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g3tosugu · 5 months

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can’t get enough

wriothesley x f!reader

wc: 1.7k

cw: reader is neglecting their health, fainting and i think that's it, but please do tell me if i missed one!

synopsis: you pick up an extra shift at Cafe Lutece but, it proves to be too much on your body as you continue neglecting your needs and Wriothesley is there to figure out why.

a/n: eeek! first post hope u like it :3c i've never written genshin stuff before which is why this is kinda short lol so please forgive me if it's not that good!!

Picking up another shift at Cafe Lutece whilst you were in the middle of prepping and training to begin work at the Fortress of Meropide was probably not the best decision you have ever made in your life. You could have easily quit your job or asked for more leniency with your scheduling and Arouet would surely understand if you explained the situation you were in. The only issue with that was you didn't want to also put him in the tight spot of having to find a replacement, especially since the Cafe was already short staffed at the current time. And now, you have decided to overwork yourself more.

The place was absolutely jam packed with people. There was a pretty intensive trial that was held today and the people who attended were starving and eager to chat about the turnout of the trial over a meal. You're not sure why you set yourself up for disappointment when you convinced yourself it wouldn't be too busy because of the rain. Instead of being a nice regular 8 hour shift, you instead were met with a very busy and never ending 10 hour shift. When you arrived an hour earlier to the Cafe today you had no idea that extra hour of leisure time was going to be something that was so vital. Too late now. You finish your shift as efficiently as you possibly could with what little energy you had left in your system.

As you exited the building, you were met by Arouet who had been out saying his farewells to the final customers of the evening. "Thank you so much again for all your help today Y/n! I really don't know what I would have done without you" he thanked you with a warm smile. You tried your best to muster a more enthusiastic response, but all you could bring yourself to do is give him a tired smile and say "Don't worry about it, boss. It's my pleasure to help you as you have helped me by giving me this job".

When you moved to Fontaine from your home of Monstadt you didn't have anything. Sure, you had your bag you had packed with things of sentimental value and some clothing but, that was it. You couldn't even bring mora with you because you had none to your name due to never having to work back in Monstadt. Your family had always taken care of you. So when you were telling them about you moving so far away, they tried to give you basic starter funds but you declined. You even lied and told them you had some mora saved from doing favors and chores for other people (usually older people) just so they wouldn't worry further. With your lack of job experience and no funds or place to go, Arouet saw how determined you were to make the most out of your situation and decided to give you a job as a waitress.

Arouet studied your face for a moment before giving a sympathetic smile. "You look like you could use a nice relaxing evening and you deserve it. Go home and be safe and please take the day off tomorrow" he gently patted your shoulder. The sudden contact and thought that you get a whole day off the next day made you perk up a little more, "Oh, thank you so much, boss! I will and same to you as well, of course. I just have somewhere to stop and then I will go home for the night".

The first few times you entered the Fortress of Meropide it was a very nerve wracking experience. You had no idea if it was a rowdy and rugged environment or a serious and strict one. But, you soon realized it wasn't as horrific and terrible as you initially thought it would be. Regardless, it was still to be considered a dangerous environment. Thankfully, with Wriothesley around, you never felt like you needed to worry.

As the guards walked you up to the large metal doors to the Duke's office, you heard a familiar voice call out to you from the cafeteria area. "Y/n! Wait!" she ran up to you enthusiastically. "Hello Sigewinne" you patted the half Melusine girl on the head and smiled at her. "What are you doing here? I didn't think you were stopping by since you seemed to be working late" she smiled up at you, but everything started to feel fuzzy. Your eyelids became harder to keep open, your vision was going in and out of focus and you started seeing spots. "Y/n?" Sigewinne called out to you, worried by your lack of response and the way you were looking physically. Before you could give her the reassurance you so desperately wanted to, you collapsed to the ground.

"Y/n! Oh no..." Sigewinne quickly walked to your side and began trying to rouse you awake. The guards that were with you quickly clamored around you to protect you from any onlookers. In the midst of the sudden event, the loud metal doors to the Dukes office opened and out came Wriothesley. "What's all the commotion out here about?", his eyes searched for just a split second before they landed on Sigewinne standing over your unconscious form with a very troubled look on her face. "Everyone move" Wriothesley ordered the guards and they immediately met his demand in return. He quickly knelt down and picked you up bridal style and started carrying you towards his office. "Wait! We need to take her to the infirmary so I can perform a proper check up!" Sigewinne tried to stop him. "You can treat her in here can't you? I don't want her out here. I want to be able to keep an eye on her" his gaze was serious and his jaw was set. He was clearly fully intent on doing this, so Sigewinne just sighed and nodded in response as she followed him into his office.

Your eyes fluttered open and you searched around your environment to try and decipher where you had ended up. Wriothesley's office. "You're awake?" you heard Wriothesley rise from his chair and walk around his desk. You slowly began to sit up and when your eyes met his, you looked away in embarrassment. You knew Sigewinne checked your condition and told him you were neglecting your needs. You had hardly eaten and you weren't sleeping a full night's rest for the past week. His eyes said it all to you. He was disappointed.

