon. And then we’re left with our dread to stare at the taupe curtains around us, listening to the squeak of hurried shoe soles against linoleum and the occasional beeping of hospital pagers. The air is acrid, like someone’s tried to scrub it clean, and it’s making my stomach lurch. It must show on my face as I swallow hard against the rising bile, because Cardan swiftly hands me a blue plastic barf bag that the nurse has left him in charge of. He’s wary of my empty threats to aim for his shoes.

“Jude, are you decent?” calls a voice from the other side of the curtain. “You have visitors.”

The curtains scrape against their tracks on the ceiling, and I can’t hold back a relief grin at the sight of Vivi and Heather.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” It’s all Vivi can say as she sweeps in to wrap me in a hug.

“Hey,” Heather graciously greets Cardan while the two are awkward to the side. She’s looking effortlessly cool, with her shoulder-length pink hair in soft waves. She has holes in her jeans in all the right places, and she’s wearing a breezy, colorful boho top that shows off her brown shoulders. I try to give her a wave while Vivi is squeezing the life out of me.

“What are you doing here?” Vivi demands when she pulls away, holding me by the shoulders. She’s given her golden hair a short, edgey chop that almost hides the pointed tips of her half-fae ears when it falls the right way. She tends to favor t-shirts and jeans, but today she’s in tight black pants and a grey v-neck under a jacket, and I’m hoping I haven’t interrupted a date.

“Well.” I shift a glance between the two of them, simultaneously gladdened that they’re here and nervous with how I now I have break the news. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out…” And then Vivi gasps.

“Are you pregnant?!” she squeaks.

“Oh, my God, V,” Heather rolls her eyes. “You can’t ask people if they’re pregnant.”

“She’s right, though,” I interject. “I am.”

“Jude!” Vivi exclaims, fondly, and takes my face in her hands, and, for a brief moment, I realize this is all I’ve been wanting for weeks. I grin, sheepishly. Then Vivi narrows her cat-like eyes at Cardan.

“You knocked up my sister?” she jabs.

“Bold of you to assume it’s mine,” he quips back, and Vivi feigns a disgusted gasp as throw the empty barf bag at him.

“Force of habit,” Cardan tells Heather with a shrug.

“Congratulations, Cardan,” Heather replies, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

“But why are you here?” Vivi turns to me again. “Does Taryn know? Does Madoc?”

“No on both counts,” I shake my head. “It’s early. And we’re here because--” Ugh, I hate this. I hate this. “I started bleeding.”

“Oh, no.” Heather’s face is etched with genuine concern. It’s been a roller coaster of a few minutes.

“But why are you here?” Vivi tries again, and I see what she’s getting at. Why not be seen to by the royal midwives?

“I’m mortal,” I say, quietly. “This is a mortal thing. I felt like I needed a mortal doctor.”

And Vivi takes my face in her hands.

“I completely, one-hundred-percent agree,” she says, whole-heartedly, and there’s relief there, too. She’s always wanted me to spend more time in the mortal realm.

We crowd around the hospital bed for a while to catch up. Heather makes a run to the vending machine to bring back some snacks, and soon the tightness in my chest is releasing and unwinding. This was the distraction I needed. For a few minutes there, I could almost forget what had brought us to this weird, curtained-off corner to begin with.

But then the curtain scrape on the track again. There’s an orderly waiting there in blue scrubs, pushing a wheelchair.

“They’re ready for you in ultrasound now, Jude,” he tells me, and indicates that I’m supposed to ride in the chair. I bristle at the gesture. I’m not sure of the last time I’ve been asked to do something so vulnerable and humiliating. I am not ill. I don’t need this.

Vivi notices and puts a hand at my arm.

“It’s just standard hospital procedure, Jude,” she says, in her tone of voice she uses to convince Oak to eat vegetables.

So I comply. Heather and Vivi tell us they’ll wait for us to get back, and then we’re off. Cardan follows the orderly, and every once and awhile, I hear him having to jog to catch up – he’s easily distracted by what all the mortals are up to in this place.

I’m wheeled into a dark room with an exam table. Next to it is a bunch of strange equipment I’ve never seen before – screens and wands and all sort of buttons. A technician waits for us there, a woman in pink scrubs with a badge that says her name is Brenna. Her dark, curly hair is pulled back tight against her scalp, and she has kind brown eyes that smile when she tells me to make myself comfortable on the exam table.

“And is this Dad?” Brenna wants to know, cheerfully waving Cardan in to have a seat on a grey plastic chair next to me.

“Not my dad,” I say, not understanding the question at first. Then it dawns on me. “I mean, he’s the father, yes. Of the baby.” Oh, my God. This is off to a great start. Cardan’s trying very hard to not laugh outright at me and failing miserably. His laugh comes out like one long snort.

“Happens all the time,” Brenna says, with another cheerful wave, which makes me wonder why she’s still asking it, then.

“First baby?” Brenna now wants to know, making small talk while she’s queuing up her equipment.

“First everything,” I reply, hoping that will explain my nerves. “First baby, first ultrasound, first try.”

“Oh.” Brenna sounds impressed and looks to Cardan as she wheels around in her swivel chair. “Nice shootin’, Tex,” she tells him, with a wink.

“Thank you, Brenna,” Cardan accepts graciously, puffing out his chest a little. I roll my eyes.

“This may be the only time I’m ever complimented on my marksmanship,” he tells me. “Let me have this moment.”

“All right!” Brenna interrupts. “Let’s see what you’re cookin’ in there, mama.”

She rolls up my shirt and tucks in some scratchy paper into my leggings. Then squirts some cold gel across my abdomen. I watch in fascination while she rolls her device over my stomach, and then she turns her screen to us.

“And here’s your little guy,” she says. “Or gal. Can’t tell yet, obviously.”

For a moment, time stops.

Next to me, Cardan draws in a breath.

Something squirmy and alive curls and stretches in the grainy black and white pixels of Brenna’s screen. It doesn’t look quite human. Or fae. It looks kind of alien, if I’m being honest. But I can see its tiny limbs and the outline of its perfectly round head, and it’s moving. Like a manic little seahorse, our little shrimp is bobbing all over the place, alive and well.

“Looking good,” Brenna says, and Cardan barks out a surprised laugh. I’m smiling so hard my face might break.  

“Oh, I was sure I’d stabbed it,” Cardan sighs in relief, slumping in his seat, and it’s my turn to laugh.

“That’s not actually possible,” Brenna tells him, and maybe now he’ll believe it. “Let’s see if we can hear the heartbeat.”

She clicks and clacks at some buttons, then turns a knob. Pushes a little harder on my abdomen.

A fluttering, steady whooshing sound fills the speakers in the room. I don’t know when I grabbed Cardan’s hand, but I’m squeezing it hard now. I glance at him. He’s utterly transfixed on the screen, his dark eyes wide, his lips parted. He looks like how I feel when I’m in bearing witness to great and ancient magic.

This isn’t all vomit and exhaustion. This is happening. This is real.

We are making something new. Something entirely unique. Like magic.

“Ok, this might be your issue.” Brenna breaks the enchantment, zooming in on something dark on her screen. My heart, which moments before felt like it might burst, squeezes and contracts in panic now.

“This is a sub-chorionic hematoma,” she says, pointing to the screen and making some notes. “The doctor will explain all this to you.”

“What is it?” Cardan’s voice is tight, panic thinly-veiled. “Is it dangerous?”

“They’re pretty common,” says Brenna, not looking at us while she takes measurements and notes. Like she drops these kinds of bombs regularly. “It’s basically an accumulation of blood between the uterine wall and the fetal membrane. It can cause bleeding, especially as the baby gets bigger and jostles it around. They usually resolve without much issue.”

“Usually?” Cardan’s not assuaged.

“Well, again,” Brenna says, looking at him sidelong, “the doctor will read this and give his advice. But it can increase the risk of miscarriage in some cases. Not always, though. The doctor will tell you how he wants you to treat it, but it usually involves some bed rest or limited activity, nothing too strenuous or crazy. Don’t go horse-back riding!” And she laughs as if only a crazy person would get on a horse while pregnant.

I look to Cardan. He looks to me. It’s hit us at the same time.

The ragwort horse.

How the hell are we getting home?

“Huh.” I barely had time to digest my realization about the ragwort horse before Brenna was back with more. She swivels the device on my stomach around some more. Cocks her head to the side.

“Are either of you a twin?” she asks.

Cardan points at me like I’ve done something wrong he doesn’t want to be blamed for.

“Why?” I ask, slowly, cautiously.

“It does run in families,” Brenna says, and turns the screen to us again. “And I’m seeing two babies here.” She looks back at Cardan. “And on the first try, Tex,” she says, looking impressed again.

Now, nothing feels real. I think I might leave my body. There are two squirmy aliens in the black and white screen, the lazier of the two now floating into view. Brenna adjusts the knobs some more to bring the new heartbeat into focus, just as strong as the first.

“Jude.” I can’t decipher what Cardan’s feeling now. He looks unlike I’ve ever seen him before. Something between elation and sheer dread is warring between his wide eyes and furrowed brow. He grips at the beanie over his hair like he’s trying to keep his own head from flying off.

“Are you and your twin identical?” Brenna asks. I nod, stupidly.

“These, too,” she nods, and points at the screen. “See: they’re sharing a sac.” She draws in a deep breath. “This does elevate the risk more, with the hematoma. The doctor will go over all of this with you. But I’ll bet he’ll want you on some kind of bed rest. Weekly check-ups. That sort of thing.” And then she squints hard at the screen. “What is that?” she wonders aloud. “Is that a tail?”

“You don’t see a tail,” Cardan says, but he’s so flustered and shell-shocked, he’s forgotten to use the glamour.

“I think I might, though.” Brenna squints harder.

“You don’t see a tail,” Cardan says, louder and hurried, this time with the weight of magic heavy in his tone. “Everything you see looks normal to you.”

A glamoured smile flutters over Brenna’s pleasant features as she lifts the device from my belly and clicks off her equipment.

“Everything looks normal,” she hums, happily. “Congratulations, you two.”

“Everything but the hematoma, right?” I cock my head to the side as she rolls away her swivel chair. “The doctor will speak to us about that.”

“What hematoma?” Brenna’s still smiling as she stands with her clipboard. “Everything looks normal. I’m going to call an orderly, but pretty much you’re free to go. Congratulations!”

“Cardan,” I accuse under my breath as she leaves, leveling a glare at him.

“You are carrying twins.” He’s just agape at me, either unaware or unrattled by how the poor wording in his glamour just muddled everything.

“The doctor won’t know about the hematoma now!” I exclaim.

“We’ll scrounge up another one somewhere,” Cardan waves me off. “Jude. Twins.”

It’s not helping me feel any better, him saying it over and over again. I slump into my hands, weighted by disbelief and frustration. What am I going to do? This can’t possibly be real, can it?

“I am going to get so huge,” I moan into my palms in self-pity. I know it’s vain, but at the moment, it’s all I can think. In the land of willowy Folk, I already stick out like a sore thumb. Now I’m going to be a sore and massively swollen thumb.

Cardan’s shifted to stand in front of me on the exam table. And he runs his hands up and down my arms, almost reverent.

“You are magnificent,” he reassures me, softly, and presses a kiss against my head.

“Why are you not freaking out?” I ask, and pull him by the hoodie pockets so I can hug him again if I need it. I think I may need it. “This is two babies. We don’t even know Thing One about taking care of one baby, and now there will be two.”

“We may require a few more house cats,” Cardan jokes, and when I scowl, he asks, “That’s still not amusing? I shall persist. One of these days.”

“You know, I hear that’s a mortal fatherhood trait,” I point out. “Persisting over and over with the same unamusing joke to the embarrassment of everyone around you.” And I wrap my arms around his waist as I look up at him. He’s warm, and everything is a little more bearable when he’s close and smiling.

“I think you are implying that I’m excelling at fatherhood so far,” Cardan grins down at me, and I’m surprised to see it looks as if his gold-rimmed eyes are glistening.

“Are you all right?” I ask, softening at the sight. He blinks, furiously, as he buries his long fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck, holding me close as he looks over my face.

“I just--” His voice is hoarse when he starts, so he clears it and tries again. “This is more than I ever dared to consider,” he says. “I did not dream that this kind of life would ever be an option for me. Family that looked after each other, that loved each other – that always seemed to me to be a strictly mortal gift. As if the Folk had bargained for everlasting life long ago and forsook all hope of familial love in the process. I had accepted that it wasn’t mine to have. But you.”

He shifts his hands so that he holds my face, and I feel swallowed by the adoration in his admission. All I can do is close my eyes as he holds me. I can think of nothing else when his nose brushes my forehead.

“I am overcome by all you have given me,” he whispers, and I think I might cry. My hands twist in the fabric of the sweatshirt he wears.

“I love your words,” I whisper back, “but you give me too much credit.” I pull back to look at his mirthful, glistening eyes and say: “If it were left up to me, I would never have given you twins.”

He laughs outright, unguarded and thrilled.

“Lucky for me, then,” he says, and kisses me.

I have kissed him hundreds, maybe thousands of times. We have shared passionate, unbridled kisses and desperate, devouring kisses. We’ve kissed at quick partings, and we’ve kissed with soft, gentle comfort. I like everything about them all. But this is something entirely new, something that surprises me still. It’s filled with gratitude and promises and dreams of the future, and though it is intimate, I would not have felt ashamed if someone had walked in.

It’s the kiss of complete trust, and in that moment, I feel assured that, in Cardan, I have not made a mistake. There is much to figure out still. But this is right.

So, we will have twins. I will meet this challenge with resolve. For right now, anyway, the quantity of babies is the least of our concerns.

“How in the hell am I supposed to get home?” I ask, the moment we pull apart. Cardan rests his hands on my shoulders, screwing up his beautiful mouth in thought. The ragwort horse. The bed rest. The doctor we must scrounge up somewhere. There are a dozen new bullets swirling on a to-do list, and none of them lead us back to Faerie any time soon.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” he confesses. “Which further complicates matters, because there is absolutely no chance that I am leaving you here.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” I say, and press back a smile. “And also glad,” I add.

Cardan meets my smile with a little wicked smirk of his own.

“Is it time we scheme together once again?” he asks.

We cannot get home until this is resolved, and we cannot leave Faerie ungoverned. I have no idea where to even start on this problem.

But that’s certainly never stopped us before.

There’s a knock at the door. The orderly has arrived with the wheelchair to take us back to Vivi and Heather. I give Cardan a secret, knowing smile.

“I suppose it is,” I agree.

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

Tag list! Let me know if you’d like to be added: @yellowavocadopit, @dagypsygirl, @ireallyshouldsleeprn, @booklover-sleeplover, @mwejh, @courtofjurdan, @faeriequeenofwest, @sugawsites, @loveyourselfsolid, @owl0y0s, @feelinglikecleopatra, @akaloto, @charrise, @persephxnecoven, @raging-bisexual-alert, @rteme, @nahthanks, @emmabookworm08, @elorcanislife, @snusbandxknifewife, @poeticbrownmermaid, 

[aion-rsa]

Midnight Mass: It’s Time to Talk About That Monstrous Twist

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This article contains huge spoilers for Midnight Mass. So help me God if you read this without watching the series first…

The version of Midnight Mass that Netflix advertised still would have made for a compelling horror series. 

An isolated, insular island community? Great. A young, charismatic preacher suddenly coming to town to shake things up? Perfect. That preacher proving capable of performing minor miracles? Love it, no notes! 

Of course, as viewers who have watched at least four episodes of the seven-episode series now know, Midnight Mass has one extra supernatural twist in mind that elevates an already interesting story to true mind-blowing status. Critics were understandably asked to keep this aspect of the show a secret before it premiered. So please indulge me as I finally slay these embargo demons and get it off my chest.

Vampires. Vampires! V-A-M-P-I-R-E-S. VAMPIRES! VAMPIRES VAMPIRES VAMPIRES! Literally like Dracula. And Nosferatu. Anne Rice’s Lestat. Stephen King’s ‘Salem’s Lot. Vampires. VAMPIRES, BRO, VAMPIRES.

For creator Mike Flanagan, a filmmaker influenced by all manner of classic horror, bringing the fanged bloodsuckers to life was a long time coming.

“My favorite vampire movie is (Werner) Herzog’s Nosferatu,” Flanagan told Den of Geek and other outlets prior to the premiere of Midnight Mass. “That film is the vampire story as high art. I also adore From Dusk Till Dawn. I read Dracula young enough for it to really burrow in for me. And I read ‘Salem’s Lot early enough to color an enormous amount of work that I’ll do for the rest of my life.”

Midnight Mass’s depiction of the mythological undead beast and how it can neatly fit into Christian dogma is one of the most satisfying horror twists in years. Now that the truth is out, let’s discuss Midnight Mass and how it conflates vampires and biblical angels. 

Mistaking a Vampire for an Angel

The interesting thing about Midnight Mass is that it clearly takes place in a universe where the average person has no knowledge of what a vampire is. Even Sarah Gunning (Annabeth Gish), arguably the most well-read person on Crockett Island, has to do some research into “porphyria cutanea tarda” (a.k.a. the real life “vampire disease”). This is similar to The Walking Dead’s approach to zombies, in which the “z” word and George A. Romero’s name are never spoken. This strategy in Midnight Mass allows for a truly fascinating case of mistaken identity.

While viewers immediately know that the creature Monsignor John Pruitt (Hamish Linklater) encounters is a vampire, he believes it to be an angel. Given how studied Pruitt is in the Bible and Cathloic theology, it’s entirely understandable why he would think a tall, muscular, bald-headed beast with fangs and leathery wings is an angel. As it turns out, the angels of the Old Testament can be truly terrifying. 

Not all angels are soft-featured human-like creatures with fluffy white bird wings. Some, like Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones are designed to intimidate God’s enemies. In the New Testament’s Book of Luke, an angel visits Zechariah and immediately asks him to “be not afraid” because the angel can see the poor guy absolutely shaking in his boots upon his arrival. Angels being terrifying is even something of an Internet meme, with users contrasting the phrase “be not afraid” with images of truly monstrous beasts. 