After a moment of you avoiding looking at him while also feeling his own gaze piercing right through you, you sighed. "You're disappointed in me" you looked down at your hands in your lap. "Disappointed?" his face had confusion present on it but, you fail to see it as you are still too afraid to look him in the eyes. "Oh no, I've probably frightened Sigewinne terribly, I should go show her I'm alright" you try to quickly excuse yourself from the situation. "I don't think so" Wriothesley firmly but gently grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him so he could swiftly lift you onto his desk, his palms planted firmly on the desk at your sides, effectively caging you in. You're still looking away from him. "Come on sweetheart, look at me. Please?" his voice soft in a way to show you that he isn't upset with you.

You slowly raised your head and finally met his eyes. He looked at you in a way that made you feel like you were the answer to all problems in the world. Like you were something precious and sacred. "There she is" he smiled warmly. The smile you gave in response wasn't one the same warmth in return, it was an apologetic one. "You've been overworking yourself, haven't you?" he tried to coax you to explain yourself. You nodded, "I took an extra shift at Cafe Lutece today while I've been prepping to become a nurse here". "Oh? You're going to be working here? How was I not made aware of this?" he asked as he finally moved away from you to fold his arms across his chest.

The guilty expression on your face made him let out a soft, "Y/n...". "I told Monsieur Neuvillette to keep it a secret because I was afraid you wouldn't allow me to pursue it" you admitted. "I see" he nodded and sighed. "Well, I just want to say first and foremost" he moved toward you again and placed a tender kiss on the top of your head, "I'm not disappointed in you. Not for what happened today or for keeping this secret from me" he reassured. "I also want you to know that you can do whatever you want. I don't ever want you to consider my own thoughts if you are going to put them above your own. At that point my feelings don't entirely matter do they? You are free to do as you please" he gently lifted your chin with his hand so you could look at him again.

"Besides, you act like I wouldn't want to see this gorgeous face everytime I come into work" he grinned as he removed his hand from your chin. You smiled the first genuine happy smile all day. "If you don't mind me asking, why do you want to be a nurse down here?" he asked as he took your hand in his to help you steadily hop down from his desk. "Well, I would love to work with Sigewinne of course. You know I adore her and I know she could teach me a lot of things. Her point of view in life is always so fascinating and wonderful to me as well" you went on to explain. As you went on, Wriothesley just had the most lovesick expression plastered on his face and you made note of it. "And don't act like I don't want to see your gorgeous face everyday when I come to work" you use his own words on him with a grin. He chuckled and shook his head "You're a very dangerous woman". "Hmm, maybe I've just been around you too much" you joke. Instead of laughing in response with you, he pulled you against him by your waist. "I don't know about you, but you could never be around me too much" his eyes studied every detail of your face, "No, matter of fact. I can't get enough of you sweetheart".

#genshin x reader #genshin fluff #genshin imagines #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley fluff

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destinyc1020 · 2 months

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Sunday confessions

This is the tweet that sparked it off for me:

https://twitter.com/carolinerenard_/status/1772686529527160858?t=bIg9VXTGmPmGs9Cr7EYaiw&s=19

This is going to be a silly confession because I genuinely feel this topic is a dead horse, but my concern is of the mental health of stans in this aprt of the Internet, so here it goes. Some solo Tom fans are not really fans of who he is, but what they want him to be.

There is a blog who I dont want to mention cause I feel that they are entitled to their opinions, who seem very frustrated that Tom is allegedly doing SM4 and that fans aren't outraged with the fact his career isn't being steamrolled into prestige cinema outside the machine of MCU.

These fans are similar to CE fans, no shade.

I can understand the frustration cause Chris Evans fans also were in annoyance with the state of his career, post MCU. Chris Evans fans also hate his wife too so there's that, lol. Some Tom fans dislike the fact that he is just with Z and has no identity outside of it other than being a bf. Valid to some degree.

Now, let's bring some reality back into this. Stans need to understand that they don't know what Tom doing behind the scenes. They don't know what's in his head or his personal feelings. That tweet I linked was a very good observation in Stan culture cause some fans genuinely believe that Tom's accomplishments and actions are linked to them. It's a scary position to be cause now you are on the Internet spewing negativity towards tomdayas or anyone who celebrates their relationship and are in bubble cause you all lack nuance.

To be fair, Tom isn't taken seriously as an actor. Him doing a play is the best way to be taken seriously cause the theatre is the actors medium. He signed to do a 4th film for the MCU. You can't blame anyone but him for that. He's grown and is gonna do what he wants. If you don't like it, unstan. There are plenty of yt male actors who are doing prestigious films and Oscar buzz films to stan. The thing is you can't cause let's be honest we all love Tom and there's something about him that you can't help but root for.

He likes pics of Z, he even likes pics where he's just the photographer for Z. He lives tomdayas pics. He personally loves that role.

You have to meet ppl where they are at not what you want them to be. You have these high standards for a stranger, I can only imagine what you expect for ppl in your everyday life. Probably more leniency.

Pls stan culture is meant to be fun!!! Don't internalise or jump into conclusions or conspiracy due to what you don't know. Judge want you actually know through facts. And get help if you need it.💜

Thanks Anon for your confession. 😊

Usually, I would not say much and just appreciate your honest thoughts on this topic, but you brought up so many interesting things that I just have to comment longer on this lol... Hope you have a comfortable chair! 😅

My response below:

👇👇

First of all...Whew! Those tweets! WOW! Can I say? Completely, 100% agree. 👏🏾 This is what is at the crux of stan culture and social media addiction, and celebrity obsession.

Some solo Tom fans are not really fans of who he is, but what they want him to be.

I agree. I think there are SOME fans of Tom who are truly genuinely fans of his, but they want his career to look a different way, or to be what THEY want it to be, instead of just letting go of control, being a passive fan, and allowing his career to be whatever it's going to be.

One thing about me is that I'm usually a passive fan of whoever I'm a fan of. While I would love my faves to do certain roles, I'm not out here getting angry or upset if they aren't doing roles that I personally would love to see them do. I just go with the flow. I'm happy whenever I hear of a new project announcement for one of my faves, and I let things go!

First off, everyone is entitled to their own opinions.... With that said, maybe Tom has already done "prestigious cinema" as a younger guy, and now he wants to do more of a variety of roles. Did that thought ever occur to people?

I can understand the frustration cause Chris Evans fans also were in annoyance with the state of his career, post MCU. Chris Evans fans also hate his wife too so there's that, lol.

Hey now....not ALL of us Chris Evans fans out here are hating on him and his career, or hate on his wife lol. 😅 I, for one, would like to see him get out of the "Marvel Bubble" and have more substantial roles in the future, but I'm not upset with the work that he's BEEN getting during and post-Marvel. I just enjoy seeing him in whatever new venture/project that he has coming out?? 😅

Also, Idk much about Alba, but aside from the age gap and the fact that she looks like a KID lol, I AM actually very happy for Chris and Alba and their marriage. She seems very sweet, and she seems to make him very happy. 🥰 I love that for him! ❤️ Everyone deserves love. 🥰

Some Tom fans dislike the fact that he is just with Z and has no identity outside of it other than being a bf. Valid to some degree.

I do think there's some validity to this...as I've mentioned this before myself.

Stans need to understand that they don't know what Tom doing behind the scenes. They don't know what's in his head or his personal feelings.

Exactly! I agree with this 100%.

He's grown and is gonna do what he wants. If you don't like it, unstan

There are plenty of yt male actors who are doing prestigious films and Oscar buzz films to stan. The thing is you can't cause let's be honest we all love Tom and there's something about him that you can't help but root for. He likes pics of Z, he even likes pics where he's just the photographer for Z. He lives tomdayas pics. He personally loves that role.

Okay.... I'm sorry, but I have to vent here for a second.

Whew...Where do I begin?

Don't get me wrong, I think it's cute, adorable, and lovely that Tom is so supportive of Z, and some of the cute things they do in their relationship is just really adorable and makes us all believe in love again. 🥰

The PROBLEM that I'm seeing though is that Tom isn't autonomous from his relationship and his career. It's cool that fans want to stan Tom because of his cute "boyfriend" behaviors, but Tom is first and FOREMOST an A-C-T-O-R. An actor should be admired for their career and their WORK, NOT their relationship. The relationship is just the icing on the cake (imo). 🤷🏾‍♀️

I think the problem is that some stans are mainly associating Tom with his relationship, and aren't really giving credit to his career and his work. That's demoralizing imo. Any actor that you are a fan of should be admired primarily because of their work. Who they are as a person, and any "boyfriend" behavior is like secondary and just icing on the cake imo. Granted, you're not going to be a "stan" over every good actor out here, and I get it. But Tom isn't some "TV Personality" or "reality star" or "influencer". So his relationship shouldn't be taking precedence over his acting career imo. He's an ACTOR first and foremost. Jmho. 🤷🏾‍♀️

To be fair, Tom isn't taken seriously as an actor. Him doing a play is the best way to be taken seriously cause the theatre is the actors medium

I'm sorry, but I wholeheartedly disagree with this. Tom IS taken seriously in the industry as an actor. He wouldn't have gotten the role in "Cherry", "TCR", "TDATT", Romeo & Juliet, or be considered by Sam Mendes for "1917" if he weren't taken seriously as an actor in Hollywood. He wouldn't have been nominated for a Critic's Choice Award this year if he weren't.

Please don't take this the wrong way, but some of you all really need to get off of FilmBro Twitter and come back to reality.

I agree. 😊

Being a fan of someone should be fun! If it's not, then you either need to reevaluate who you're stanning, OR, make adjustments to your viewing habits or expectations of said actor. Jmho

#sunday confession #confession sunday #sorry for the long dissertation

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ren-c-leyn · 2 years

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Hey ren I have a favor to ask you, don't worry it's not much.

The thing is that I've been getting really disgusted by my own work I posted on Tumblr. Not posted it even though I was bugged by it disgusted, so disgusted I want to maul it to a bloody pulp with my bare hands and weep over it's corpse. Honestly I feel like beginners leniency has made me half ass too much to salvage much even with the obsidian expedition guild.

I'm gonna nuke all my work and you were kinda the only person that regularly engaged with my writing blog so could you stick around while I rebuild? I just wanna see what you think. And don't worry about the expedition guild it will be probably the only thing I redo instead of just killing it.