Not only does Pruitt’s vampire have the vague appearance of an angel, it also apparently holds the secrets to eternal life as promised in the Bible. By merely drinking some of the “angel’s” blood, a good Christian can live forever just like God says. Does that blood-drinking sacrament sound familiar? It did to Mike Flanagan.

“In Bible school I used to say ‘if the wine turns into Jesus’s blood literally and we’re drinking it so that we can live forever … that seems like a short leap to vampiric myth.’”

Of course, drinking the angel’s fluids in the case of Midnight Mass also leads to some unwanted side effects like a thirst for blood and extreme sensitivity to sunlight. Thankfully, good ol’ Bev Keane always has a Bible quote ready to go for that. When read through the proper perspective, the Holy Bible may as well be the original vampire story. 

The Rules of Vampirism

“The thing that I love about the vampire as a cinematic tool is how malleable it is,” Flanagan says. “We all agree that there is no canon. There are no rules. In fact, part of the joy is seeing what rules people cherry pick as they approach a vampire story.”

All depictions of vampires are indeed quite different. Vampires can range from the classic Stoker-ian monster to Twilight’s nigh-invulnerable sparkle bois. Midnight Mass’s version of the vampire leans towards the classic, albeit with some tweaks. In terms of appearance, The Angel (as we will be calling Midnight Mass’s O.G. vampire for simplicity’s sake) has a more bestial look like Nosferatu rather than an aristocratic one like Count Dracula or Anne Rice’s creations. 

“We winked at (Nosferatu the Vampyr actor) Klaus Kinski a few times when we designed our guy,” Flanagan says.

Though the Angel resembles Nosferatu in appearance, its vulnerabilities owe more to Rice’s The Vampire Chronicles. Religious iconography does not appear to hurt the Angel nor its thralls. Traditional human weapons like bullets or blades also do no harm (at least not mortally). These vampires are, however, tremendously susceptible to both fire and sunlight. Exposure to the latter for even a few seconds is enough to kill the Angel and his many acolytes. 

Read more

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Like in Rice’s works as well, the path to creating a new vampire is quite simple. Step 1: Drink its blood. Step 2: Die. In Dracula and ‘Salem’s Lot, the method of vampire creation is merely being bit by one, zombie-style. Rice and Flanagan’s approach is quite a bit more intentional and interesting. It also opens the door for perhaps Midnight Mass’s most ingenious storytelling quirk: communion. John Pruitt is able to get nearly the entirety of Crockett Island to become a vampire by spiking the communion wine with his buddy’s blood. Then, all that remains is for them to poison themselves to death, Jonestown-style. 

The mass “resurrection” scene in which the congregation awakes as their new vampire selves also provides some insight to just how hard it is to contain the vampire’s overwhelming hunger. Riley Flynn was able to resist it when he turned because John Pruitt babysat him like a psychedelic mushroom guide. The plan for the rest of the congregation was to have their babysitters as well but that didn’t quite work out. Still, Riley’s dad Ed makes it clear to his wife Annie, that even if it’s hard to resist the call for blood, it’s not impossible. 

“When I saw them at the church, I thought it was something they really couldn’t help. Like something impossible not to do. But it isn’t, Annie,” he says.

Maybe if more vampires were like Ed Flynn, a whole island full of vampires wouldn’t be too bad of a thing in the first place. 

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How to Defeat a Vampire

While every vampire story presents its own unique take on the creature, the answer on how to defeat a vampire is usually the same: by doing it together.

“We poor humans only have so much that we can give,” Flanagan says. “We’re ill-equipped as individuals to make any kind of meaningful stand. The only way evil in the world can be brought down is through collective effort. That’s something Stoker understands inherently. It’s clearly something King understands.”

Alongside the aforementioned Bram Stoker and Stephen King, Flanagan presents a small team of humans at story’s end who will do what it takes to defeat evil, even if it means dying in the process. Erin Greene (Kate Siegel), Dr. Sarah Gunning, Sheriff Hassan (Rahul Kohli), Annie Flynn (Kristin Lehman), Warren Flynn (Igby Rigney), and Leeza Scarborough (Annarah Cymone) are the six residents of Crockett Island brave enough to try to take down the Angel. All but two (Warren and Leeza) die. They do succeed in eliminating the immediate threat on Crockett Island but it’s possible the Angel made it away to suck blood another day, damaged wings and all.

What’s interesting about Midnight Mass’s “final crew” is that six appears to be the magic number when it comes to taking down a vampire. Stoker’s Dracula has six heroes: Jonathan Harker, Mina Harker nèe Murray, Arthur Holmwood (Lord Godalming), John Seward, Quincey Morris, and Abraham Van Helsing (of which, only poor American cowboy Quincey Morris dies). King’s ‘Salem’s Lot also has six: Ben Mears, Matt Burke, Susan Norton, Mark Petrie, Jimmy Cody, and Father Callahan (of which, decidedly more than one of them die). This strange bit of arithmancy is something we asked Flanagan about.

“The number was certainly not intentional,” he says. “Once it was clear that Riley was not going to be carrying the torch to the end it really was about asking ‘who are the characters who seem in the very beginning to be at a disadvantage and how do we empower them in the end?’ This was gonna be played out by Sarah Gunning, Sheriff Hassan, and everyone else who would get to just give a little piece.”

Considering that Erin and company were outnumbered about 117 to six, it was a pretty good showing for Crockett Island’s last humans standing.

All seven episodes of Midnight Mass are available to stream on Netflix now.

The post Midnight Mass: It’s Time to Talk About That Monstrous Twist appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[mimik-u]

“Mr. Universe” Thoughts:

Pie in ice cream looks good on paper, but oh my go d, it’s super duper sweet. My town has a local milkshake place where their gimmick is putting whole ass slices of cake/pie in their milkshakes andidjdoejsmsjdisijs it’s so much.

Aughshdhsh, Greg is being wonderful here: attentive, caring, present.

“I spent so long trying to figure out whether or not I was Mom, now that I actually know I’m me, it’s like I have no idea who that is.” ;-; I think I talked about this in some odd post or another, but something I really commend Future for doing is showing what it’s like to be sixteen and faced with an existential identity crisis. This really is that time where kids have to reconcile their pasts with who they are now in the present and who they ultimately want to be in the future. It can be a scary process sometimes—if not most times—and here, of course, it’s heightened by the extraordinariness of Steven’s story and selfhood.

Greg with short hair is good, but I keep staring at him thinking something is wrong here firirkifiejdjdjdjs.

THE DEAR, OLD DAD SONG. AUGHNDF, MY FEEL IN G S

My favorite shot in this montage is the one of Steven snoring and Greg fondly looking over, a small smile on his face. 😭😭😭

Omg, is this Greg’s childhood home????????

Oh, my go d, the living room looks like my grandmother’s living room used to. The woolen doily on the couch. The assorted knickknacks everywhere. The wooden walls.

“Letters from Dad? They’re all unopened.” That is one of the saddest fucking lines I’ve ever heard in this show. What the actual

And then the camera zooms into one of the pictures on the wall that confirms where we are—this is Greg’s parents’ house. From the portrait alone, I get the vibe that Greg’s folks were the strict, high expectations, buttoned up shirts kind of parents. And if this is true, then boyyyy, that Rose/Greg parallel is really going to hit me in the feels.

As Steven enthuses about this new revelation in the background, Greg’s back is turned to him, but we see his face: the melancholy in it, the conflicted feelings.

“You looked just like me... only more human.” AUGH. DAMMIT, THIS SHOW.

I was talking to someone on AO3 about how Future has really made me appreciate the human episodes in SU more in hindsight, not because they were the most engaging in the series—admittedly, there are only a few I can name that stand out to me as being favorites—but because of their overarching function. These episodes were the ones in which Steven got to be half-human, in which he learned about what it was to be a human generally. But inherently, the tension has always resided in the fact that Steven is neither fully human nor fully gem. As the original show progressed, Steven and the people around him tried their best to navigate this tension, especially in the earlier seasons. You have quotes like Garnet reminding Amethyst and Pearl that Steven needs his human friends. You have Greg and Connie forming a “humans” bond, which Steven silently felt excluded from. You have Steven feeling on the outside of Onion’s group of friends. And the more Steven became necessarily drawn into the mythos of his mother and his inherited powers, the less human-centric episodes there were, which tracks with Steven’s development as the half-gem savior of Earth, but unfortunately, in the commotion, he lost out on fleshing out his humanness, too. This is a big part of the pathos in “Bismuth Casual,” which reveals to us that Steven’s forgotten how to talk to humans who aren’t Connie and his dad. And this is a huge part of the pathos in this episode, too, Steven yearning for his father’s humanity and wanting to connect to his past.

Greg’s graduation photo. ;-; He looks so sad. And is that, like, a military buzz cut?

OH, HE GOT HIS LAST NAME OFF OF A SONG 😭😭

This song is really lovely. 😭

Greg’s eyes being bright with his tears as nostalgia rushes in. 😭

“They can’t be worse than Mom’s family.” WOOF.

“I can’t believe I ever realized you’re just like Mom.” FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUFUFFJF

“I grew up in a VAN. I never went to school. I’ve never been to a doctor until two days ago.” I CSNT DO THIS. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

“My problem is that I’m a UNIVERSE.” FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKF CUFKCMDUFJC

OH MY GOD THE VAN

HOLY SHIT THE VAN FLIPPED

JESUS

HE WAS UNCONSCIOUS LONG ENOUGH FOR A TOW TRUCK TO BE CALLED???? GREG, CALL AN AMBULANCE?????

OH, GOD, GREG TRIES TO BE POSITIVE AND MOVE AWAY FROM THE DEEP EMOTIONAL STUFF, BUT IT’S PRECISELY NOT WHAT STEVEN NEEDS TO HEAR AT THE MOMENT, SO HE TUNES HIM OUT. HOLY FUCKING SHIT

NO. THIS EPISODE. OUCH

HE DELETES THE PHOTO BC GREG DE MAYO ISN’T PRESENT. FUCK FUCK FUCK.

FUCK?

I’m suing this show for emotional damages.

Final thoughts: Greg’s life, like Rose’s was as Pink, was heavily regulated to the point of suffocation, and so I think it makes sense then that Greg’s own parenting style has decidedly been the antithesis of that. He’s pretty much allowed Steven to do as he pleases and not exert that same sort of exacting control that he experienced from his own parents. But just as Greg’s parents represented an extreme in parenting, I think, too, that Greg’s on the polar end. Steven was loved and cared for, which is fundamentally the most important thing, but there was a lot of maintenance work (a la parenting) that I think Greg unfortunately wasn’t attentive to in his desire to be the total corrective to his parents. Yes, Steven should have gone to a doctor way before two days ago. Yes, Steven should have gone to at least elementary and middle school. Greg says, in response to the doctor bit, “You’re a gem. You weren’t like other kids,” but just as everyone else has done over the course of the last couple of years, he, too, has forgotten the fundamental fact that Steven is half-human.

And ofc, I think there’s absolutely something to be said about the fact that Steven, having not known his grandparents, can’t accurately judge the situation as he did with his mother and the Diamonds. I don’t think it’s fair for Steven to completely compare Greg and Rose together because he’s missing essential context, or maybe, more accurately still, he’s forgetting a crucial fact. Greg has apparently tried—for years—to reestablish contact with his parents, and the silence of the unopened letters speaks louder than words. Unlike the Diamonds, awful as they undoubtedly were, the DeMayo parents don’t appear to want reconciliation, and that’s an important distinction.

But then, God, I think about that last scene again and go feral. Greg, your kid just accidentally flipped the van, and you don’t, like, call an ambulance? Instead of being emotionally honest with him, you default into safe and sage platitudes that both of you know aren’t entirely authentic in light of everything that has happened?

But THEN, I think... well, what did I expect? This has been Greg’s modus operandi for the entirety of the series. When bad things happen, he tries his damnedest to subjugate all of his negative emotions beneath his chosen veneer of the calm, easygoing father. It used to work—it used to work so well—but not anymore.

A fact I’m not sure that Greg recognized at the end of this episode.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

[jazy3]

Thoughts on Grey’s Anatomy: 17X5

SPOILERS AHEAD!

I’m going to go right ahead and say it. This episode felt like a PSA to me, but it was well done. It was emotional and impactful and the storyline about Bailey’s Mom made me tear up, but at the same time the episode felt very stagnant and I feel like the lives of the other characters didn’t really move forward or go anywhere. It felt like they were all standing still. I liked the conversations between Jackson and Richard and Bailey and Maggie about how COVID has impacted black and brown people more than other races and how unfair that is and how politicians and decision makers need to pay more attention to that.

I loved the conversation between Bailey and Maggie. I liked that they addressed what happened with Maggie’s Mom because that storyline bothered the heck out of me. Maggie treated Meredith and everyone else horribly when all they did was try and help and then she forced her mother to undergo treatments she didn’t want because Maggie couldn’t handle the fact that she was dying and then they just dropped it. I’m glad to see that make a comeback and that Maggie has recognized that what she did and the way she behaved was wrong and is now using that experience to help others.

I loved their comments about guidance counsellors and others assume black people aren’t as bright or as capable as white folks and how insidious that is. It’s not something I’ve experienced myself as a white person, but I’m glad they’re highlighting it. This episode was written by Zoanne Clack who is a black woman and a former E.R. Physician. The previous episode was written by Julie Wong who is an Asian woman and I think it’s great they are utilizing the talent that they have so that people of colour can share their stories and their experiences on a global scale. 

By telling these stories through the lives of characters we know and love and can empathize with it allows people who will never have these experiences understand a little bit more. Representation is important and this show has always done a really good job in my opinion of highlighting important topics and social issues in a sensitive and thoughtful manner. These characters are fictional, but their stories are taken from the lives of real people and I think an important step in the process of creating a better fairer world is creating media that reflects people’s realities in order to cultivate empathy so that people who might not otherwise understand or get it have a window into that experience.

Maybe it changes their mind. Maybe it doesn’t. But the point is that it opens people’s minds to the possibility of seeing a side that they didn’t before and that is half the battle when trying to get people to understand someone else’s experience or point of view. I’m going to be seeing my family this holiday season virtually and in small groups from a safe distance. As is the case for many visiting with relatives over the holidays means having to listen to a lot of ignorant opinions, frustrating statements, and in some cases racial slurs and inappropriate remarks. 

So I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’m going to handle that this year because my tolerance for that crap has gone out the window. All this to say it’s nice to see good people fighting the good fight to get these stories out there to a global audience so that maybe some people will get it and maybe some good will come of it. And even if it doesn’t seeing characters and stories that represent you on screen is powerful and moving and wonderful and we all deserve that. I teared up watching Bailey suffer with the deterioration and death of her Mom.

The end scene where Bailey describes the patients she’s lost to COVID in the voice over while her and Richard sing ‘My Girl’ to give her Mom that moment of peace and a death with dignity got me. It really put a face on the disease. Watching her and her Dad struggle with it was so hard. I loved Bailey’s voice over where she shared info about the COVID patients she’d lost so far and who they were not just their disease. That was well done. Made me tear up.

I loved the talk between Meredith and Bailey at the hospital and on the beach. This episode wasn’t as shocking as the previous ones, but it was still good. I’m glad Meredith is getting better. I will miss the beach, but I’m excited to see her wake up, get better, and hopefully spend some time with Hayes. Which brings me to my chief complaint with this episode which is where the heck was Hayes?!?! This is the second episode he’s been absent from for no discernable reason and no explanation has been given as to where he is.

I did not sign up for this. A big part of the joy I felt when they announced that he was being upped to a main character was the implication that he was going to be given his own storylines and character development outside of Meredith and his relationships with Abigail, Liam, and Austin. But Hayes being absent when Meredith’s not awake robs of him that. Don’t get me wrong. I love Meredith and Hayes together and all I want is for them to be together and live happily ever after.

But, Hayes has such a rich and interesting backstory and there’s so much to explore there. Richard Flood who plays him brings such a wonderful depth to the character and he deserves to have his own story apart from Meredith and I really want to see him interact with the other characters more. We’ve seen him interact significantly with Jo and Bailey, but I’d love to see him interact with Maggie, Amelia, Jackson, and Owen more. His absence this episode reminds me of the episode after the Conference Episode last season where he was suddenly missing for no reason and they didn’t explain where he was.

I’m confused because he was upped to a main character just before this season started so he should be in every episode or almost every episode like the other characters are. I’m starting to get concerned that the actor who plays him has fallen ill or tested positive for COVID-19 or that he’s dealing with some kind of family emergency and so they had to cut him out of the episode last minute. I hope I’m wrong, but I honestly can’t think of another reason the actor would be missing for upwards of 2 to 4 weeks when these episodes were filmed.

I can’t see his absence being a story choice because it doesn’t make any sense and they haven’t addressed it on screen as they usually do when an actor has departed or needs time off and they have time to write that in. He also doesn't appear to be in the promo for next week’s episode which is strange considering it shows another meeting being held by Richard where some of the other department heads can be seen and we get shots of most of the other characters. After the Premiere aired he appeared in the promo for Episode 3 standing outside Meredith’s window and in that episode we saw them have a heart to heart that I thought was really beautiful and lovely.

At this point it’s unclear if Meredith even knows that Hayes is the one that found her and got her help and is distraught over her condition. He’s the head of Peds which is a pretty important department. Where the heck is he? They can gladly write off other characters in the second half of the season to give him more screen time in my opinion. I really hope the actor and his family are okay.  I’d also hate for his sudden absence to wreck Meredith’s storyline.

I love their friendship and flirtations and I’d hate to see her wind up alone or with someone that clearly isn’t right for her and that she doesn’t really love because something unexpected happened with the actor. I really really hope he’s in the mid-season finale next week! Jo suddenly declaring that she wants to quit general surgery to become an OBGYN came out of nowhere and makes no sense to me.

She spent years being with and then married to the Head of Pediatric Surgery and was decidedly lukewarm on the idea of having kids or even being near them. So her and Alex split and in the wake of that she randomly decides she wants to be an OBGYN and deliver babies? What the heck? I’m also confused because I feel like Hayes should have been there because it was a Peds case and he wasn’t and if Jo wants to re-specialize it would make sense for her to talk to Carina or Hayes.