Sorry for the overdramatic sounding ask but I wanted to make sure you knew what was going on. Have a good day my friend

I'm sorry to hear you've hit a bit of a wall with your projects :/ That's always frustrating. I do hope the redoing of your tumblr stories goes well for you, though. Now that you know something about it wasn't working for you, hopefully you'll find a better path for it <3

I'm on a semi-hiatus so my presence around here will be spotty, but I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with. Your worlds are crazy and weird and creative and interesting ^^

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rowansparrow · 3 years

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Juke Box Hero: A Rose Story

This is SO STUPID LMAO But I hope you guys like it anyway. I’m back on my bullshit and I am here to provide you with a little story based off THIS POST. Anon, thank you for your service, because this was very, very fun.

This snippet takes place during Chapter Seven of BAON, during the flashback when Reader is meeting Rex for the first time and Rose and Co. are stuck cleaning up the barracks. You don’t necessarily have to have read it for this to make sense, but the right context might be neat.

Also, for timeline purposes/in BAON, Tup and Dogma technically never met Rose, as they weren’t part of the 501st before he died, but I’m including them in this because I make the rules and I wanted to.

Also Denal’s here because I think he’s a funky dude and deserves more content.

The clones deserve to dance and have fun and who’s gonna write them doing that if it ain’t me?

Rating: Mature-ish? There are some dirty jokes and swearing but mostly it’s Just fun shenanigans with Rose and Bros.

(Also I spent a TON of time picking everyone’s songs so pls tell me what you think of my selections lmao).

I’m tagging everyone from the BAON tag list in case you’re interested. Enjoy!

In retrospect, perhaps Rose should have put a stop to the loth cat situation – or as Hardcase called it, Operation: P.U.S.S.Y. He claimed it was an abbreviation for “Petting Unusually Sweet Strays, Yeah!”

“You have to call it something else.” Rose had said at the time, staring at the loth cat cradled protectively in Hardcase’s arms.

“But you’re not saying no?” Hardcase prompted eagerly, already bouncing lightly on his heels.

“Just…” Rose pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just… clean up after it? And if it breaks anything, it’s on you, and for the love of Force, don’t get caught.”

Now, as the Lieutenant surveyed the disarray that had befallen the barracks, and the company of very disgruntled subordinates, he was reconsidering his earlier leniency.

“I feel as the acting SIC, you’re the one who should be taking the flak for this, not the entire company.” Jesse grumbled, glaring at Lieutenant Rose over his shoulder as he scrubbed at the floor of the barracks.

“Don’t look at me. I’m not the one who brought a pregnant loth-cat into the barracks in the first place.” Rose replied, straightening up for a moment where he’d been hunched over, his back cracking as he moved.

“Well, you didn’t fight me very hard on it!” Hardcase protested. “And I didn’t know Beans was pregnant at the time! I didn’t even know she was a girl!”

His explanation only earned him several slugs to the arm from nearby vode.

“And just because I’m second-in-command does not make me exempt from the Captain’s wrath.” Rose added. “You didn’t get the dressing-down, you just have to carry out the punishment with me.”

“Hang on, I thought we agreed the cat’s name was going to be Road Rash?” Coric asked.

“That’s unladylike.” Said Denal. “And rude. She can’t help her scars.”

“And Beans is ladylike?” Jesse raised an eyebrow.

“She likes it! And her kits looked like beans when they came out too!”

Rose shook his head fondly at his men as they bickered. At least they weren’t complaining anymore.

In truth, he was surprised the situation had been managed as long as it had been. They’d lasted almost a full three weeks without anyone figuring out they were hiding a cat in the barracks. Of course, the kittens made it much harder, and they could only hide them in overturned helmets during inspections for so many days before the helmets started to mewl.

And once Beans threw a tantrum over not having her kits with her, it was game over. She’d knocked over an entire can of armor paint in her wrath, and blue pawprints and large paint puddles coated the durasteel of the barracks, and a few of the bunks had claw and bite marks in the fabric.

“It’ll take us an hour, maybe more, to clean this whole mess up.” Fives complained, looking around the barracks forlornly. He had a nasty scratch just under his eye from finally snatching Beans up in her rampage. “Kriff. I was excited to go out tonight.”

“Not to mention after we finish here the Captain said we had to go take over latrine and canteen detail from other battalions.”

“Then I guess you better get scrubbing.” Kix said absently, thumbing through medical requisition forms on his datapad and sitting cross-legged on one of the few bunks that didn’t have blue paw prints streaked across it.

“Why aren’t you helping? You’re part of the company too.” Echo said. “Fives and I are ARC troopers, if anyone here should be exempt from company-wide punishments, it’s us.”

“I’m not helping because I didn’t participate.” Kix replied, not looking up from his ‘pad.

“The kark you didn’t, you delivered the kits!” Fives snapped.

“Well, Captain Rex didn’t catch me, so.”

“That’s because you went and hid in the medbay and didn’t warn the rest of us he was coming.” Tup muttered under his breath.

“Not true. I sent Jesse a comm.” Kix said, finally looking up only to shrug and return to his work. “Which he didn’t check, and that’s not my fault.”

“It doesn’t matter who was involved and who wasn’t involved.” Dogma piped up. “Clearly, because if it did, I wouldn’t be here either.”