Carina’s a main character on Station 19 and is still reoccurring on Grey’s so she can talk to her for an episode or two, but anymore than that and I think that would fall under Hayes perview because he’s a main character. But he’s currently MIA and we don’t know why. I did love Jo’s scenes with Levi though. They’re always hilarious and I think they bounce off of each other really well. I’m glad that Tom improved and apparently isn’t dying.

I like him with Teddy and I hope they get back together at some point. I’m glad they are choosing to be friends again. More than anything I want Teddy to pick a lane here. Owen or Tom. Pick one and go with it. Stop flip flopping all over the place like a fish out of water. Teddy’s a hot mess these days. I liked Amelia’s speech to Teddy. She has feelings about what Teddy did and didn’t do, but as she says she herself has done horrible things, some of them involving Owen, so she’s not in any place to judge, but she also doesn’t want to be friends with Teddy or really talk to her. And that’s fair. I have to say I love Amelia post-tumour. She’s great.

Also what happened to Casey Parker the resident from last season who was transgender and former military? I really liked him! Where did he go? I’d much rather see him that DeLuca or Nico on screen. Based on what I caught of next week’s promo it looks the COVID situation at Grey Sloan is about to get worse. We see Richard addressing staff in the cafeteria saying that they need to prepare for a surge of patients and that their patient load could double. We’re in May in the current Grey’s timeline so that fits.

It’s apparently also a cross over. I don’t want another cross over. I want to know where the hell Hayes is! And it looks like Amelia is back in the OR and the doctors are treating two teenagers who were kidnapped and held captive. Yikes! And we see Meredith smiling at someone on the beach before suddenly waking up. My guess is that it’s Derek and we are finally going to get to see them embrace and then Meredith is going to return to the land of the living. And hopefully interact with Hayes.

Until next time!

[n1ghtcrwler]

This gets long

I found myself thinking about the churches I’ve left behind in my life. What prompted it was a concern that too many of them were over some sort of strife between myself and the pastor, but in retrospect that was a way less common occurrence than I expected it to be (in fact, of churches where I was a member, it only happened twice; there are reasons I expected that number to be higher, but the fact remains that it was not). But in the process I found myself contemplating a lot more about the church I grew up in, and my involvement in the later days of our time there, which I don’t tend to talk about much because it rarely seems worthwhile. I don’t know for certain if I’ve ever told the story here, or to any of you that I’ve talked to outside of tumblr. But I can’t shake the thought of it now, so I thought I’d jot it down.

I grew up in what was officially a nondenominational church, but in practice was decidedly Pentecostal. It was called New Life Covenant Church, which in retrospect is weird because they didn’t hold to covenant theology, but whatever. We were at that church during the Brownsville Revival and the Toronto Blessing, and there was a great deal of interest in us getting in on a piece of that action. We were also there when the “Left Behind” series began coming out, and were absolutely convinced that it was a gospel-truth rendition of what was surely coming any day now. I first started running the sound system there when I was nine, and we had a flag ministry (basically a flagline for worship) that I had joined and, if I may be so bold, kind of excelled at. The church campus had originally been a Christian campground, and our original sanctuary was the mess hall, but by the time I was nearing my teens we had raised funding and built a massive geodesic dome as the new sanctuary and relegated the former mess hall to Children’s Church.

You know. To get a sense of what the place was like.

The church was still being pastored by the planting pastor for a significant amount of my time there, and once he left in disgrace over something that isn’t relevant here, the associate pastor stepped into the lead pastor role. My dad was an elder by then, and sang on the worship team, so he and I would frequently arrive early on Sunday mornings to be present for worship practice, he on the stage and me in the booth. One Sunday morning, shortly after Hugh took over the pastorate, as we were walking into the nearly empty sanctuary, something caught my eye and I stopped to look up.

I saw the dome open up, just completely fold down so I could see the whole sky and many of the trees above and around us. There was fire, raining like water, and slowly filling the room. In the distance, in every direction, I saw a battle raging. Angels were engaged with various forces of darkness, apparently keeping them at bay. I took the whole thing in, and when I understood what it was, it was gone.

So I went to Hugh and told him I’d seen something. When he asked what it was, I told him in as much detail as I could recall at the time about the vision, and then he asked if I knew what it meant. I told him that I did, that a massive blessing was waiting to be poured out on our church, to overflowing, and through us to the community around us. But, I warned, there was great opposition to it, and we had a responsibility to avoid temptation to turn aside from the gospel and needed to stay true in the days of testing that were coming.

Well, of course he loved that, and that morning it was mentioned in the sermon and I soon found myself getting praised for being wise beyond my years and clearly a prophet. This was bolstered by a poem I’d written about missions that the church really seized on and my relative youth in the work I was doing around the church. It was kind of a big deal, or at least I was led to believe everyone thought it was a big deal. I didn’t really know what to do with that, though, so I kept running sound and doing my thing.

But I was already starting to question some of what I was being taught there. As part of the agreement that allowed my cub scout den to use a building owned by a local Presbyterian church, I had attended a handful of services in uniform as an usher, and noticed that their version of Christianity was radically different from the version practiced at New Life. It was so different, in fact, that I had already determined that either one of us was decidedly not Christian, or the list of essentials for what defined Christianity was much shorter than I was being told. I had been baptized probably a half dozen times because I didn’t fully understand that it only needed to be done once, and I was beginning to wonder why they let me keep doing it if I was so clearly unaware of what was going on. And I’d been baptized in the Spirit, which basically meant I stood in the church library with elders praying over me until I started speaking in tongues, but I knew full well I’d just started making random noises to appease them because I was getting hungry. And then there was the time I fell asleep on the floor in the back of the church during a revival night that was running a bit long for me, and when I woke and found people celebrating my being ‘slain in the Spirit’ I realized they couldn’t tell the difference between what was supposed to be a powerfully holy moment and a snoozing child.

I must not have snored back then, I guess.

But over the course of the next couple years things got weird. Chasing the dream of a revival like the ones north and south of us, the services were beginning to focus more and more on music and spontaneous messages and less on the Bible. It reached a point where we didn’t have a single sermon for months at a time, and when we did there was a solid chance it wouldn’t even reference scripture. One famously odd sermon had Hugh preaching from an anonymous blog post he’d found online that seemed prophetically relevant to our body, only to later learn his own wife had written it and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it being read in front of the whole church since it was, in fact, something of a vent post about some people in our church.

People who were very concerned about the declining role of scripture at the church started to quietly leave. We stuck around far longer than we should have, specifically because my dad was an elder and, as such, he felt it was his responsibility to stay on and fight to bring the church back on course. There was a short-lived stint where he had convinced Hugh to let him preach a sermon every Sunday just to make sure there would be one, but it was scheduled for the hour before church officially started for the day.

I knew friends were leaving, and I knew things were getting strange, but Dad wasn’t really explaining the problems he knew about to us. I knew Hugh had challenged the church that anyone who was leaving should come to the mic and tell the church why, and I knew no one had done so. But most of it was something I would learn later, after we left. But before that happened, I had another vision.

One morning, while Dad and I were arriving early again, something caught my eye and I stopped and looked up and saw the dome open as before. But this time there was no fire raining down, and the room was bone dry. Outside, the sky was just dark, with no traces of the angels or the battle that had been raging before. And when I knew what it meant, it was gone, and I went and found Hugh. I told him I’d seen something, and he was positively giddy. “Yes!” I could clearly tell he was thinking, “here it is!” So I told him what I saw. He looked at me confused for a moment, then asked what it meant.

“We did it wrong,” I said, “we squandered our chance and the blessing isn’t coming. This place is and will be spiritually dead.” I was no more than 14 at this point, and as his countenance changed he reminded me of that. He demanded to know what made me think I knew anything about it, anyway, when I was just some arrogant little kid. He stormed off and I stood there a moment, considering what he’d said. Then I went to someone else on the tech crew and told them I was no longer going to be mixing sound and they needed to find someone else. I walked out of the sanctuary, wiped my shoes clean on the carpet, and walked off into a stairway above the mess hall where I sat the rest of that morning reading Isaiah and praying and singing a couple songs by myself.

I didn’t go back. I had to go to the physical church every week with my family, but I would turn aside while they entered the sanctuary and I would go sit in the stairway, or wander the grounds, or sometimes sit in the car. I never saw another service there, until the day my dad told me we were going for our last Sunday and he really, really wanted all of us together when he took Hugh up on the offer to explain our decision. So I went in that day, and as soon as we entered Dad went to the mic and delivered a 40-minute sermon on where the church had gone awry and why we were leaving, and then we all left and never returned.

I’m told the church got down to about six people in the end. As I heard it, Hugh stepped down after admitting to an affair with a younger man, and when his associate pastor took over he either couldn’t or wouldn’t change course, and eventually the church was completely dead and disincorporated. The grounds and everything in the buildings was donated to a local church planting team, and every semblance of New Life Covenant Church was erased.

But what happened the other night, when I first started thinking about these events again, is that I was drawn to a certain detail in the story. See, I hadn’t ever thought back to what the content of those encounters actually was. I hadn’t though about them at all, really, let alone enough to analyze them, but suddenly I really wanted to do that. And I noticed for the first time that the point of that whole thing had been about the way the church was handling the gospel and relating it to mission, and how they were so focused on some other objective that they were sacrificing scripture to get some other thing they really wanted.

And then an assortment of times where I have confronted people, individually or in groups, about the way they handled the gospel and were trying to use it for some alternate purpose, culminating in the fights I’ve been having with people for the last five years about unquestioned and cultic Evangelical support of Trump. And I realized, for the first time, that I got this message once when I was a kid, and have never stopped saying that same thing ever since, often to the exact same people who are still in my life that I first met at New Life Covenant. And I thought, “man, no wonder they’re sick of me.”

But yeah. So now that’s just kinda stuck on my mind, and it keeps just sitting there like I should know or think something specific about it, but I don’t know what. And I don’t know why I felt the need to write about it, but I did, and now you’ve read the whole thing, so thanks for your patience, I guess.

[gumnut-logic]

We’ll Be Home For Christmas 5.1

Title: We’ll be home for Christmas

Day Five – Here on Tracy Island – Part 1 Prologue | 1.1 | 1.2 | 2.1 | 2.2 | 2.3 | 3.1 | 3.2 | 3.3 | 3.4 | 3.5 | 4.1 | 4.2 | 4.3 | 4.4 | 4.5 | 4.6 | 5.1

Author: Gumnut

20 Jun 2020

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: The boys can’t fly home for Christmas, so they have to find another way.

Word count: 3313

Spoilers & warnings: language and so, so much fluff. Science!Gordon. Artist!Virgil, Minor various ships, mostly background.

Timeline: Christmas Season 3, I have also kinda ignored the main storyline of Season 3. The boys needed a break, so I gave them one. Post season 3B, before Season 3C cos I started this fic before we saw it.

Author’s note: For @scattergraph​​​​​. This is my 2019 TAG Secret Santa fic :D

No, I haven’t forgotten about this fic, and yes, it hit the six month mark about two weeks ago. I started writing this 8 Dec 2019. I’m nearly there.

Landmark, though. It is now officially my longest Thunderbirds fic, overtaking Gentle Rain today at around 60,000 words, depending on which word processing program it is sitting in. Never expected it to be this long.

This chapter pretty much wrote itself. It is almost like a role call of the five brothers and their states of mind. So a little bit of all the bros in this. I hope you enjoy.

Many thanks to @i-am-chidorixblossom​​​ @scribbles97​​​​​ and @onereyofstarlight​​​​​ for reading through various bits, fielding my many wibblies, and for all their wonderful support.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

Day Five: Here on Tracy Island

Virgil woke late the next morning. It was a pleasant awakening, slipping from deep sleep to doze to a peaceful warmth beneath the covers. His room was dark. Darker than his cabin on A Little Lightning and with decidedly less sway.

He lay there for a while, enjoying the lack of need to get up and do anything and the absence of pain. He had slept the sleep of the dead and was thoroughly rested. There was something to be said about sleeping in your own bed at home that no holiday anywhere could provide.

But honestly, he wasn’t one to sit and do nothing for long, his brain kicking into gear while he lay there, listing off things waiting to be done. A visit to Two to reassure himself she had been checked over and was ready should she be needed. Not that he didn’t trust his family, it was just for his own peace of mind.

He should be able to get away with it so long as he didn’t spend too much time down there.

It took him a full half an hour of random rumination to realise that it was Christmas Day.

Oh shit.

The clock said eleven am.

His family...

He sat up abruptly and was thoroughly reminded of how stupid such a move was.

Oh, for the love of...

He grunted and rolled over until his face was smothered in his pillow.

The medic in his brain listed off the reasons why he shouldn’t have done that and why he needed to be careful and, goddamnit, he was sick of this. It was only an appendix, for crying out loud.

Stupid surgery.

That could have been so much worse.

He was being a spoilt child.

He let out a breath into his pillow, its warmth wrapping around his face. Another week and he would be fine.

But now, it was eleven oh five on Christmas morning and he was holding his family up.

He clambered out of bed with minimal complaint from his body, into the shower, a shave and into his familiar red flannel, jeans and boots.

It was such a comfort to be home.

He blow-dried his hair, gelled it up and made himself presentable.

The man who stared at him from his bathroom mirror was one appendix less and a whole pile of experience more.

He hummed to himself, tasting the notes in his throat. He could feel the soft whale skin under his fingertips, hear the lap of the water, the breeze in his hair...

And the music.

His eyes were closed without permission, the imagery taking over his mind. His fingers tapped against the bathroom vanity marking out the beat and rhythm of what he was trying to say, the pictures warping into abstract and lack of understanding.

Salty and long spoken, the notes repeated.

He didn’t know how long he stood there under the bathroom light, eyes seeing another world somewhere below the ocean surface.

By the time he shook off the haze it was eleven forty-five.

Almost lunchtime.

Alan would be foaming at the bit.

He pushed himself away from the sink and killed the light. Walking carefully across his room, he shook himself, rolling his shoulders. Get it together, Virgil. Your family is waiting for you.

Out through the door, down the corridor and, screw the stairs, he was taking the elevator.

It swallowed him whole.

-o-o-o-

Gordon had been up since before the sun. It was a sign that he was home. A session in the pool brought familiarity into the equation. There was definitely a difference between swimming in the pool versus the ocean and it had nothing to do with water salinity.

The ocean was beautiful and he adored it. But the pool sported no threat, no need to monitor his surroundings beyond the presence of a mischievous brother or two, leaving him to be able to focus on his stroke and let his mind wander.

The pleasant warmth of well used muscles pulling him forward through the water, simple thought processing...and considering the last few days, there were a lot of thoughts awaiting examination.

Some he had managed while piloting A Little Lightning on the home stretch, but there were still more needing answers and tactical decisions.

Sam. Mel. Scott. John. Virgil.

As far as he knew, Scott was still planning on inviting the neighbours over today. That would place Sam within reach of the apparently resistant Virgil.

He understood where both men were coming from. Virgil needed time and Sam was just a ball of eager energy.

Gordon was stuck between the two.

Push came to shove, he would side with Virgil regardless. He had too. But he really didn’t want to be divisive. If Virgil would talk just a little, it would help not only Sam and himself, but it might assuage the ball of worried energy that was Scott.

His arms sliced through water until he reached the end of the lane, his body automatically flipping and turning into the push off surge in the opposite direction. Air, splash and his hands slicing through the water again.

Okay, he would admit that he was worried himself. At first it was just amazing. His brother could sing to whales! A breakthrough. But yesterday he witnessed exactly how spaced Virgil became when singing and everything screamed wary. Humpback whales were beautiful creatures, but so big and so possibly unintentionally dangerous.

He couldn’t let Virgil anywhere near a whale alone. It just wasn’t safe. There was so much they didn’t know and the urge to protect his gentle brother just swelled in his heart.

They needed to investigate further. Find out exactly what was going on. Make sure his brother was safe. That it didn’t affect any water rescues.

They couldn’t afford to have Virgil spacing out in the ocean at random. As it was, Gordon wasn’t going to let Virgil anywhere near the ocean during rescues for the foreseeable future. He could stay up in Two.

Safe.

Whale song could travel around the globe.

His native realm had become a hazard for his big brother and that was unacceptable.

They had to find out what was going on.

John and Eos had made a good start, but Sam and himself needed to investigate further and soon.

Virgil needed to cooperate for his own safety.

Gordon broke his stroke, pushed himself to the side of the pool and rested his head on the concrete a moment, letting his body float randomly.

Blood pumped through his ears, his heart still running at exercise rate.

He needed to convince Virgil.

Somehow.

-o-o-o-

Scott revelled in the early dawn light. His feet pounded on his wonderfully familiar route around the Island. A trek he hadn’t laid eyes on for a week.

His runners crunched volcanic gravel beneath them.

The sun was just rising on Christmas Day, the beautiful weather hanging strong, the sea a stretch of glass disappearing off into the horizon. His current trajectory pointed him directly south where he knew beyond the glass lay Raoul Island. A single spot in a sea of blue, so similar to the even tinier spot that was Tracy Island.

Same sea of blue.

A pokey tree appeared on the side of the track, its red flowers quite glorious in the morning sun, and he found himself grinning. Sure, he knew the correct name of the pōhutukawa tree, but Alan’s name was so much easier to pronounce and it made Mel laugh.

His legs took the strain as he jogged up the rapidly steepening trail.

If he was honest with himself, the whole no strings attached thing was a lie. He found himself thinking about the woman more the longer they were away from Raoul.

And they only left yesterday.

As soon as the sun was high enough in the sky to be polite, he would be contacting Raoul with his invitation to her, Sam and Liam. It wasn’t the only time he had invited people to the Island, they weren’t entirely hermits, but it was rare and the first time in a long time.

And he was so looking forward to it.

Penny and Parker were due after breakfast as was the tradition. As soon as everyone was awake, they would have their present opening party, always a major family event. More for the company and laughter than the presents themselves.