“We know.” Said Jesse and Fives in unison.

Rose sighed, his eyes drifting forlornly to his bunk. He spotted his footlocker sticking halfway out from underneath the durasteel, and he lit up. He opened it quickly, pulling out a beat-up radio he’d gotten at a market stall during one of his first deployments. He’d had to trade a droid popper and half his rations for it – Rex had not been pleased about it when he found out – but it was worth the two-day latrine rotation he’d gotten as punishment.

He’d already downloaded several songs off the HoloNet, along with a few channel recordings of past BoloBall games. Even if he knew who won them, it was still something to listen to on long stints on cruisers.

“What’cha doing, Lieutenant?” Tup asked, peeking around the corner as Rose straightened back up, fumbling with the little radio for a moment and propping it up on one of the bunks so the music could fill the whole room.

“No. NO! No.” Jesse jabbed a finger at the Lieutenant as he saw him set up the radio. “No. Absolutely not. I have had enough of your osik-brained, Force-forsaken, whack-ass music to last me a lifetime.”

Kix chuckled, rolling his eyes at the other trooper. “You listen exclusively to electronic dance music. Even when we aren’t at 79s. You have no room to talk.”

“This is better than that.” Rose promised, dialing up the volume. “This is the kind of stuff you’d find on the jukebox at Dex’s Diner.” He grinned. Dex was personal friends with General Kenobi, and was one of the few Coruscant establishments that was friendly to clones, as long as they behaved themselves. Rose had gone there with his brothers a handful of times, and even Anakin had dragged his Padawan Ahsoka, Rose, and Rex along once.

“You have a radio?” Dogma frowned. “Isn’t that contraband, sir?”

“Relax, it’s an old prewar-era radio, it’s not hurting anything.” Fives drawled, knocking Dogma lightly on the shoulder. “What’re you gonna play, sir?”

“Let’s see…” Rose filtered through his downloads, and grinned wider, pressing play.

Immediately, soft music rang through the barracks, and Jesse smacked his head against the bunk, groaning loudly.

“I’m begging you, Lieutenant.” Jesse said. “I’m begging.”

Rose was already swaying his hips, bending over to grab Jesse by the chin.

“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair, warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air.” Rose serenaded him.

Jesse swatted Rose’s hand away, and Rose turned, swinging around on the side of the bunk and pointing to Fives this time. “Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light. My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to stop for the night.”

Fives grinned, joining in even as he stumbled slightly over the words.

“There she stood in the doorway. I heard the mission bell and I was thinking to myself, this could be Heaven or this could be Hell.”

Kix was drumming his fingers on his datapad, nodding along and singing under his breath.

“Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way. There were voices down the corridor, I thought I heard them say…”

“This is too slow.” Echo griped, rising to his feet and stepping over Dogma, who was still stubbornly scrubbing away at the barrack floors and refusing to engage even as the rest of the clones began quietly singing along with the chorus.

The ARC Trooper fiddled with the dial for a moment, scrolling through Rose’s music and selecting another song, already grinning as the chanting started through the speakers and eventually rippled through the ranks of the 501st.

“STOP.” Jesse barked, trying to kick Fives as the other ARC trooper hopped to his feet, stomping his feet and chanting along. “STOP, I HATE THIS ONE!”

Rose and Hardcase were chanting too, and Coric had started clapping his hands on an overturned bucket, a few shinies clapping their hands together as Echo shook his ass, kama swaying as he climbed up onto a nearby table. He scooped up a mop, pulling the handle to his mouth.

“I can’t stop this feeling, deep inside of me.” He pointed to Kix, grinding against the handle. “Girl, you just don’t realize what you do to me.”

Kix gave him the finger, and Echo pointed to Fives, who was still chanting with the others but was now holding up his helmet, recording the whole thing. Echo amped up his performance.

“When you hold me in your arms so tight, you let me know everything’s alright. I’m hooked on a feeling!”

Tup whooped from where he’d moved to sit on one of the bunks. Dogma shot him a nasty look, which he ignored in favor of watching Echo strut on the table.

“I’m high on believing that you’re in love with me. Lips as sweet as candy, its taste is on my mind. Girl you got me thirsty for another cup of wine.”

“Wait, wait, wait, I have a good one.” Fives shoved his helmet at Hardcase, letting him take over recording as he scrambled to the radio, quickly turning the dial once again and elbowing Echo off the table as fast, loud, angry guitars shredded through the barracks.

Jesse seemed to perk up just slightly, and any of the 501st troopers who were still trying to actually clean – save for Dogma – had abandoned their supplies and had elected to dance instead, crowding the table and forming a makeshift mosh pit.

Fives was nothing if not a showman, and when he snatched the mop from Echo, he performed.

“When I get high, I get high on speed. Top fuel funny car’s a drug for me, my heart! My heart! Kickstart my heart!”

He stomped his foot hard on the table, flipping his head back and running one hand messily through his hair.

“Always got the cops coming after me, custom-built bike doing 103, my heart! My heart! Kickstart my heart!”

Rose laughed, watching as Fives looked at the helmet Hardcase was hoisting up over the crowd, singing into the camera and rolling his shoulders back.