He could almost hear Gordon declaring it ‘Tracy style’ complete with the arm movements to compliment the claim.

But Mel...it was like he was excited to show her the Island, perhaps because he knew she would be very interested in the ecosystem that had developed here since their father had begun repairing it over a decade ago.

And he was staring at it right now as he followed the path around the back of the Island. Pokey trees, palms and ferns were everywhere a foothold was available. Scott knew very little about their ecosystem beyond the need to keep it safe. Gordon and Virgil were the ones who knew most about it among the brothers. Gordon focussed on the sea and Virgil sometimes helped out with animal numbers and photography for the scientific group.

But Mel hadn’t been here since Dad...

He grunted and hurdled a rock he hurdled every morning as the slope inverted and started heading down. The view was stunning.

Despite the glass of the ocean, the swell still crashed on the back cliffs of the Island, jagged volcanic rock resistant to the relentless pounding.

Hopefully she would consent to the visit even though it was late notice.

He did have a Thunderbird, after all.

-o-o-o-

John hadn’t slept much. He never did when something was on his mind. His everything drove him to find a solution, particularly when a brother was involved.

Eos never slept, so she was the perfect insomnia companion.

There was also the factor that he was home, but he really wasn’t.

He was missing Five.

Now he was back on the Island, everything was screaming at him to go home.

Not that he didn’t like the Island, quite the opposite. The Island contained his brothers, his grandmother, Kayo, his family and he adored his family.

But the stars were calling to him. His body ached to feel the release from gravity. He wanted his home.

He ignored it.

His body needed gravity. It was an undeniable fact. It had evolved under the pressure exerted by the planet and while his mind adored the stars and the lack of gravity, nature demanded its return under the ‘use it or lose it’ mandate of life on Earth.

So, tired, but awake anyway as the sun hit the front of the villa, John made his way down to the pool where he found Gordon, as expected, in the water, but unexpectedly, not swimming. His head was lying on one arm at the edge of the pool, his body floating lazily behind.

John dropped his towel on a lounger and, bare footed to the edge next to his brother. Folding himself into a seated position he dropped his feet to dangle in the cool water.

“Gordon?”

“Hmm?” His head rose a little blearily. “Oh, John, hey.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Huh? What, oh, Merry Christmas, John.”

A frown. “You okay?”

Gordon flexed his shoulders. “Yeah, just thinking.”

“Virgil?”

“Yeah.”

John sighed. “Same. But you do know he’s okay?”

“Yeah, just thinking it through.”

John pushed himself into the water and couldn’t help a relieved sigh as the water took away so many of the effects of gravity, cradling his body. “Swim with me?”

Brown eyes turned to him and John saw a reflection of his own worry in their depths. “Sure.” Gordon pushed off from the edge, his movements graceful despite his distraction.

John moved to the lane next to Gordon’s preferred and lined up beside his fish brother. Gordon shot him a brief but grateful smile before pushing off the end in a careless surge into stroke. He was metres ahead before John had even shifted into form.

Typical.

Show off.

But he couldn’t help but smile as he pushed off the edge himself, automatically moving into a strong but leisurely stroke in warm up.

Swimming denied verbal communication, but it wasn’t needed, the two of them just keeping each other company.

By the fifth lap, John started pushing himself, putting his body through the exercise needed to keep it healthy. He had no delusions of keeping up with Gordon. He just paced himself as his body needed it. Twenty laps in, he eased up a little and checked on his brother.

Gordon was still going. John brought himself to a halt, treading water, muscles pleasantly buzzing.

“Hey, John.” The astronaut startled, turning in place to find Scott standing on the edge of the pool. His running gear appeared well used, sweat stains prominent, and he was still breathing heavily. “Just letting you know that I’m going to be taking One out in about half an hour.”

“You going to get Mel and Sam?” Gordon was suddenly beside him. It was a sign of how tired John actually was that his younger brother startled him almost as much as Scott had a moment earlier.

“Yeah.”

“Can I come with?”

“Don’t you want to be here for when Penny arrives?”

John arched an eyebrow in Gordon’s direction. The fish had been looking forward to Christmas for that very reason. Before Virgil’s illness, it had been Penelope this, Penelope that. Apparently, he had the ‘best’ gift lined up for their first Christmas as a couple. Whether or not that was still going ahead considering recent events, John had no idea. Gordon hadn’t mentioned it since Virgil fell ill.

“I thought you had the fastest plane on the planet, Scotty.”

Their eldest brother snorted. “Plane, yes, younger brother, no.”

“Hey, I can be fast.” A strawberry blond frown. “Regardless, I need to speak to Sam.”

Scott eyed him a moment. “Virgil?”

Gordon sighed. “Yeah, Virgil. Gotta handle this delicately.”

Scott’s lips thinned. “Okay, then you better be ready in thirty because that’s when I’m leaving.”

The fish was already climbing out of the pool. Wet footprints marked the concrete as he strode to his towel.

Blue eyes turned to John. “You okay? You look tired.”

John let water run through his fingers. “I am, but I’ll live.”

Voice quiet. “Virgil?”

A single nod, voice equally quiet. “Virgil. Eos, Gordon and I will work it out. We just need time.” And patience. Admittedly, he didn’t have much of that where his brothers’ health was concerned. He could fake it, but it didn’t mean he felt it.

Scott’s expression was thoughtful. “I know you will do your best. Don’t forget to look after yourself.”

A groan. This was why Virgil was always adamant that he was fine. I single hint of something wrong and their biggest brother was all over them, his concern obvious. “I’m fine, Scott.”

That earned him a grunt and John actually struggled not to smile at his brother’s exasperation. John swam to the pool edge and pushed himself out of the water. A wave in the direction of the rising sun’s reflection. “The pool is all yours, dear brother.”

Scott eyed him. “Thank you.”

The morning breeze cooled John enough to raise goose pimples on his arms. Before he could reach for his towel, Scott was handing it to him.

Ever the big brother. It was John’s turn to eye him back. “Thank you.”

Scott smiled at him, a definite smirk on those lips. He knew exactly what John was thinking and had likely done it on purpose. “Anytime.”

Hmmm. “Merry Christmas, Scott.”

Those blue eyes widened as his big brother obviously realised that despite all the preparations underway, despite the tree they had stacked with presents the night before, he had still managed to forget the significance of the day.

It was John’s turn to smirk.

But Scott recovered quickly, tilting his head, a small smile on his lips. “Merry Christmas, John.”

With that he turned and headed off into the house.

-o-o-o-

Alan loved to sleep in. He shared this love with his second eldest brother. Getting up early sucked big time and he had no coffee addiction to help him.

But there was one day of the year when you could witness the youngest Tracy out of bed, while not early, at least a decent time where breakfast could still be called breakfast and not lunch or even brunch.

Christmas Day.

Alan adored the day. Presents, food and family, what more could a guy ask for?

So, eight am found him stumbling down the stairs to the kitchen in search of the second and third items on the list. He found Grandma at the kitchen table eating her fruit and yoghurt.

Alan made no effort to be quiet, but she didn’t appear to realise he was there, staring out across the lagoon. “Grandma?”

She dropped her spoon with a clatter as it hit the bowl. “Alan!” She clutched her hand to her chest, gasping. “You frightened me. Gave my old heart a kick in the pants.”

“Sorry, Grandma. Are you okay?”

“This time. Though I wouldn’t recommend doing it too often.” She held out an arm. “C’mere and give me a Christmas hug.”

Now that was something he was quite happy to do. Grandma hugs were always appreciated. “Merry Christmas, Grandma.” He held her tight.

“Merry Christmas, honey. Are you hungry?”

Uh, that was always a loaded question and there were important indicators related to that. “Where is everyone?” He had expected to find at least John down here. His space brother would eat his breakfast staring out into the lagoon and follow it with work on his tablet just to be around family in his own way. But not today.

“Scott and Gordon have gone to Raoul to collect Ms Fisher and that scientist friend of Gordon’s.”

“Sam?”

“I guess. They were both in quite a hurry to leave.”

That set Alan grinning. “I think Scott likes Mel.”

An arched eyebrow. “I thought she liked Virgil.”

A snort accompanied the grin. “I don’t think she is Virgil’s kind of girl.”

Of course, that was the very moment Kayo decided to enter the kitchen. She had obviously been on a run, dressed in shorts and a high cut top.

“Who’s Virgil’s kind of girl?”

Alan’s eyes widened. “Um.”

Green narrowed at him. “What are you up to, Alan?”

“Nothing!” He held out his hands. “What did I do?”

“I’m more concerned with what you are going to do.”

“Suspicious, much? I’m going to eat breakfast, that’s what.”

She continued to eye him. “No practical jokes today.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Gee, you’d think I was Gordy or something.”

“Gordon will be contained by Lady Penelope. You, however, are not.”

“And what? That makes me some kind of prank genius?”

“Genius, no, annoyance, yes.”

“Hey, Merry Christmas, Kayo. How about a little of the spirit?”

She glared and him and grunted before turning away and stalking off.

“What’s up her skirt?”

“Alan!”

“Well, you saw her. I didn’t do anything!”

Grandma was quiet a moment. “She has things on her mind.”

“When doesn’t she?”

“Let her be.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Grandma sighed. “Things will work themselves out for the best.”

Alan stared at his grandmother. What on Earth was going on? Did everyone know something that he didn’t. He sighed. Wouldn’t be the first time. “I’m going grab some breakfast.”

“Yes, dear.” And Grandma was staring out at the lagoon again.

What the-?

Alan grabbed the refrigerator door and flung it open, his eyes raking its contents. Perhaps food would fix things.

A glance at Grandma found that she hadn’t moved.

There was definitely something going on.

-o-o-o-

End Day 5 Part 1

[aquietwritingcorner]

Embers in a Wounded Heart

Author: RealityBreakGirl/aquietlearningcorner/scentedbygunpowder Word Count: 11,233 Prompt: FMA Big Bang 2020 Characters: Riza Hawkeye, Roy Mustang, Jean Havoc Pairing: Royai Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family Chapter: Part 2 of 5 Summary: Post-PD. A drive to look for more of Berthold Hawkeye’s research sends Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye, and Jean Havoc back to Hawkeye’s childhood home. But although the years have faded the wounds of Hawkeye’s heart, the embers still exist. This trip, ordered by Mustang, threatens to flame them back to life. With Hawkeye and Mustang at odds with each other, and an unknown but heavy history hanging overhead, Havoc isn’t sure what this research mission will mean to the future of his commanding officers.

Prologue || Part I || Part II || Part III || Epilogue AO3 || ff.net

CHECK OUT THE WONDERFUL ART ACCOMPANYING THIS CHAPTER!

______________________________________________________________

Part II

Although Havoc was not a farm kid himself, most of his neighbors had been. The store had always opened early, and he had been rustled out of bed to help too. The military hadn’t done much to change that, honestly, and so the next morning he rolled out of bed bright and early. He wasn’t surprised to find that he was the first one up. Mustang was notoriously not a morning person, and Havoc had heard Hawkeye tossing and turning during the night. She had only seemed to settle down after he had heard her get up and move the rusty lock on her door.

He dressed in his uniform pants and an undershirt and pulled on his boots before running his fingers through his hair and ambling as quietly as he could manage downstairs. His first stop was the kitchen, and he rummaged through the cabinets until he found what he knew Hawkeye had to have ordered—coffee. And bless her, it was a big jar of it. A little more rummaging had him finding a coffee pot to clean up and use. He went out to find the wood pile, brought a few pieces in, and set to work stoking the fire in the stove. That done, he cleaned the coffee pot and prepared it. Leaving it on the stove to boil, he went out to check on the horses, making sure they were fed and watered and doing well. They seemed fine, but he’d have to ask Hawkeye about a pasture or such for them.

When he made his way back into the kitchen, Hawkeye was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee already in front of her. She, too, had her uniform pants, boots, and undershirt on. She didn’t have her usual array of guns on, although Havoc had no doubt that she was still armed, and her hair was a bit messy, as if she still needed to brush it. She looked worn down, not rested at all, and he frowned a little at that. Clearly, she hadn’t managed to sleep well, even after she had locked her door.

“Mornin’ Hawkeye,” he said, not too cheerfully lest he risk her wrath. “Ya found the coffee. Good.”

“Mm,” she said. “Yes. Thank you for starting it.”

“Honestly, a day doesn’t start right without it.”

“You can say that again.”

Havoc poured himself a cup, adding a bit of sugar to it. He could take it black like any other military man, but if he had access to sugar, why shouldn’t he add it?

“Checked on the horses,” he said. “I’d like to find some place to let them graze. But I didn’t see a good place to pasture them.”

“Mm…” Hawkeye was quiet for a moment. “There’s no fencing around anymore, but there might be some rope. You might can stake them down or tie them up in the old orchard and let them graze there. But don’t go on the south side of the orchard near the woods. There’s a spring there that feeds a nearby pond a bit off and the ground is very swampy. Sometimes gases get trapped underneath it.”

“Gotcha.” Havoc said trying not to grin. He wasn’t sure if it was being back in the country, or just her being so tired, but he could hear the country seeping back into her speech. “You know the area pretty well, don’t you?”

“Spent a lot of time outside,” she said with a sigh. “It was better than staying inside.”

She stood then and headed to get herself another cup of coffee before working on for breakfast. Havoc sat back and took another drink of his coffee. Sure, lots of country kids would rather stay outside than inside, but there was something in the way she said it that told Havoc there was more to the story than she was letting on.

Still, mornings were not the time to question things too much, especially when they were just waking up. So, he sat there, drinking his coffee and not really thinking about anything while Hawkeye rummaged around and pulled out some food to start breakfast. For a few minutes the only sounds were her rummaging, and the birds outside. Havoc took a breath, and simply enjoyed the moment.

But his Ma hadn’t raised a layabout, and he couldn’t just sit there while Hawkeye was working. “…you need a hand?” he asked, watching as she bustled back and forth in the kitchen. He supposed that he knew she could cook, but it was odd seeing her so domestic.

“No, thank you, I can do it myself,” she responded.

He blinked for a moment, then altered his question. “Okay. But do you want a hand?”

She paused for a moment, then looked back at him. “…If you want to.” She finally said.

Havoc stood up with a stretch, and then moved to help her out, pretty decent himself with the basics of cooking a simple breakfast.

The two worked together pretty well, working on bacon and eggs and toast. Partway during it Mustang stumbled into the kitchen, yawning, and heading straight for the coffee. He blearily looked at them.

“You two need any help?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Hawkeye said, her voice suddenly sharp. “It’s under control.”

It was a quick turnaround in attitude, and it caught Havoc off guard. He glanced back at Mustang, catching the slightly frustrated look on the other man’s face. Somehow, he got the idea that if he left, things wouldn’t improve, so he just gave Mustang a shrug when Hawkeye wasn’t looking and didn’t try to make any excuses. Mustang just shook his head and gave a resigned shrug in return.

Well, at least Mustang wasn’t taking too much offense to it. Or maybe he was just too tired to make a big deal out of it. Whatever it was, Havoc just hoped that it would make some sort of subtle truce that would hold for a bit.

Silence reigned over the kitchen, aside from the needed communication and Havoc found himself wishing that there was a radio in the kitchen so that there was some sort of noise or sound going on. In contrast to his own family’s kitchen, which was usually bustling with life and sounds and smells, something here almost seemed to keep all sound muted. He wasn’t sure if it really was something about how the house was built, or if it was just perception, but it was there, nonetheless, and it made him crave some sort of sound.

Breakfast didn’t take them long to cook, nor did it take long for them to finish it and start another pot of coffee. Mustang didn’t look like he had slept much better than Hawkeye, and Havoc began to wonder if he was the only one who had slept decently, despite that dress form looming over him all night long.

“So,” Havoc finally broke the silence. “What’s the plan for the day?” He noticed Riza tense, but she didn’t say anything, just gave Mustang a hard look.

Mustang ignored it. “We need to search the house from top to bottom, to see if there’s any alchemic research left in it.” He said.

“Alchemic research?” Havoc questioned, a little confused. Then again, a lot about this didn’t make sense. Why were they at the house Hawkeye grew up at for research anyway, alchemic or otherwise?

“Yes,” Mustang said, and he was decidedly not looking at Hawkeye, which struck Havoc as odd. “The captain’s father was my alchemy teacher.”

Havoc stared at the two of them, gobsmacked, that bit of information bringing his thoughts to a screeching halt. There were so many ramifications from that, and his mind tried to grab onto just one so that he could start processing just what this meant and how that changed just about everything. One thought did stand out above the rest, though.

“So—wait. Does that mean that Hawkeye’s father taught you Fla—”

His words were cut off as Hawkeye abruptly stood, her chair scraping loudly against the floor, plate in hand and jaw tight. “I’ll see to the horses,” she said, her voice short as she scraped her plate in the garbage can and put it in the sink. Before Havoc could blink, she was out the door, shoving it open and then forcibly slamming it behind her.

Havoc stared after her for a moment, then turned his attention back to Mustang. He was looking at where Hawkeye had been with an expression that Havoc was familiar with. It was similar to the one that he sometimes found Mustang looking at him with: an expression of guilt coupled with the knowledge that nothing could be changed, just accepted.

Havoc had no idea what to do.

The expression passed quickly, and Mustang stood up too, although less abruptly. “Let’s get the kitchen cleaned up,” he said.

“Yessir.”

The current revelation ran around his head as the two of them worked. Havoc may not have been the smartest man on earth, or even on the team, but even he realized that this shifted perspective on a lot of things.

This explained why Mustang and Hawkeye were so close. He always knew that they knew each other in Ishval, but he thought that was where they had met. Apparently, they knew each other before that. Way before that. How far back, though? He remembered hearing Riza talk about her “father’s apprentice” back at the Academy, and it had always seemed like she had known him since she was pretty young. Ten, eleven maybe? Before she was a teenager, anyway. She had even said that he was the reason she had joined the military. There had always been something in her voice as well, something that had made Catalina swear up and down that whoever this boy was, he was clearly Hawkeye’s first love. And then there was the flame alchemy—

Havoc shook his head, needing to put all of this in order. It changed so much! But before he could, the door scraped open again and he looked up from where he was drying the last dish. Hawkeye was back and Havoc was pretty sure that questions and distractions would not be a good thing right now. Or maybe ever, if he was honest with himself.