“Ooh, are ya ready, girls? Ooh, are you ready now? Woah, yeah! Kickstart my heart, baby give it a start. Woah, yeah! Baby! Kickstart my heart, hope it never stops. Woah, yeah, baby yeah!”

The clones joined him for the chorus, and then Fives dropped to his knees like he’d seen rockers do on the HoloNet, high fiving the nearest vode. Dogma was still stubbornly trying to clean up the barracks, but had moved on to one of the far corners, only giving the rest of his battalion the occasional side-eye.

“Skydive naked from an aeroplane, or a lady with a body from outer space, my heart. My heart! Kickstart my heart.” He wiggled his hips as he straightened back up, biting his lip through a grin and dropping his hand to his hips and shaking his fist obscenely, as though he was jerking himself off.

“Say I got trouble, trouble in my eyes, I’m just looking for another good time, my heart. My heart! Kickstart my heart!”

Before Fives could do something else profane – or possibly attempt to crowd-surf and give Rose a handful of incident reports to fill out, the music suddenly shifted, and all heads turned to the radio.

Kix was smirking. He’d divested himself of the top half of his armor, instead electing to shimmy his way up onto the table in just the upper half of his blacks and lower armor plates. Fives exited, rejoining the crowd as Kix leveled a sultry look at the camera for just a moment before turning his back on the crowd.

“Clean shirt, new shoes, and I don’t know where I am goin’ to. Silk suit, black tie, I don’t need a reason why.”

He spun quickly, switching his grip on the mop handle as though he was holding a woman in his arms, dipping it low towards the crowd as he sang.

“They come a runnin’ just as fast as they can, ‘cos every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”

Fives and Echo were howling with laughter, and Hardcase wolf-whistled loud enough that Rose’s ears rang. Even Jesse had finally joined in, nodding his head along to the music and trying to bite back a grin. Tup had left the crowd to instead attempt to pull Dogma in, and Denal had rounded up a few newer members and was trying to push them closer to the front.

Kix unzipped the top half of his blacks, doing a slow strip-tease in time with the music.

“Gold watch, diamond ring, I ain’t missin’, not a single thing. And cufflinks, stickpin, when I step out I’mma do you in.” Kix shrugged out of his blacks and rolled his hips along the mop handle, dropping his ass low and slowly dragging himself back up, grinding against the handle.

“They come a runnin’ just as fast as they can, ‘cos every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”

Fives actually pretended to faint, falling backwards into Echo, who was laughing so hard that he fell over with him.

“ALRIGHT!” Dogma shouted over the music, elbowing his way through the crowd with Tup following anxiously behind him. Dogma firmly stopped the music, hands on his hips as he turned to face the rest of his brothers, who’d begun to boo.

“We have orders,” Dogma reminded them. “This is a punishment, not a party. When we finish here, we’re supposed to clean the shower block, and then we’re supposed to report to the mess hall and take over the canteen cleanup shifts.”

“We know the orders, Dogma.” Rose said, putting a hand on the younger trooper’s shoulder. “There’s no harm in having fun while you work.”

“I’m the only one still working.” Dogma grumbled.

“Alright, alright, we’ll turn it low for now, and we’ll finish up in here, then we can bring the radio with us when we move to the refreshers and canteen. Fair?” He asked, turning to the rest of the men. There were a few muttered responses, and Rose raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite make that out.” He said. “We are cleaning this mess up, correct gentlemen?”

“Sir yes sir!” They all answered quickly, hurrying back to work.

Rose chuckled, shifting the music to something a little calmer, the gentle piano wafting through the barracks as they continued to clean up.

Denal’s head perked up as soon as he heard the piano start, and while he didn’t climb up onto the table like his brothers had, he smiled to himself, turning back towards the spot he was scrubbing and singing to the durasteel floor.

“I'm sailing away. Set an open course for the Virgin Sea.”

Echo hummed, closing his eyes and rocking back on his heels for a moment, listening to his older vod croon.

“'Cause I've got to be free. Free to face the life that's ahead of me.” Denal continued, his voice soft but steady. “On board I'm the captain, so climb aboard. We'll search for tomorrow on every shore and I'll try, oh Lord I'll try… to carry on.”

Somebody whistled, a few scattered claps ringing through the barracks. Coric picked up where Denal left off.

“I look to the sea, reflections in the waves spark my memory. Some happy some sad.” He sang. “I think of childhood friends, and the dreams we had.”

Tup glanced to Dogma, who was practically seething as he scrubbed at the same spot on the floor that he’d been working on for the past several minutes. “You like this song, don’t you, Dogma?”

“No I don’t. Shut up.”

“Join in. They won’t mind.” Tup encouraged.

“No.”

“We live happily forever, so the story goes. But somehow we missed out on that pot of gold.” Sang Coric. “But we'll try best that we can to carry on!”

The music picked up, and Jesse shot Rose a look.

“This is a deceptively fast song.” He said.

“It sneaks up on ya.” Rose chuckled.

The barracks devolved into chaos once again, the clones all screaming along to the lyrics, even the ones who didn’t know the words picked it up quickly, encouraged by their brothers.