Her eyes swept over the two of them, and there was challenge in her eyes. It was a challenge that Havoc wasn’t going to rise to.

“Are the horses alright?” Mustang asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I knew a good place to tie them up and let them graze.”

“Good. Be sure to go back and check on them later.”

“Of course, I will.”

There was something else in the conversation, something that Havoc didn’t know what was, but something in Hawkeye shifted for a moment. Mustang’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. It was one of those silent conversations that Havoc just didn’t have the context for, and that there was no point in trying to figure out, honestly. The two of them just had too much history for him to be able to interpret it--more history then Havoc had ever suspected, apparently.

As suddenly as it had begun, the moment was over. Havoc put down the last dish with a quiet exhalation, and Mustang let the water out of the sink, drying his hands on the dishtowel. “Alright. We need to get down to the reason that we came here.” Suddenly both Mustang and Hawkeye were all business, and Havoc felt himself straightening in response. “Captain. If your father had any notes left, where would he have hidden them?”

There was a weird tightening of Hawkeye’s shoulders, and suddenly the anger was reignited in her eyes. “It wasn’t as if he ever told me where he planned to put his notes. Sir.”

There was a definite bite in the response, and it was undisguised. Havoc’s head snapped over her way in shock. It seemed completely out of character for the normally stoic woman.

Motion caught Havoc’s eye and he turned his attention back towards Mustang. The man had drawn himself up, stiff, and was, Havoc could see, clearly angry.

Whatever had just happened was a landmine, and Havoc could only hope that it didn’t blow while he was in the room. Whatever this was between them, it was dangerous. If it went off, Havoc had the uncomfortable feeling it would cause a lot of damage that might be irreparable.

He couldn’t believe he was about to do this, but Havoc took his own life in his hands, and spoke up.

“Seems to me that the study or the library would make the most sense, at least to start looking,” he said. “Might be obvious, but we’ve gotta start somewhere. Either that, or maybe a top down approach? Start at the attic and go down to the basement, then out to the outbuildings?”

The tension eased slightly, and Havoc thanked every god he had ever heard of that he hadn’t been shot or roasted—or both.

“That would be better than looking piecemeal,” Roy admitted.

Hawkeye stiffly turned away from them. “I’ll get us some lamps for the attic.”

Hawkeye was back momentarily with the lamps and the process of pouring the oil in and lighting them helped to distract from the previous tension. To get to the attic, they had to head up the back stairs which were, as Mustang had warned Havoc, rickety. There was a small door off of the back stairs that led up to it, although the door was stuck from disuse, and Havoc ended up having to get it open for them.

The attic was not the biggest one Havoc had ever seen, and he had to stoop a bit, the roofline not far from Mustang’s head. He honestly wasn’t sure that anyone but Riza would be able to get into the furthest reaches of it, especially with all of the stuff in it. It had chests and trunks, old pieces of furniture, frames and decorations—and lots of dust. Hawkeye made her way over to a window to try to let some air in while Mustang surveyed the cramped space.

“We’ll have to look in every part of everything,” he said. “Every trunk, every chest, every piece of furniture, and everything that’s in the trunks and chests.”

“The walls, floor, and ceiling too, sir,” Riza said, looking down at something. “There’s plenty of hidden space here.”

Mustang frowned. “That’s true. It also makes things more difficult. I don’t want to dismantle the house.”

Hawkeye snorted, but Havoc had the feeling that it was more about the idea of dismantling the house than it was any sort of jab at Mustang himself.

“What about your alchemy?” Havoc asked, trying to keep the plan going.

“What about it?” Mustang asked.

“Well, you can do that clapping kind now, right? Like the Elrics did. Can you just clap and transmute the wall to see on the inside of it and then transmute it back?”

Mustang blinked at him for a moment, and then considered. “I don’t know. Let me try.”

“If you mess anything up, you’re paying to fix it,” Hawkeye shot back.

A slight look of irritation crossed Mustang’s face, but he stared at the wall for a moment. His irritations faded, and instead he gained a look of concentration on his face. For a moment, he did nothing, and then he clapped his hands together and touched the wall. The wood in it lifted up, showing the inner wall—and whatever was crumbling in it.

Mustang jumped back with a look of disgust on his face. “What is that?” he asked.

Havoc leaned close. “Looks like stuff that was used for insulation.” He looked over at Mustang and Hawkeye. “That could be a problem, if it’s like that throughout the house.”

Mustang was looking at it as if he were considering his options. “Fullmetal would just find a way to improve it. The problem is, I’m not sure what it is.”

“Can’t you just clap it into something?” Havoc asked.

Mustang shook his head. “It’s better to know what the material is first, so I know what I’m working with. Although Fullmetal managed on the fly. I wonder…” Mustang trailed off, a look of concentration on his face, and Havoc shrugged to himself. Whatever he was thinking now was far beyond Havoc’s ilk.

“Havoc. Come help me.”

Havoc looked up from Mustang and focused on Hawkeye, who had moved to one side of the attic, moving a few items around.

“Sure.” He made his way over to her, having to be careful not to hit head on the rafters as he walked. “Whatcha need?”

“We need to look through everything,” she said. “While the general is over there trying to figure out alchemy, we need to start looking. Help me move this trunk and look through it.”

“What, exactly, are we looking for?” he asked her as he grabbed a handle on the side of the trunk, still not sure what exactly these alchemy notes would look like.

That odd stiffness returned to Hawkeye, and he noted with interest it seemed to happen in reference to her father’s alchemy notes the most. Did Hawkeye have some sort of bad relationship with her father and alchemy? There was something going on here for sure.

“You know the basics of what alchemy looks like, don’t you?” she asked him as she grabbed the other handle.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “The circles and some of the information. Kinda have to when you’re around alchemists as much as we’ve been.” They lifted the trunk enough that they would have room to open the lid.

“Then look for anything that has that on it.” Her hands ran over the trunk, finding and releasing the latch.

“Like papers and stuff?” Havoc asked.

Riza paused, stiff, the trunk’s lid half lifted, and not facing him. “…anything.” She said. “My father… has been known to keep notes in unconventional places.”

Her voice was tight, with an undercurrent of anger, and it felt dangerous. Havoc swallowed, not sure where to go from here.

“Hey! I got it!”

Mustang’s voice broke the moment, and Havoc looked over his shoulder to see Mustang with a decent piece of insulation in the open part of the wall and looking particularly pleased with himself.

“Good for you, sir,” he said. “Gonna reinsulate the whole house now?”

Mustang gave him an irritated look, opened his mouth and hesitated, his eyebrows drawing together. Havoc blinked at him. Was he actually considering reinsulating the whole house?

Before Havoc could make any sort of comment, Riza interrupted them both. “You work on that, sir. Havoc and I will take care of the rest.”

There was clearly no room for argument, so Havoc resigned himself to a day full of searching for notes that he didn’t understand in places that he wouldn’t have normally considered.

He hoped he was getting paid overtime for this.

Hawkeye was, apparently, in no mood for talking, not that Havoc was surprised. With Mustang concentrating on the walls, and Hawkeye directing Havoc, he soon was deep in searching through the contents of trunks, for secret compartments on furniture, and for any other imaginable hiding place. Clothes, shoes, hats, bags, every layer was examined. Holiday decorations, baby things, photographs and paintings, journals and notebooks, old dishes, keepsakes and knickknacks, they were all gone through carefully, looking for hidden places and secret compartments. The trunks themselves and the pieces of furniture were all examined thoroughly, searching for hidden places and pockets. Mustang worked diligently on the floors, walls and ceilings, looking for hidden places.

(and if the walls and floors looked a little better when he transmuted them back into place, well, Havoc wasn’t going to say anything)

They took a break for lunch, which was just sandwiches that they could rustle up quickly, and Havoc went out to check on the horses, needing to straighten up from the cramped attic. Unfortunately for his back, it didn’t take long before they were all back to work again. By the time the sun was going down, they had searched the attic and come up with nothing but a coating of dust.

Havoc wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or not that the work had kept them so busy that there hadn’t been time for talking about the things in the attic. On one hand, it kept most things from devolving into more of that hostile tension. On the other hand, Havoc couldn’t help but feel like there were missed opportunities in not talking about things that they found.

One thing he did know, though, was that they were all dirty and they were all hungry.

“There’s not much hot water,” Hawkeye said as they came down the stairs. “If we’re quick, two people might be able to get a shower before it runs out. The other will either have to wait, get a cold shower, or go down to the pond. That water should still be decently warm.”

Havoc made a face. “So, two of us, huh? Wanna play for who gets out?”

“Personally, I think it should be done by rank,” Mustang said.

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” Havoc said. “So, you’re obviously going to sacrifice for your men, right? Being the higher rank and responsible for our well-being and all.”

“That’s not—” Mustang began, working into a rant.

Hawkeye interrupted them. “I’ll go to the pond.” She said, already starting to move passed them. That stopped both men mid semi-fake argument. She seemed to take their lull as a reason to continue. “I need to wash my hair, and that will take far too much hot water. You two can use the water here, and I’ll take care of things at the pond.”

She was already walking past them, when Mustang reached out, grabbing her by the arm. “No, Hawkeye you can’t—” he cut off at her glare.

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do in my own house, Roy Mustang.” She hissed out, jerking her arm out of his grasp. “I’ve bathed in that pond more than a few times—I’m sure you remember.”

Normally Havoc would have taken that to mean some sort of embarrassing story, possibly involving Mustang catching Hawkeye bathing and Hawkeye shooting him, but there was something else in her voice, and something about the way that Mustang stopped that made Havoc wonder just what it was about.

There were way too many weird undertones with these two lately, and it was, quite frankly, giving Havoc a headache.

“I dunno, Riza, it seem ungentlemanly of us to make you go off to the pond to bathe,” Havoc said, scratching his chin. “And I’m pretty sure Catalina’d kill me if she knew you went to a pond to bathe while I took a warm shower.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Let us go. I need to stretch my legs anyway, and I’m guessing that the general here could show me the way.”

They both sort of hesitated, but then Hawkeye, her jaw working, finally nodded. “Fine. Let me get you some supplies. I’ll meet you back down here.”

She disappeared and Mustang sagged just slightly in relief. “Thanks, Havoc,” he said.

Havoc grinned at him. “You owe me one, sir. And I’ll expect you to pay up eventually.” He ambled off then to go find clean clothes to change into. These were dusty enough they’d probably have to be washed, and he had no idea how that would be handled here.

It shouldn’t have taken Havoc by surprise at all that Hawkeye had thought ahead and ordered a second set of items for bathing, knowing that this would happen, and within a few minutes Havoc and Mustang were ambling through the near dark towards the pond, clean clothes, soap and shampoo with them.

It was a pretty walk, with the trees and an overgrown forest path. Havoc could see several different kinds of plants growing, and a part of him itched to dig them up and take them back so his Ma could have them. He saw signs of plenty of animals too and thought that this would be great hunting ground. He was pretty sure that Riza had hunted when she was young. He wondered if this was the same path she had travelled down.

Mustang, in contrast to Havoc’s own enjoyment and relaxation, was anything but relaxed. He didn’t seem to enjoy the outdoors, and he got more and more tense the further away from the house they got. It was clear that he just wanted to get this over with and get back to the house as quickly as possible—or, Havoc figured, he wanted to get back to Hawkeye as quickly as possible.

The pond was in a small clearing, forest on one side, and field on the other. There was a small, shoddy dock built, and reeds in the edges of the water. It didn’t look to be too snaky, which Havoc was glad about. He didn’t want to die after getting bit by a snake while bathing in a cow pond—or sheep pond, or whatever kind of animal drank from it.

They stripped down quickly enough, getting into the water and leaving their clothes and supplies on the dock. The water was colder than Havoc would have liked, but it wasn’t terrible.

“Kinda glad we’re the ones that came out here,” Havoc said, dipping down further in the water. “It’s more exposed then I’d like for Hawkeye to be.”

“It’s private land all around here.” Mustang was reaching for the soap, so Havoc stayed partially submerged in the water. “No one should be out here, so she should have been safe.” His words and tone were casual, but Havoc could hear the tension underneath them.

“Should, yeah,” Havoc said. “But I went plenty of places I shouldn’t have as a kid. Ponds in the middle of land that’s practically been abandoned sound like a great place to go.” He took a breath, and dunked his head under the water, letting his hair get wet before he stood back up, most of his upper body out of the water, and shook his head. “Hawkeye said she’d bathed out here before. They not have running water when she was a kid or something?”

Roy seemed to tense at the question, and Havoc noticed it. “No,” he finally said. “They had all the plumbing that was needed. But the hot water was limited, and sometimes this was better for her.” Mustang dunked himself under the water, and Havoc reached for the soap.

There was definitely a story in that, he thought, as he started to soap up, but it didn’t seem like the funny kind. Mustang came up with a gasp, and reached for the shampoo, and not much else was said between the two men as they finished bathing and dressed. Hawkeye was out of the shower by the time they got back, and already working on supper. Havoc took care of the horses while Mustang put their things away and set their clothes to soak in the wash tub. By the time all of that was finished, Hawkeye had supper ready and they sat down to eat. All of them were pretty weary, which cut down on just about all conversation. After supper was finished and the kitchen was cleaned, they all made their way towards bed, with no one suggesting they do anything else. They were just too tired.

But Havoc didn’t fall asleep right away. He laid in his bed, gazing up at the ceiling, a toothpick between his teeth (bless Hawkeye and remembering that he was trying to cut back on his cigarettes). This house, this place, felt full of memories. It was like they weighed it down. Everything Hawkeye and Mustang did, everything they said, and everywhere they went seemed to have some sort of memory attached to it. There was a history here, a heavy one. And Havoc would lay dollars to donuts that it had everything to do with why Hawkeye was so upset with Mustang.

It wasn’t a mystery he was going to solve, though, and Havoc flicked his toothpick into the ashtray Hawkeye had stuck in his room, rolled over, and went to sleep.

The next morning dawned bright and early, and Havoc and Hawkeye were the first ones up. Just like the morning before, after putting on the coffee, Hawkeye started breakfast and Havoc checked on the horses. Mustang came down a little later, still yawning, and asked if he could help Hawkeye. She gave him a sharp retort that Havoc was sure had a double meaning and they ate their food in the silence of those not quite yet awake.

It was after breakfast when the day really began. Another day of searching for hidden alchemy notes wasn’t exactly something that Havoc was looking forward to, but it was the general plan. With the attic finished, it was onto the second floor. The three bedrooms, the bathroom, the master bedroom, the study, and the hallway itself were the rooms on this floor. They needed to be searched, hopefully all by today. It would be another day of hard work, but Havoc was glad that he could at least stand up straight here, as opposed to the attic.

“So? Where do we start?” he asked, looking at both of them curiously. That tension seemed to rise between then again, along with some silent communication.

“The Master bedroom,” Hawkeye finally said. Mustang looked as if he wanted to say something, but she cut him off with a look. “If that’s alright with you, General.”

Roy looked back at her, an expression of irritation settling on his face. “Yes, of course, Captain. But I’m sure that Lieutenant Havoc and I can handle it and the study.”

“With all due respect, sir, you’ll be focused on the walls and floor again. Havoc and I can take on the rest of the room together. It’ll cut our time.” Hawkeye said, clearly not happy with the idea of being dismissed from searching the master bedroom.

“Perhaps so,” Mustang said. “But if you search another room that will also make the search go faster.”

“I disagree, sir,” she said, her voice tight. “Because some of that furniture is heavy. Either I will need help moving furniture and will call you or Havoc away from your search, or you will need me to help move furniture and call me away from my search.”

Mustang wasn’t backing down. “Captain. I can make this an order.”

Neither was Hawkeye. “And I can kick you out of my house, sir.”

Hawkeye’s entire posture was one of resolute stubbornness, but it felt like she was teetering on the precipice of something. Mustang looked frustrated, angry, and his jaw was set too.

“Fine,” he finally said, whirling back towards the master bedroom. “If this is how you want it, Captain.”

“I do, sir.” She bit back, following him in.

“….hoo boy. What I wouldn’t give for the distraction of Hayate now,” Havoc muttered.

“Havoc!”

“Coming, sir!”

The master bedroom was neat and tidy, but there was a tightness to Hawkeye that the room itself didn’t seem to have a reason to cause. Havoc didn’t question it, though, just kept an eye on her as they worked. It was odd, actually, to see Hawkeye this emotional. Oh, she wasn’t emotional as if she were crying, or clinging to something. But it was obvious that she was emotional, and that she was trying her best to keep her emotions under control. It seemed that everything about this room was pushing her a little more and a little more towards a loss of control, though. She was winding tighter and tighter as they went through the closet, the dresser, the chest-of-drawers, and every personal object that was contained in the room.

Mustang was keeping a close eye on her too, Havoc could tell. He honestly wasn’t sure if Hawkeye could or not. Normally, yes, she would notice right away. But with as tightly as she was wound, Havoc wasn’t sure what she was noticing and what she wasn’t. The bed was the last thing that they examined, and by that time Havoc was eyeing Hawkeye and wondering if he should say anything. He was on the edge of it when Mustang spoke up instead.

“Captain. Havoc and I will move this back. I think we could all use something to drink.”

Hawkeye’s jaw tightened. “Sir, I—”

Mustang cut her off. “Just some water or something else. We’ve been working a while, it’s not going to hurt us.” Hawkeye didn’t move. “That’s an order, Captain,” he said.

Hawkeye dropped the pillow on the bed the same ways she didn’t slam doors—meaning that she didn’t actually slam it down, but somehow it came off that way anyway. “Yes, sir,” she ground out, and turned with military precision to leave the room.

Havoc didn’t move and waited until he was sure that Hawkeye wouldn’t be able to hear them. “General…” he started hesitantly. “Is she—”

“Her father died in this room,” Mustang said abruptly. “She had been caring for him, but I was with him when he died. She walked in right after.”

For a moment, Havoc said nothing, but it did make the way that she was reacting more understandable. “I see, sir.” There was silence for a moment more. “Well, should we move the bed back?”

Mustang stirred then, looking up at Havoc. “Yeah. And then we can mark this room as finished. We’ll go to my room next.”

“Yessir.”

Havoc worked with Mustang to set the room back to rights, and then the men made their way down the stairs for a stretch and a break. Hawkeye had already sat out some glasses and poured them some lemonade. Mustang looked at it questioningly.

“Mrs. Nelson sent it with the supplies,” she said without preamble.

“Ah.” Mustang sat down at the table and pulled a glass to himself.

Havoc didn’t sit down yet, stretching and shaking out his legs a bit. “Mrs. Nelson?” he said. “Is she the wife of the man who owns the general store?”

“Yes,” Hawkeye replied. “She’s a kind woman.”

“Yeah?” Havoc asked, finally pulling out a chair and sitting down.

Mustang snorted into his glass. “She always made sure any of the kids around were behaving,” he said. “No one acted up around her. She gave me directions to this house when I arrived in town.” He made a face. “She fussed over me and called me a city boy.”

Hawkeye sat down too. “You were a city boy, sir. You still are,” she said. “But she was always getting onto the children. I knew that if I needed to wait things out, I could hang around there. And she’d give me some food sometimes when she saw me walking back from the bookshop to the school at lunch time.” She paused. “I’m not surprised that she sent along a few extra things on the wagon.”

“Seems like a nice lady,” Havoc said.

“Yes, well.” Hawkeye stood abruptly, taking her glass with her. “She did what she could.” She quickly drank the rest of it and sat about washing her glass.

Mustang let out a quiet sigh in his glass, and Havoc took note of a look of guilt that crossed his face. What was that about? It sounded like Hawkeye and her dad had it difficult with money, but why would he feel guilty about that? Or was that even what he was feeling guilty about? Was it something to do with that “waiting things out” Hawkeye had said (which, he thought was kind of dubious. Just what was she waiting out? And why did it sound like a common occurrence?) Or was he feeling guilty because Hawkeye—it sounded like—went hungry sometimes as a child, and he wished that she hadn’t had to?

It was another piece to this weird puzzle he had, and to be honest, Havoc wasn’t sure that he’d ever have all the pieces.

Mustang tilted his glass back and drained the rest of his lemonade out of it, and Havoc did too, figuring he better follow suit.

“Come on. We should get back to work.”

The three of them went back up the stairs and started in on the bedroom that Mustang was staying in—or, as Havoc noticed both of them called it, Mustang’s bedroom, as if he had already had ownership of it. Then again, if he had stayed here to learn alchemy from Hawkeye’s dad, Havoc supposed this just might have been his bedroom.

Once again, they took it apart bit by bit, examining every part of the room. Nothing of note was found, except for some papers wedged under a board that neither Hawkeye or Mustang would let him look at. He couldn’t help but notice that they both seemed a bit embarrassed about them, and filed that away for later teasing. They finished the room quickly and moved onto Hawkeye’s room, although Havoc couldn’t help but notice that in his transmutations of the floor, to look for hidden notes, Mustang didn’t transmute the burn marks away.

They went to Hawkeye’s room next, which, admittedly, left Havoc a little uneasy. Maybe it was just because it was a woman’s room, or maybe it was because he was her room, but it felt like a violation somehow. Mustang was stiff, and it only took a glance at him to tell that he felt similarly.

Havoc took pains not to look through her things, mostly sticking to checking out the furniture itself while Mustang took care of the floor and ceiling. Hawkeye, likewise, was protective of her privacy, looking through her items on her own. The only time she broke with that was when Mustang got near to a couple of places on her floor. At those places she pulled the floorboards up herself, looking through what seemed to be an eclectic collection of things that she didn’t let either man get a good look at. Havoc didn’t push. Her privacy was her privacy.

He did notice one particular item that seemed to have fallen into Mustang’s hands, and Havoc couldn’t help but note that the rabbit looked a little better when they left than it had looked when they had first come in.

From there they moved from there to the bedroom Havoc was using, which was full of a bunch of odds and ends. It took them a little longer to get through it all, but by now they had the rhythm of searching down. Truth be told, it didn’t take them near as long as it could have. Still, they turned up nothing, and, when they finished, they all sat there, a bit tired.

“What do you all say to some lunch?” Mustang said, a bit weary sounding.

“I think it sound fantastic,” Havoc said. “I think anything that means a break and involves food sounds fantastic.”

“There are leftovers from supper last night in the refrigerator,” Hawkeye said. “We can reheat them in the oven.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mustang agreed, and the three of them drug themselves downstairs.

Lunch didn’t take long, although it was filling. It wasn’t relaxing, though. It was clear that Hawkeye was still very much on guard, every little move or twitch noticed. It was almost as if she were waiting for something to happen. However, unlike missions where she was waiting for something specific, now it was almost as if she were waiting for anything to happen. And although Mustang was acting as if things were normal, it was still obvious to Havoc that he was worried about Hawkeye, and that she was still not receptive to it.

They went back upstairs after lunch, just the bathroom and the study left. The bathroom wasn’t big, and so they took care of it fairly quickly, although the plumbing did make a few things a bit more difficult. Fortunately, the old pipes were very sturdy and held up well to clumsy soldiers and alchemists. The study was the only room left after that, and both Mustang and Hawkeye seemed on edge about it.

To Havoc’s eye, it seemed like a fairly typical study, only with lots of alchemy references on the walls, and books that were directly related to high level alchemy sitting around. He had almost expected something messy, but it honestly seemed rather well organized actually.  They started the routine again, only this time with books included. Havoc hoped that they had actually found something when he came across some alchemy notes stuffed under a drawer. Hawkeye, however, dismissed some of them right away as “too basic” (which actually surprised Havoc. He didn’t realize that Hawkeye knew anything about alchemy, to be honest) and the rest Mustang looked through, examining for clues and ultimately disregarding. It was the only thing they found and searching through the study took much more time than Havoc had thought it would. He was ready to be done with it by the time the sun was setting.

Unfortunately, there was still quite a mess in the study. There were papers everywhere, books still to be put away, and furniture to be moved back. They were all tired, but Hawkeye was looking particularly exhausted, Havoc couldn’t help but note. She seemed a bit pale, and a bit more withdrawn. There was an exhaustion starting to play on her face, and Havoc wondered if maybe she needed to sit down.

“It’s getting late,” Mustang said, looking at the setting sun out of the window. “We should call it. Captain, why don’t you go see about dinner? Havoc and I will get the room back in order.”

“It’ll go faster with three sets of hands, sir.” Hawkeye said back.

“And supper will be later.” Mustang pointed out.

“Sir, there’s a lot of work here to be put back—”

“Which will mean that you’ll have plenty of time in the kitchen without us getting in your way.” Mustang cut her off.

“Sir, I—”

“Captain.” His voice was firm. “You know as well as I do that you don’t want me near your cooking. And you know how to work that stove better than either of us. We can do this. But we can’t do that. You can.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then with a long breath and a sharp exhale, left, heading towards the stairs and down to the kitchen.

Havoc turned at stared at Mustang. “Did—did you just tell Hawkeye to get back to the kitchen?”

“I gave her a task,” Mustang said, glowering at him. “And besides, she needed to leave. Nothing good is attached to this place.” He looked down at the paper he held in his hand, and then pulled out a glove. “Nothing good.” He snapped, and Havoc watched as the paper burned, wondering what had been on it.

The men were silent after that, as they cleaned up the study. Hawkeye had a good supper going when they made their way downstairs. After supper Havoc once again tended to the horses, Mustang worked on the dishes, and Hawkeye took the time to attend to the dirty uniforms from the day before. It had, once again, been a long day, and, after taking turns for the shower, it wasn’t long before they were all in bed.

Havoc could hear Hawkeye lock her door immediately, but he was aware of her restlessness, and couldn’t help but wonder as he was drifting off to sleep, if he was hearing her tears as well.

 The next day arrived bright and early, just like the day before. They had fallen into a routine, with Hawkeye and Havoc up almost with the sun, Havoc tending to the horses, and Hawkeye working on breakfast. Mustang stumbled down the stairs later and they all ate a very quiet and somewhat tense breakfast. After that, it was time to get to work.

This time their goal was the downstairs, or at least as much of it as they could get to that day. It contained a well-stocked library and Havoc was not looking forward to looking through all of those books. It had taken long enough with the books in the study yesterday. The library would only take longer.

“Where do we start today?” Havoc asked when they finished cleaning up from breakfast.

Mustang looked around the room and shrugged. “Well, why not start here? We’ll have to go through it eventually anyway.”

It was a good enough reason as any, and they started, making their way through every dish, cabinet, appliance and piece of furniture in the kitchen with no success, unless you count a few snacks eaten on Havoc’s end of things successful. He certainly did. The dining room was next, and the process was repeated, with the exception of the dishes in the china hutch being handled very carefully.

“Nice china,” Havoc said, taking the time to look at pieces he unwrapped. They were white, with hand-painted yellow and pink roses decorating them, and a smooth finish over that.

“Not really,” Hawkeye said. “There’s a lot that’s nicer. But it was my mother’s.”

“Well its nice enough,” Havoc said. He peered at the bowl that held the broken piece. “What happened to this one?”

Havoc could see Mustang tense a bit, but interestingly Hawkeye’s tension over it was minimal.

“I broke it,” she said. “I was about five or so, and wanted to look at it, but I broke it. Father wasn’t happy with me. It was the first thrashing I got.”

“The what?” The casual way she said it startled Havoc.

“I should have left it alone,” she said. “I didn’t realize how clumsy I was.” She frowned, reaching in and picked up a piece. “I have no idea why father didn’t fix it. But I never touched any of it again. Not until I was much older.”

She turned to get back to work, and Havoc stared at her for a moment. The thrashing could have just been a turn of phrase, and not meant literally. A look at Mustang made him doubt that. Havoc carefully put the bowl holding the pieces down and filed that information away to add to the puzzle.

The dining room was a bust, as was the sitting room after it. Havoc did discover that the piano was horribly out of tune, and Riza had never used it, which was interesting, but not important to their search. They broke for lunch after that. It was a quick affair, again, as all of them wanted to get this search over and done with, although it seemed as if it were for different reasons.

Havoc watched Hawkeye and Mustang as they continued to search the hallway, the washroom, the bathroom, the living room, and got started on the library. Hawkeye was still going through the process diligently and thoroughly, but she was tense and angry at Mustang. She responded to him with his rank, and with “sirs” and not once by his first name, something she would have more than likely done even with Havoc there under normal circumstances.

It wasn’t as if it was a secret that she and the General cared deeply for each other. If she had been calling him Roy this whole time and they snuggled up in the same room at night, Havoc wouldn’t have blinked an eye. But instead she was cold and standoffish towards him. There was an underlying anger in being here, almost a betrayal.

Mustang, likewise, was not happy with Hawkeye. He wasn’t calling her by her name either, just her rank and last name. He obviously wasn’t happy about bringing her back here, but he was also frustrated with how she kept freezing him out. Mustang was also worried about her, Havoc could tell.

It felt like every day the tension was building. Only while it was building between them, it also felt like it was leading them closer to something. Havoc just didn’t know what that something was. He was honestly a little afraid to find out.

The sun was starting to set again when they decided to call it quits for the day. They were all tired and discouraged by then, and Hawkeye clearly unhappy about something to do with the library. Or at least, that’s what Havoc thought it was. But whatever it was, it left dinner a tense affair and Havoc wasn’t sure if any sleep that they got would be restful or not. Or, well, at least not when it came to Hawkeye and Mustang. He was going to do his best to sleep just fine. Whatever problem his commanding officers had, he couldn’t do anything about it.

However, sleep didn’t come easily to him that night. Hawkeye’s words wouldn’t get out of his head. “Father wasn’t happy with me. It was the first thrashing I got.” The first? As in there was more than one? A frown formed on his lips as he laid there and considered everything.

She obviously wasn’t happy about being back here. The house was uncared for, things had been sold for money, and Mustang had come as an apprentice. He knew Hawkeye had been hunting since she was a young girl and knew how to find food in the wild. She could make a meal out of almost anything. She was extremely frugal, not wasting anything if she could help it, and repaired almost everything instead of buying something new. She had said that there hadn’t always been water in the house as well, and there was almost no electricity to the house. The items that were in it were obviously old or worn. Money had obviously been a problem. Had Hawkeye grown up in poverty? Had she spent nights hungry, not had clothes and things that she needed?

But the library and study were well taken care of, well stocked, with newer books in them. Her father was an alchemist, and Havoc had been around enough alchemists to know that they often got obsessive about things. Could her father have been obsessive about alchemy to the point that he neglected his daughter?

It was possible.

But there was more to it. Havoc was sure of it. That comment about the thrashing, Mustang’s reaction, Hawkeye’s non-reaction. The way Hawkeye was tense as if she were expecting something, anything to happen. How on edge she seemed to be. Even outside of this place, Hawkeye always did take any hits without really reacting to them, just getting up and moving on with what she had to do. She was even the best of them at tending to injuries, never fully explaining how she had such good skills. Had Hawkeye been abused as a child? Had she had to tend to her own injuries? Had she been through that, alone, before Mustang had come?

It was also possible.

Havoc rolled over in his bed, uneasy at these possibilities. He always knew that Hawkeye had some sort of past, and that she had grown up at least a bit sheltered from the world. But the possibility of it being worse than that left him with a twisting, sinking feeling, and he resolved to watch Hawkeye a bit closer the next day.

The next day began as all of the others did, and Havoc didn’t expect them to begin any other way at this point, even if he hadn’t slept well after his late-night thoughts. The routine had been established by now. Coffee started by him, checking on the horses, coming back in to find Hawkeye cooking, Mustang coming down a bit later, and then they all got to work again. Today they went back to the library, working their way through the rest of it, stopping only for lunch. It was late afternoon when they finally finished, and the last book was closed and shelved. Once again, it was a fruitless endeavor, and Havoc was beginning to feel like this was just a huge waste of time.

“Well, that only leaves one more place inside,” Havoc said. “We can probably get started on the basement at least.”

There was a pause and, when neither of his COs replied, he looked between them for a moment. Both of them stood stiffly, but Hawkeye was obviously pale. She had been getting a little more so as the day had gone on, and Havoc was a little worried about her.

“…I suppose we can,” Mustang said. “Captain—”

“I’ll get you lanterns,” she said, cutting him off. “I’ll be back.”

She left, and Havoc looked after her curiously. It didn’t escape his notice that she had said that she would get them lanterns, not that she would get lanterns for all of them. It sounded like she wasn’t going down there with them, and he wasn’t exactly sure why. But it concerned him.

Mustang was looking after where she had left, his jaw tight, his gaze set. Havoc couldn’t even begin to guess what was going through his mind, but he doubted that the general was having any good feelings. Mustang glanced at Havoc as if calculating something, and then took a heavy breath. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll wait in front of the door.”

The door to the basement was not far. It was a heavy looking door with a lock on it, and Havoc had to wonder why the door needed that kind of lock from the outside. Mustang reached to unlock it, and Hawkeye appeared, still pale, with two oil lamps lit and in her hands.

“Here,” she said. “You’ll need these.”

Havoc reached and took one even as Roy took the other. “Not one for you?” Havoc asked.

A look passed through Riza’s eyes, one that, if Havoc had to put a name to it, would be terror. It was gone, quickly, as were most emotions that Hawkeye wanted to hide, but it still startled him.

“I think it’d be best if the Captain went ahead and started on dinner,” Mustang said. “We could use a hearty meal today.”

Mustang looked at Hawkeye. Havoc couldn’t read what went on between them, but Hawkeye finally gave a nod, and glanced over at Havoc for a second. “Yes, sir,” she said, her voice tight, brittle.

She took a step back from them, a very quick step, as if she were distancing herself from danger. With a final look at her, Mustang opened the door and headed down the steps. Havoc turned to flash a smile back at Hawkeye, but all he could see was her paleness, and the way her breathing seemed to have picked up.

He opened his mouth to say something. “Havoc!” Mustang interrupted him, and, with a bit of a smile back at her, he hurried after Mustang and down into the basement.

The basement wasn’t as big as the house, but it still had plenty of room in it. Plenty of room that seemed to be filled with things. Havoc had expected the usual things that people kept in basements: dried food, maybe some alcohol, shelves with tools and the like, boxes for storage. That wasn’t what this basement was like at all. It was more like a laboratory, and for some reason it sent the willies through him. Bottles of chemicals lined shelves. Items that Havoc knew were common in alchemic formulas sat on them too. There was a large table with an overhead lamp hanging above it. A cot was nearby, with a pillow and blanket half-wadded on it.

“Well this is inviting,” he said, trying to shake the creeps he was feeling, and failing. Honestly, it reminded him a bit of being back in that lab, when Solaris came out of a doorway and revealed herself to them--and then paralyzed him. He shuddered a bit and looked around, ignoring the ache in his back and legs. There was no other way in or out of this room, so he didn’t have to worry about that at least. “Where should I start?” he asked.

Mustang was looking around the room, anger burning in his eyes, which Havoc was not expecting. He didn’t seem angry that Hawkeye wasn’t with them, but Havoc didn’t see anything down here that might spark that kind of anger in the man. “Over there,” Mustang said, gesturing to a wall of ingredients. “Start there.”

“You got it,” Havoc said, turning to get started. He could hear Mustang working in other parts of the room, and they settled in to work.

Or, at least, Havoc tried too. Mustang was hyper aware of everything he was doing for some reason, and kept steering him away from different areas, setting him searching through things or areas that were fairly innocuous and obviously didn’t have anything hidden in them. Finally, after Havoc had commented on the odd rings in the large table, Mustang sent him out, told him to go up stairs and check on Hawkeye.

Havoc shrugged, and headed up the stairs, more than glad to get out of that basement and shake the uneasy feeling off of himself. He emerged into low light streaming into the hallway. The sun was setting by this point, and Havoc stretched. Maybe if he was lucky, Mustang would call it for the day, and he wouldn’t have to go back down there tonight.