Despite the distractions, they finally finished cleaning the barracks, and Rose plucked the radio from where he’d stashed it, leading the way down the hallway towards the refreshers. The 501st were especially rowdy in the quiet halls – most of the barracks were empty, the clones who weren’t being punished for loth-cat related shenanigans were taking advantage of the shore leave.

When they opened the door to the shower block, they encountered a few members of the 212th already in there, cleaning up.

“Pack it in, lads.” Rose announced. “We’re taking over for you.”

“What? Why?” Boil asked, leaning on a mop and raising an eyebrow. “Did you get in trouble?”

“Yes.” Hardcase replied sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“All of you?” Waxer poked his head out from inside one of the refresher stalls, Crys and Wooley pausing from where they were wiping down countertops.

“Yeah, it’s Hardcase’s fault. As usual.” Jesse said, strolling over to Boil and plucking the mop from his hands. “We’re supposed to take over your shifts.”

“Good, I was hoping to get to 79’s tonight before last call. I hear they’ve got purple spotchka.” Boil said excitedly, glancing at Waxer over his shoulder.

“We can help you finish.” Waxer said, immediately raining on his brother’s parade. “There isn’t much left to do anyway.”

“You sure?” Rose asked. “It’s technically a punishment -.”

“Nah, it’s fine, there really isn’t much left, aside from the toilets.” He grinned. “But you boys can handle those.”

“Fair enough.” Rose chuckled, nodding over his shoulder to his men. Fives, Echo, Jesse, and Hardcase were in a heated four-way battle of rock, flimsi, cutters in order to determine who had to clean the toilets first.

“What’s that?” One trooper Rose didn’t recognize asked, pointing to his hand.

“It’s a radio!” Rose said cheerfully. “I’m err… technically not supposed to have it. But we’ve been listening to music while we worked.” He set it up on the countertop. “Do you have a favorite song…?”

“Spitter.” The 212th trooper supplied helpfully.

“Spitter.” Rose repeated, chuckling to himself and wondering how the hell he’d earned that name. “Do you have a favorite song?”

“I don’t know the name of it.” The trooper admitted shyly. “But – but it’s the one they play on the hits channel all the time. I hear it playing in the admiral’s quarters on the Negotiator all the time.”

“I know that one!” Waxer said excitedly, nodding to Rose. “It’s the one Commander Cody likes. You were playing it in the hangar a few weeks ago when our flight detail overlapped.”

“I remember.” Rose smiled, and turned the song on.

Immediately, every head, including Dogma’s, perked up at the familiar tune. Fives clapped his hands together, getting them started.

“When I wake up, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you.”

The younger trooper, Spitter, lit up and followed it up.

“When I go out, yeah I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you.”

Waxer elbowed Boil, trying to get him to join in, but the other trooper shook his head and crossed his arms, rolling his eyes even as Waxer sang.

“If I get drunk, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you.”

Their voices carried through the refresher’s tiled walls, and Jesse picked up where Waxer left off.

“And if I haver, yeah I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s havering to you.”

When the chorus rolled around, everyone joined in, their voices bouncing off the walls around them.

“But I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more, just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door.”

“When I’m working,” Kix began, offering a hand to Wooley and giving him a playful spin. “Yes I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s working hard for you.”

“And when the money comes in for the work I do, I’ll pass almost every penny on to you.” Wooley laughed, shoving Kix away with a grin.

“When I come home,” Tup piped up quickly, before someone else could. “Oh, I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who comes back home to you.”

“And if I grow old,” Crys smirked, shaking his shoulders at Fives, who punched him playfully in the arms and joined in, singing the line in unison. “Well, I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s growing old with you.”

The chorus returned, and they sang with even more feeling than before, dancing and tossing their heads back, shouting along to the words and nearly drowning out the music itself as they sang.

As the final verse approached, Waxer sidled up next to Boil, giving him a hopeful look. His brother sighed, scrubbing a hand bitterly over his face and reluctantly joined in.

“When I’m lonely, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s lonely without you.” He sang.

“And when I’m dreaming,” Echo called. “Well I know I’m gonna dream, I’m gonna dream about the time when I’m with you.”

“And when I go out, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you.” Fives followed.

“And when I come home, yes I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who comes back home with you.” Denal said.

Tup took a deep breath, preparing to finish off the verse, but he was cut off.

“I’m gonna be the man who’s coming home,” Dogma’s voice was shaky as all eyes turned to him, and he finished in a squeak. “With you.”

The room erupted in cheers, Fives catching Dogma under his arm and giving him a noogie as the chorus rang out once again, everyone shouting along to the lyrics together.

When the song ended, and the cleanup was done, the 212th parted ways with the 501st, the brothers patting one another on the back and jeering affectionately at one another now that the song and dance was done.

“If you finish with everything before final call, catch up with us at 79’s.” Boil called over his shoulder. “We can give the vode there a run for their money with our rendition of that song.”

“Count on it.” Rose chuckled, giving the other company a little salute before leading his men on towards the canteen.

The canteen, blessedly, was empty, and most of it was already clean. All they really had to do was wipe everything down, mop, and then make sure the kitchen was well-prepped for the next day.

“I didn’t know you had it in ya, Dogma.” Echo said affectionately, knocking his younger vod playfully in the shoulder as they walked.