And then Havoc froze. It suddenly occurred to him that something wasn’t right, and he stopped, listening.

The house was silent.

There were no sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen.

Havoc immediately went on alert, reaching for the small gun that he had kept on him, because he was just as paranoid as Hawkeye was. “Riza?” he called, listening. There was no answer. He cautiously made his way to the kitchen, peering in. The kitchen was cold and empty. There weren’t even signs of a meal being started. “Riza?” he called again. Still no answer.

Telling himself not to jump to conclusions, Havoc checked the washroom and the bathroom, but she wasn’t there either. There were no signs of her. There were no signs of foul play, either, which was good, but it didn’t alleviate his concern.

Havoc made his way back to the door to the basement. “Boss,” he called down. “You wanna get up here.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Mustang was coming up the stairs, taking in Havoc’s posture and pulling on his gloves. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“Hawkeye’s missing,” he said. “There’s no sign of her. There’s also no signs of foul play. But it doesn’t even look like she started supper.”

Mustang cursed under his breath. “Alright. We need to find her. Start a sweep of the house.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was hesitation from Mustang. “Check all the places someone could hide,” he said. “No matter how small.”

Havoc looked at him for a moment, trying to work through the implications of that, then nodded. “Right.”

They took opposite ends of the house, slowly making their way through it and looking through every nook and cranny. Doors, cabinets, storage compartments, furniture, everything was looked through, under, and around. They had no luck on the bottom floor, though, and silently met at the bottom of staircase. It was already turning dark. They needed to find her soon.

With a nod they headed up the stairs, Mustang taking the side with the master bedroom and study, and Havoc taking the side with their rooms. There was no sign of her in Mustang’s bedroom, but when Havoc went in hers, he knew where she was.

Her window was open, that rabbit was gone, and there were tree branches scraping the outside wall.

Havoc holstered his gun, and went to the window, pulling himself out of it. It took a little maneuvering, but he was able to get to the roof line within a few seconds. Once he could on top of the roof, it took him a minute to spot Hawkeye. She was sitting up there, hiding in the shadows of a chimney, staring out over the property in the fading sunlight. She was hard to spot, although Havoc was sure that was the point. The shadow wasn’t quite big enough to hide her, although he could imagine a child-sized Hawkeye hiding completely in it. He stopped his mind before he began to hypothesize on what she might have been hiding from as a child.

Movement from her caught his eyes, and he noticed that faded stuffed rabbit in her hand. She was gently playing with its ears, almost mindlessly, which explained why its ears looked more worn then the rest of it. Havoc doubted that, despite her seeming inattention to him, that Hawkeye was unaware of him. In fact, he was sure that she knew that he was there, and so didn’t bother to try hiding himself from her, instead pulling himself up on the rooftop

“You scared us, you know?” Havoc said, pulling himself fully onto the roof and making his way over towards her carefully. He sat down beside her, looking out over the land with her. “Helps if you tell us if you need some alone time.”

“…Sorry,” she said, her voice soft in volume, but rough in quality.

Havoc shrugged, not saying anything about it, and looked out at the view. The sun was just about set at this point, and the sky was already lighting up with stars. It really was a beautiful sight. “It’s a real beautiful view up here.” He commented, keeping his eyes looking forward on the view.

“It is,” Riza agreed. “It always has been. I used to come up here a lot. It was always a good view, and no one ever looked up here for me.”

“Yeah? I can see why. It’s not easy to get to,” He commented, wondering how she’d respond to that bit he had left dangling.

“That’s why I liked it,” she said, responding to it. “I could get up hear easily, but it was hard for—for others.”

It didn’t escape him that she glossed over who getting up here might have been hard for, but he didn’t push. Instead, Havoc nodded, and then glanced down at the bunny. “Did he come up here a lot too?” He asked.

Hawkeye glanced down at the rabbit in her hands. “Yes,” she said. “Every time, unless I was in too big of a hurry.”

He kept his mind from speculating what reason she might have had to hide on the roof in a hurry. Havoc nodded instead, quiet for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mustang’s head pop up above the roofline, and he gestured low, letting him know that he had the situation under control. Mustang hesitated for a moment, and then disappeared again, and Havoc returned his attention fully to Hawkeye. “You weren’t in too big of a hurry this time, then.” He commented.

“It was more habit than anything,” Riza said with a sigh. “I just wanted to be left alone for a while.”

“Yeah, you’ve kinda made that clear,” Havoc said, tilting his head back to look at the awakening stars. “Or, at least you have with Roy.” She tensed up at the mention of him, and Havoc decided to gently push. “What gives, Ri? You two are joined at the hip most of the time.

“It’s nothing,” she said, abruptly stopping her petting of the stuffed rabbit and putting him down on the roof, although she didn’t let go of him. Instead she let him and her arms rest between her legs, her feet planted, and knees bent to keep her from sliding off the roof.

“Mm, I don’t think that’s true,” Havoc said, taking note of her posture and tone. “Look, Riza, we both know I’m not the smartest man. But I’m pretty good with people. And at this point even someone deaf and blind could tell that you’re angry at him, and he’s frustrated with you.”

She didn’t say anything, just frowned and looked down, her gaze settling on the rabbit she still held.

“Look, I get it. This place, it’s not a good place for you. There’s some stuff that’s happened here, and you had to deal with it on your own. I don’t know what, and I’m not asking. But whatever it was, it was bad enough that you don’t want to be reminded of it. But you’re back here now, reminded of it constantly and you’re mad at Mustang for bringing you back. You understand why, but you don’t like it. You don’t like that he’s the reason you’re feeling this way again and so you’re taking it out on him.”

Her jaw worked as she glared down, her hands holding tightly to that bunny.

“Riza.” He turned his head to look at her, leaning so that he was at least more in her periphery. “I get it. This place makes you feel alone. It makes you hurt. But you have to remember, you’re not alone anymore. You’ve got me up here with you, and you know I love you, Ri. We’ve been friends too long for that not to be a thing. But you also know I have no idea what’s going on. Down there you’ve got someone who loves you more and is hurting alongside you. He knows and understand your past. He wants to help you with all of this, and he’s hurting because he knows that he’s making you hurt.”

Her eyes had dropped now, no longer a glare as she looked down at the bunny in her hands. Her jaw was trembling. Havoc reached a careful arm out and looped it over her shoulders, drawing her up next to him. She didn’t resist, although she didn’t lean into it either.

Havoc gave her a squeeze. “You don’t have to face this alone. You don’t have to be a pillar of strength. You’ve got someone down there who’s ready to walk by your side. You just have to let him.”

There was a tremble to her now, and a sort of shuddering to her breath. Havoc didn’t say anything more, but instead waited. Sometimes, a gentle patience was what was needed more than anything.

“I’ve hurt him,” she said, her voice low, trembling. “I was so mad, because it felt like he was breaking a promise, because it felt like being used again. I—I just—”

“It’s okay, Riza.”

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” she said, her shoulders finally slumping. “I don’t want to be alone ever again.”

Havoc held her closer, gave her a kiss on the head like he would one of his sisters. “You don’t have to be,” he said. “He’ll never leave you alone. You just have to let him in.”

Hawkeye didn’t say anything else. She just shuddered again, leaning into him more. Havoc just sat there and held her as her silent tears fell.

[alientoastt]

im terrible at drawing blood and guts and intend to improve so but for now everything’s just notes but, some thoughts on my avatarsona under the cut (also sorry it’s gross, i apparently really like writing horror)

- avatar of the flesh, with a little hunt for flavor. actually a lot of hunt, we’ll get there when we get there -  so like. one of the Flesh’s things is You Are Meat. You Are To Be Consumed, right? and it's tied to meat processing and slaughterhouses and the automation of slaughter and intrinsically to capitalism and consumerism and excess. -  isn't there just. that little part of you, that part of you that grew up told you were a girl and that was told even by well meaning folks that in the end you are. something. you are ruled by your body and you cannot change it and that it is for others more than yourself. -  and that you are a consumer good, but it is shameful to benefit from that��and that ultimately you are not your own - aren’t you tired of being consumed. don’t you just want to consume that which never loved you

What i’m saying is they’re nonbinary, early thirties. Their family owned a butcher’s shop in a small town (gas station, bar, post office, handful of houses) buried in the backwoods of northern California, some place up in east Humboldt. The family took carcasses and roadkill from folk who brought them in, hacked them up for a decent price, and made a modest living that way. They even sold jerky, and were half a tourist destination for the decade or so the shop was running.

Now, there’s a very important aspect of running a business that keeps meat. You are constantly fighting rot. Insects, bacteria, and all other kinds of nasty filth could tank your business or worse; so the back of the shop, the butcher shop with the tiny shiny glass counter and the scale and the register, at the back they had a handful of huge, long freezers. The kind they use to keep bodies in morgues, someone in the family must have gotten them cheap when they first opened the shop and the rest never thought to buy proper meat-lockers because the damn things worked so well.

When your father and your mother and your brothers and your sisters abide almost numbly by the idea that the freezers were made to hold meat anyway, and that you are beautiful and young and Not Your Own and to be married off to a nice boy soon, well. Maybe you snap. Maybe you throw em in the freezers. Maybe you burn the building down. Maybe it starts a forest fire, maybe it’s a barbecue.

The Forest Service blames it on the dry winter, on the foggy spring, on the fact that it’s August in Humboldt county. People don’t talk about how the smell carries for miles; not of the fire or of smoke, but of something decidedly like pork. No one talks about the ghost of a teenager who scrambled on to a main highway from the burnt out woods covered head to toe in blood that was not theirs. They hitchhiked their way to the next town, found themselves an abandoned cabin out far from any roads, and hid from whatever they said Yes to in those woods (hid from the thing with too many useless limbs and how many heads? that was not a bear, was not an ape).

- so like. they live in the woods and eat birds and mountain lions and deer and sometimes cryptid hunters but it’s not their fault really, they’re nowhere near the designated hiking trails and folk really shouldn’t be out so late 

- they can’t stand roadkill and never could. they still hate bugs.

[ladyanatui]

Daiken Ultimate Playlist, Pt. 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

This is the abridged version of my Spotify playlist for all things Daiken, organized from the start of 02 to…eventually.

Part 3 specifically covers from not long after XV-mon and Stingmon first Jogress-evolve through Christmas.

TRIGGER WARNING: This post discusses depression, suicide, emotional abuse, and PTSD quite a lot. Take care of yourself, folks!

Spotify Playlist

Click the song titles for YouTube links (apparently you can’t have more than five videos in a post), and otherwise, enjoy me rambling about Daiken.

One final note: Within the lyrics, I’ve emphasized meaningful words, such as night/nightmare, dark/darkness, miracle(s), kind/kindness, courage/bravery, friend/friendship, sun/star/light, fire/burn/ignite, angel(s), and words related to water/drowning.

“Carry On” by fun.

Though I've never been through hell like that I've closed enough windows to know you can never look back

If you're lost and alone Or you're sinking like a stone Carry on May your past be the sound of your feet upon the ground Carry on

And in the meantime, he knows that for Ken to feel better and move on, Ken needs to come to terms with his past while also not dwelling on it. Even by the end of the season, though, Ken still has a long way to go.

“Skin” Sixx:A.M.

When they start to judge you Show them your true colors And do unto others As you'd have done to you

Just rise above this Kill them with your kindness Ignorance is blindness They're the ones that stand to lose

One of Ken’s worst hangups about joining the team, though, is the fact that most of them still hesitate. Worst of all, Iori blatantly doesn’t want him there, though he does feel obligated to help Ken after Ken and Stingmon save his life. But Daisuke knows that as the others spend time with him and get to know him, they’ll love him just as much as he does.

“On My Own” by Ashes Remain

Every little thing that I've known Is everything I need to let go You're so much bigger than the world I have made So I surrender my soul I'm reaching out for your hope I lay my weapons down I'm ready for you now

And then, of course, there comes a time when Ken finally starts to come to terms with the fact that he can’t do this alone, that he needs their help and, more importantly, their friendship. This moment is difficult to pinpoint because it’s a slow process, but it’s probably right around episode 30 when Arachnemon creates BlackWarGreymon. Daisuke and Miyako trick him and Iori into working together in an attempt to get them to become friends, but the plan backfires when neither Ken nor Iori are fooled. But a few episodes later, by the time they’re defending the Holy Stones from BlackWarGreymon, Ken is working with the team.

And we can’t forget episode 35, where Daisuke invites Ken over for dinner to brainstorm about defeating BlackWarGreymon, and then suddenly it’s the next morning and Ken spent the night, which was definitely not part of the initial plan (they altered this in the English dub so that Daisuke asks him to spend the night after asking him over for dinner). The look on Ken’s face the following morning, when he wakes up to having spent the night at Daisuke’s home and watching their Digimon laugh and play together...it’s utterly heartwarming. He finally knows what it means to have a friend, and you couldn’t possibly find anyone more grateful.

“Doubt” by Twenty One Pilots

Temperature is dropping, temperature is dropping I'm not sure if I can see this ever stopping Shaking hands with the dark parts of my thoughts, no You are all that I've got, no

But that’s not to say that Ken doesn’t continue to have doubts. There’s still a darkness in him he cannot shake, and he still struggles to believe he deserves to have friends, especially friends so wholly devoted and affectionate like Daisuke.

“Slip the Noose” by The Maine

Break down, hysteric and young Uncomfortably numb Then you sent my pain into oblivion I was on the verge of breaking down Then you came around And not a second too late

It’s pretty safe to say that, by this point, he understands how important Daisuke has become to him, even as he tried to prevent it. This song especially points to Daisuke helping him fight off his suicidal ideations (it’s all in the title).

“Anchor” by Skillet

When I get tired of finding All of the fears I've been hiding You gave me a breath and tell me to rest You never left

This is another song that focuses on the supportive nature of their friendship. Daisuke spends the entire second half of 02 being exactly who Ken needs him to be. He’s the supportive friend who isn’t afraid to tell him the awful truth if the moment calls for it.

And although it’s rarely talked about, Ken is also exactly who Daisuke needs in his life. Ken probably doesn’t realize how important he is to Daisuke, but the goggle boy seriously needed someone who actually listens to him, who respects him, and who loves him--and that’s exactly who Ken becomes as their friendship develops.

“All You Did Was Save My Life” by Our Lade Peace

I'm not dying All you did was save my life Pulled me out of that flat line Put the heartbeat back inside I'm not dying

And overall, it’s not an exaggeration to say that Daisuke legitimately saved Ken’s life. He was the one to activate the Digimental of Miracles, he (and Magnamon) was the one to defeat the Digimon Kaiser, he was the one to prevent Ken from potentially killing himself to stop his base from exploding, and he is constantly the one there to remind Ken of who he needs to be and what he needs to do to overcome his past.

“Picking Up Pieces” by Blue October

How long will I be picking up pieces? How long will I be picking up my heart?

Listen, I'll be as honest as I feel I feel like I'm getting more paranoid and I'm hearing things And they never turn out real It feels like my heart is made of pure steel It's just so heavy all the time

These things take time. Lots of time. To the point where it feels like it will go on forever. Despite the phenomenal progress he makes in 02, even by the end of the season, he still has a long way to go.

“Midnight Thoughts” by Set It Off

Here I am, 12 a.m. Sunken deep into my bed Kept alive by the light of the moon Close my eyes, but my mind's got its own plan tonight And it keeps rubbing salt in the wound

I know it's too late As night turns to day Now there's no escaping the ghost

Throughout this period, Ken is also suffering from nightmares--reminders of his past, including the moment the Dark Seed bored into the back of his neck and changed everything. I’m sure, to him, it feels like no matter how much he tries, he will never be able to move past the pain he’s caused the Digimon and Digital World.

“A Bad Dream” by Keane

I wake up, it's a bad dream No one on my side I was fighting But I just feel too tired to be fighting Guess I'm not the fighting kind Wouldn't mind it If you were by my side

First off, a big thank you to @molkschatz​ for introducing me to this song--it’s perfect for Ken.

Obviously, this song too references his nightmares, but it has far more to do with his loneliness and fear of losing himself than the actual bad dreams. Ken isn’t your typical fighter--he’s not courageous and spirited the way Daisuke and Taichi are, but he has a strong sense of justice and of right and wrong, which is really why it’s so important for him to help the Digimon and fight against evil. And although he may not be a tradition example of passion, he’s passionate in his own subtle way, and having Daisuke and the other Chosen by his side allows him to explore that side of himself.

“I Don’t Belong Here” by I Prevail

Looking back on the past, all the time I wasted Running from everyone that tells me that I'm fading out Must be mistaken 'cause I, I, I don't feel anything You know I got this brain, it drives me insane Some days I feel I can't take the pain, I'm gone I can't explain it 'cause I, I, I don't need anything (no)

Even as he learns to get along with all the Chosen, Ken struggles most with feeling like he doesn’t belong with the group. This is emphasized, of course, by the fact that he is the only one who doesn’t live in Odaiba, aside from Jyou.

This is most apparent in the Christmas episode where Ken has a holiday party and invites the group. He’s absolutely terrified to invite Iori because he assumes he won’t want to attend, but to his surprise, Iori has accepted him and is pleased he received an invitation because he didn’t expect one. Later, after they send the Digimon who ruined Yamato’s concert back to the Digital World, Ken has to go back to Tamachi and this adorable little exchange happens:

Sora: Ichijouji-kun sure has changed, hasn’t he? Hikari: He sure has. Daisuke: Really? I haven’t noticed anything...

While everyone else is still getting to know Ken as Ken and figuring out how he fits in the group, Daisuke has always seen him this way and has always felt like he belongs.

“Without You” by Breaking Benjamin

Say something new I have nothing left I can't face the dark without you There's nothing left to lose The fighting never ends I can't face the dark without you

There are so many moments throughout the show where Ken forces himself into situations where he is trying to deal with his problems on his own, facing the darkness on his own. But he quickly learns that he needs Daisuke and, to a lesser extent, the others there to help him, and more importantly, that having them fighting by his side doesn’t make him weak.

“Secret Smile” by Semisonic

Nobody knows it but you've got a secret smile And you use it only for me

I associate this song a lot with the Christmas episode because of how big of a deal everyone makes about his laughter but also the episode where Daisuke invites Ken over to his house and Ken just has the most beautiful peaceful smile on his face (mentioned earlier). The truth is that Ken is decidedly different around Daisuke than the rest of them. He’s more relaxed and happy, and once he starts calling Daisuke by his first name, he only does so privately. If other people are around, he still refers to him by his family name even as Daisuke calls him Ken all the time. Their relationship is precious and special, and calling him Daisuke publicly ruins the intimacy of it.

“An Act of Kindness” by Bastille

An act of kindness Is what you show to me It caught me by surprise in this town of glass and eyes Kindness, so many people pass me by But you warm me to my core and you left me wanting more

As the bearer of Crest of Kindness, it’s kind of a big deal for Ken to look at Daisuke and see all the wonderful and utterly kind things that he does. Extending his friendship when he had absolutely no reason to (don’t tell Dai that), defending him and helping him without any expectations in return--Daisuke shows Ken true friendship, and to Ken, that is the biggest act of kindness he ever could have performed.

And again, there’s a reference to Daisuke as a source of heat, much like the sun (plus, you know, the Crest/Digimental of Courage is associated with fire).

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

[handmaidensofnaboo]

“Ultimately, it is very apparent this novel was noticeably, lovingly, and carefully crafted by a Prequel fan, a Padmé fan, a Handmaiden fan... Queen's Shadow is a fitting tribute.”

❦

Queen's Shadow had a somewhat impossible task for me as a handmaiden “super fan,” a potentially “tough critic,” so I commend E.K. Johnston for willingly providing me with an early copy to share my thoughts on it with you all... I was nervous about how Queen's Shadow would turn out to be honest, but EKJ was up to the task...

I'll preface this review by saying Handmaidens were my first real community engagement in fandom. My older sister and I joined the Royal Handmaiden Society on TheForce.Net boards back around 2001 when I was about 14. The RHS was the reason I went to my first convention (Celebration II) and although the group isn't as present online as it once was (please follow @royalhandmaidensociety​), I made life long friends and it forever shaped and changed me. It was an overwhelmingly positive fandom experience at a very impressionable age and for that I'm forever thankful...  So for those of us who have such deep roots to this, who have, for the past 20 years, analyzed the handmaidens’ every micro expression, every costume, and have carved out our own understanding of them (from what little information that would could find), this book might be a bit "complicated " to process.

 At least it was for me.

With the announcement of Queen's Shadow, I was of course initially ecstatic, validated even, that they/we were being seen and heard, finally!! Yet mixed feelings slowly sunk in too. Despite us RHSers long lamenting the lack of content—handmaidens unjustly being overlooked in both Star Wars official media and for a long time in mainstream fandom—it also became this amazing small community space for each of us to freely imagine and play in. It’s been a kind of safe haven I've come to greatly appreciate. With a book featuring them... That could all potentially change. This fandom could change. I found myself wondering a few weeks ago, "Will I even like these girls? Will I love these new versions of Eiraté, Rabé, Sabé...” Something I've previously never had to consider. My fictional friends were about to be exposed on a larger than ever level, and reshaped, officially, forever. I was worried.



I knew I had to go into this book open minded, no way could EKJ take each one of our different headcanons and fantasies and appease us all in one ultimate text—but to my surprise, there were certainly select striking scenes, moments, I had while reading, where (for me) she did accomplish just that.  

After both the prologue and the first chapter in particular (which were centered around my favorite Handmaidens, from TPM), I had to put the book down for a while because I was so overwhelmed in the best kind of way. It truly was so close to capturing what I have wanted all these years that I just wanted to bask in it. Maybe that sounds silly but even simply one chapter filled with handmaidens, is an overwhelming amount of content for us to receive, let alone an ENTIRE book. This little fandom is just so used to excavating for scraps. I reread the beginning of the book again the next day, out of pure enjoyment, before I continued on.



The unbelievable news, the great news... Something I can't believe even is real... Is that Queen's Shadow starts with handmaidens and ends with handmaidens, and there are handmaidens in… NEARLY? Every. Single. Chapter. I really never thought I'd never see the day. I’m stunned. Yes, they are different then I imagine them, but I'm happy to see them, I still like them, just the same. And Padmé, who has also been sorely ignored, unappreciated, and underutilized within general Star Wars media/merchandise, is also finally getting the spotlight she deeply deserves.

❦

Queen's Shadow is woven like an intricate tapestry threading together Padmé's stories throughout the entire prequel trilogy (especially the first two films), and highlights some of my favorite stylistic and thematic choices within them. Similar to the prequels (especially TPM) it reminded me of a period drama, with it's more formal dialogue, richly detailed costumes, ceremonies and politics, and admittedly a more contemplative pace than the swashbuckling fairy tales of the OT (but still engaging in it's own way). Also like the prequels, you get that occasional ominous foreboding, that sense of pieces being moved behind the curtains by shadowy figures, of unclear motivations by supposed "allies," of tragic destinies being spun—but still find yourself swept away by moments of hope and idealism, despite it all.  There is a particularly heartbreaking yet beautiful finale moment of this book with her that was so fitting to George Lucas' vision of Star Wars, it was, as he once said, "like poetry—it rhymes." Anytime something can capture that Lucas approach to storytelling, I am thankful to be reminded of why I loved Star Wars in the first place. (Especially in the Disney era years when I've felt a bit "post break up" about the franchise, to be honest.)

Queen's Shadow is foremost about Padmé's work, shifting and hardening herself into her new role as senator. It does justice to the themes and qualities that originally enchanted and inspired me about her: fulfilling her duty to her people, her compassion for vulnerable communities, and fighting for what's right—through language, through political and inner power, strategy, and unexpected partnerships. And as always, Padmé is luminous. 

There is one cause in particular she is advocating for that is notably poignant in its connections to TPM. I was incredibly pleased it was there, relieved even. It was so important and needed for her character. It enriches the choices she makes in the later films. And it is just one of a number of political themes in the book that are timeless and ever relevant, but wasn't inserted into the story in a heavy-handed way. I love that the main audience for this book (young girls), will get these meaty concepts presented to them through our beloved political heroine and the diversely talented women supporting her.  While we do see the various skills and character moments of Padmé and her handmaidens, I admit (and this is just my first read impressions) they all still did feel somewhat at a distance for me. I personally would've liked to have dug deeper into their personalities. I'm not sure how to properly articulate it, but I just felt a bit left "wanting more"—for more walls to come down, to have gotten further into their inner thoughts... But I think it's partly the challenge of the large number of characters, the book’s YA length, and a personal preference of writing style. Which, in EKJ’s defense, does compliment these particular characters, who have long had these kind of untouchable, unknowable presences, these masks over them (and she does address that). I think as I reread it, my feelings on may improve as I retain all the subtleties better. But if they remain elusive, that gives us room to fill it out with our own head canons, which is something many of us all ~clearly~ enjoy! It is part of their appeal, part of why we first loved them after all. 
It's also important to note the impressive attention to various Star Wars lore that is entwined throughout Queen's Shadow, from remnant gems of "Legends" handmaiden lore (and even RHS in jokes), to architectural details found in Battlefront II, to various appearances by Clone Wars characters... And many more I’m sure I’ve missed. Yet thankfully I can't recall any of it is done in a way that comes off as showy, elitist, or hard to follow (if for example, you're like me and admittedly haven't watched hardly any of the Clone Wars).  Additionally, here and there, there were some scenes or lines that didn't quite hit the mark for me personally, one minor set of changes from "Legends" handmaiden ages irked me a bit (we had so little to cling to ok! lol), frustration at already established lore (such as Panaka and Clovis, which EKJ can’t help), and other things that were simply just creative choices of the author (which of course happens for me with almost every Star Wars spin-off). 



Regarding the last point, that was the only other occurrence where I put the book willingly down, this time because I needed to get some space—to process something I decidedly didn't like. It was about midway through the book regarding a particular minor storyline. I don't want to spoil, but I will say it involved a new character that, for me, was taking up too much room in a book that already had plenty of amazing characters I wanted to spend more time with. I just felt he wasn’t exactly needed, or that others easily could've substituted his place and it would've been more meaningful to the lore.  These critiques are relatively minor however, and most of them are easy to move beyond, especially when I consider the bigger picture, and the majority of scenes, quotable lines, and pivotal interactions in Queen's Shadow that do seamlessly work. Those more than make up for the handful of things I struggled with.

 Ultimately, it is very apparent this novel was noticeably, lovingly, and carefully crafted by a Prequel fan, a Padmé fan, a Handmaiden fan. For this I'm deeply thankful, because it's easy to imagine if it wasn't—How poorly or sloppily Padmé could've been mischaracterized or the possible omission and/or confusion regarding the handmaidens… The latter of which BOTH the revered Dave Filoni and Timothy Zahn are woefully guilty of, (full offense). It hits me sometimes how so much damage could've been done were this in less capable, less attentive hands, with an author that would've cared less. EKJ clearly cared a lot. Minor issues aside, that's really what mattered most to me, at the root of it. So I'm very glad.



The more open minded you go in, the more you will enjoy Queen's Shadow, and (I say this for myself, as much as for anyone else who can relate) we can still make space for and enjoy our old head canons alongside to the new lore, or even mesh them together... I admittedly struggled a few times, but I definitely enjoyed reading it overall, particularly all the scenes on Naboo (and another planet that will go unnamed for now)... 

If you love Padmé, the handmaidens, Naboo culture, prequel politics—this book is a must read. The more time that passes, and as I reflect back, the more I feel that Queen's Shadow is a fitting tribute to Padmé and our handmaidens, let alone the prequel era itself. Queen's Shadow will be comfortably situated on my bookshelf beside our other established classics: Queen Amidala's Journal and Queen's Amulet, and I’m looking forward to revisiting it again when the audiobook comes out (holy heck we're finally gonna hear almost all the handmaiden names pronounced??! Have we been saying them "correct" all these years?? Stay tuned lmao...) I'll probably be posting my spoiler thoughts on Queen's Shadow after the book's release on March 5, 2019. Pre-orders are available online, though I really recommend purchasing it at your local independent book store if you can, and/or requesting your local libraries get a copy! Please share your own pictures/thoughts/reviews on here, twitter, instagram etc. and tag it. We gotta encourage Disney to give us more, because this book definitively ends with an invitation for a sequel or spin off of some sort, and I, a bit desperately, want it!!  The more we can support Queen's Shadow with the language Disney knows best ($$ and exposure) the better chance of future Padmé and handmaiden content, and they deserve it!! All of it—books, comics, Disney+ streaming miniseries, video games—Give them the legacy Rogue Squadron got. It's their time.



Again, thank you so much E.K. Johnston for creating this beautiful book, and going out of your way to provide me a copy. I'll always treasure that moment when I got that surprise package in the mail, a book nearly 20 years in the waiting. I was 12 years old again, that snowy day on my porch.



Can't wait to read everyone's thoughts. MTFBWY. ✨✨✨

Thank you for reading,

@handmaidensofnaboo​

❦

♕ Pre Order Queen's Shadow 

♕ Purchase Queen’s Shadow at your local independent bookstore

♕ Follow author E.K. Johnston: website | twitter | instagram | tumblr

♕ Follow cover artist Tara C. Philips: website | twitter | instagram | tumblr

[callboxkat]

Infinitesimal (part 23)

Author’s note: The posting schedule for this will probably continue to be a bit spotty. I am a college senior who is very, very busy and StressedTM. I’m still going to try to stick to every Monday but it may not work out that way. Also--while no one on this site has done it yet, I wanted to request that you please kindly refrain from criticizing me for having a life. Fanfic is something I write in my free time, which I often simply do not have. I do it because I enjoy it. I don’t get paid for it. I don’t HAVE to write any of this. All complaining about ‘long’ waits does is make me less motivated to write, and more likely to make people wait even longer--which really isn’t fair to the people who aren’t acting entitled. Besides, writing stops being fun when you feel like you have to do it; and consequentially, it can decline a lot in quality. I want to post things I can feel proud of and enjoy creating! TL;DR, don’t be a jerk.

Again, it isn’t anyone one this site (yet), so you guys just keep being awesome! Thank you for being supportive, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Warnings: Talk of illness, injury, and sleep deprivation. Food mention. Worry. 

Word count: 1180

Masterpost in the notes!

...

Virgil lay in the dark, Patton held gently in his arms, his head tucked in so his forehead rested against Virgil’s collarbone. Virgil was pretty sure he was asleep. He hadn’t moved in a while.

Virgil felt a little guilty about their argument—he truly hadn’t meant to upset Patton—but the fact that Patton seemed to be growing complacent made him nervous. Especially so because of Patton’s plan to stick around for a while longer. Littles couldn’t let their guard down around humans. It didn’t matter that this pair had apparently helped Patton; they could turn on him at any moment. Virgil had heard enough stories, and he knew firsthand how dangerous humans could be without even trying. Even if Patton was right about their intentions—and that was a big if—who was to say that the humans wouldn’t hurt him on accident? They were so huge and clumsy, it wouldn’t take much.

If Patton did get hurt, it would be decidedly Virgil’s fault. And yet, if he made Patton leave and something happened to Emile… that possibility was too petrifying to think about.

A soft sigh caught his attention. Virgil turned his head to look at his friend as best he could, but Patton didn’t seem to have woken up, just shifting in his arms. Adjusting his hold on the other little, Virgil looked forward again at the dark room around them, blinking drowsily. He hoped Patton was having a good dream.

Virgil himself was quite tired. He’d been worrying over Emile for days now, barely sleeping, and he hadn’t eaten much since their supply had really begun to dwindle. Now that Emile was starting to get better and Virgil had a full stomach for the first time in a long time (maybe ever?), that exhaustion was really catching up to him.

He knew that he really should go home and try to get some sleep, but at the moment he felt unmotivated to move. He was tired enough that it seemed like far too much effort. Besides, he didn’t want to disturb Patton. It wasn’t that late at night yet anyway—he still had plenty of time to leave.

…

Patton stirred sleepily. Virgil must not have left yet, since Patton could still feel his arms wrapped securely around him, warm and comforting. Patton hummed and lifted his head slightly, opening his eyes.

Wait… why was it so light in the room?

He looked up, and his gaze fell on the little in front of him. Virgil’s eyes were shut, his face relaxed. He’d fallen asleep. Patton felt a warmth grow in his chest, but it was quickly overshadowed by concern. Judging by the light of the room, it wouldn’t be long until Logan got up. Virgil shouldn’t be here!

“Virgil,” he whispered urgently, bringing his hand up to gently shake his shoulder. He got no response, so he tried again, shaking just a bit harder. Virgil groaned at that, his eyelids squeezing shut before they flickered open.

“Hnn?” he mumbled, sounding confused.

“You fell asleep,” Patton whispered.

Virgil’s dark eyes widened and rushed to sit up, inadvertently pulling the blankets off of Patton in the process. Patton could read the terror in his gaze, and he sat up too, putting his hands on Virgil’s arms.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he whispered quickly. “You still have time. Logan won’t come in without knocking. Okay?” he let Virgil go with an encouraging look.

Virgil got to his feet, wincing as he put too much weight on his bad foot in his haste, and grabbed for his crutches. He hurriedly tied them to his back and scrambled to the corner of the table. He and Patton briefly made eye contact before Virgil disappeared over the edge.

Meanwhile, Patton could hear movement. A door opened and closed, and there was a clink of plates and silverware. It sounded like Logan was moving around the kitchen. He pushed his blankets aside and moved to look over the edge of the table, listening apprehensively as he watched Virgil descend. The other little was climbing down the table leg as fast as he could, but Patton could tell even from up here how frustrated he was at not being able to go faster.

Virgil was about to hop down onto the floor when Logan’s precise knocks echoed through the room, causing both littles to practically jump out of their skin. Virgil started so bad that he fell down the short distance to the floor. Patton winced. He waved frantically for Virgil to go despite the fact that the other little wasn’t looking up at him.

Even if Patton was beginning to suspect that the humans didn’t have bad intentions, the thought of them finding Virgil was undeniably frightening. He wasn’t sure what would happen. What if they decided that Virgil couldn’t be alone? What if they tried to keep him here, to ‘protect’ him, just because of his disability? What if they became angry that Patton hadn’t told them about him? It wasn’t as if Patton was even sure that they weren’t bad humans—he could have been wrong. Were that the case, not only would Virgil then suffer for his mistake, but Patton would lose his only chance to escape.

These thoughts all ran through his head in the second between Logan’s knocking and his quiet call of, “Patton? Are you awake?”

Patton covered his mouth, staying silent, watching Virgil hurry towards the wall. He was almost there, he noted in relief.

“Patton?” Logan called again. “May I come in?”

Patton still remained silent—instead, he watched until Virgil disappeared behind the portion of the window curtain that trailed down to the floor. Only when he was sure he was gone did Patton go back over to his pile of blankets and throw them haphazardly over himself.

“Y-yes,” he finally called out, trying to make it seem like he had just woken up. Apparently, he failed miserably: Logan’s face softened in concern the moment he entered the room and laid eyes on him.

“Is everything alright, Patton?” he asked.

Patton nodded, perhaps a little too quickly, not trusting himself to not stammer even worse than before. Virgil was safe, he had gotten away—perhaps never even in any real danger to begin with—but Patton’s nerves were still on edge.

He thought he saw Logan’s eyes narrow slightly, but before he could be sure, the human was setting a saucer on the table near him. It held some cut up bits of fruit and part of a hardboiled egg.

“My apologies for the egg being cold,” Logan said, as if that were something Patton cared about. “I made them last night, as I am rather short on time this morning. However, before I go—do you need anything? Your well-being is more important than my timeliness.”

Patton shook his head ‘no’, doing his best to seem calm about it.

Logan paused, but he nodded and finally left. As the apartment door clicked shut, Patton released a breath that he hadn’t known he was holding.

...

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