“Let’s just get this over with.” Dogma muttered, his ears burning as he pushed into the canteen, grabbing the cleaning supplies from the nearby supply closet.

“Who’s turn was it for a solo?” Fives asked, watching as Rose started to set up the radio above one of the food windows so it could project into the entire cafeteria.

“I think Dogma should go.” Kix grinned. “Now that we know he’s got some pipes.”

“Absolutely not.” Dogma said immediately, not looking up from where he was wiping down tables.

“I can go first?” Tup offered, raising his hand sheepishly. Dogma shot him another stern look, but Tup was already wandering over to the radio, moving the dial and tentatively pressing play.

Upbeat music filled the canteen, and the other troopers cheered as Fives ushered Tup over to the nearest table, boosting him up on top of it and then thrusting a mop into his hands. Hardcase was already fumbling with the helmet again, trying to get a recording as Tup tapped his foot along with the beat, nodding his head as he found his rhythm.

“I get up in the evening, and I ain’t got nothing to say. I come home in the morning, I go to bed feeling the same way.”

Fives was leading other troopers in pounding the surrounding tables in time with the drumbeats while Echo was leading another group to clap in time.

“I ain’t nothing but tired! Man, I’m just tired and bored with myself.” Tup flashed the camera a grin, reaching up and pulling his hair tie out, shaking his wild curls loose around his head. “Hey there baby, I could use just a little help.”

Jesse whistled, and Dogma had stopped cleaning and was watching his brother, the slightest smile pulling at his lips.

“You can’t start a fire, can’t start a fire without a spark. This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just dancing in the dark.”

Tup shook his hair out of his eyes, tossing his head back and jerking his hips.

“Messages keep getting clearer, radio’s on and I’m moving ‘round my place. I check my look in the mirror, wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face!”

He swayed his hips again, and Hardcase shoved the camera at Kix instead so he could join in the clapping.

“Man, I ain’t getting nowhere, I’m just living in a dump like this. There’s something happening somewhere, baby I just know that there is.”

He hopped off the table, instead taking Dogma’s hand and dragging him towards the makeshift stage.

“You can’t start a fire, you can’t start a fire without a spark. This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just dancing in the dark.”

He pushed the mop into Dogma’s hands instead, beaming at him as he scurried off the table, sprinting over to the radio and quickly changing the song.

Immediately, slow guitar started but quickly escalated into heavy drums and fast riffs. Dogma’s cheeks turned a darker shade, and he looked frantically to Tup, trying to climb back down off the stage.

“No, no, come on!” Fives shouted, trying to body block Dogma from getting down. “Come on, you got this!”

The lyrics began, and Dogma sang along, his mouth barely moving, voice almost imperceptible.

“Another head hangs lowly, child is slowly taken… and the violence caused such silence, who are we mistaken?”

“Come on!” Tup called to him. “You LOVE this song! Let ‘em hear it!”

Dogma grit his teeth, his voice gaining strength. “But you see, it’s not me, it’s not my family, in your head, in your head they are fighting.”

He stomped his foot on the table, practically snarling out the words. “With their tanks, and their bombs, and their bombs, and their guns, in your head, in your head they are crying.”

He threw his head back, and for not the first time that night, the radio was drowned out by cheers.

“In your head! In your head! Zombie, Zombie, Zombie. What’s in your head? In your head? Zombie, Zombie, Zombie!”

Dogma climbed off the table quickly, his ears and cheeks burning but a small smile was on his face, even as he was smothered by Hardcase, Fives, Tup, and Echo swarming him with hugs and rubbing his head affectionately.

Jesse climbed up onto the table next, picking up the discarded mop and clearing his throat.

“I would just like to dedicate this song to the gorgeous woman I picked up at 79s last week.” He drawled, nodding once to Kix, who was hovering knowingly by the radio. He nodded once to the helmet, which was now stationed on a nearby table, still recording. “Darling, you had the best pair of tits I have ever seen in my entire life, and you had the mouth of an angel and the coochie of a devil.”

Fives whistled, and Coric snickered. Rose rolled his eyes.

“So, babygirl, this one is for you.”

Kix turned on the radio, and Jesse grinned.

“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame. Darling, you give love a bad name.”

Guitar rang out through the mess hall, and Jesse bit his lip, rolling his hips as he leaned slightly off the edge of the table.

“An angel’s smile is what you sell, you promised me heaven then put me through hell. Chains of love got a hold on me, when passion’s a prison, you can’t break free.”

He dropped into a crouch, singing directly into the camera.

“Whoa, you’re a loaded gun, whoa, there’s nowhere to run, no one can save me, the damage is done!”

He jumped to his feet, the table shaking under him as he landed.

“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame. You give love a bad name. I play my part and you play your game, you give love a bad name!” He turned his back on the crowd, dropping low again and slowly rising, shaking his ass. “Yeah you give love…”

He looked over his shoulder, tossing the camera a wink. “…a bad name.”

The music changed abruptly, and for a moment Jesse looked pissed. “What the hell, ‘Case?”

But his expression shifted as Hardcase rushed to the table, pushing his brother out of the way and taking the mop from him. The crowd cheered all over again as Jesse climbed down, brothers slapping him on the shoulders as Hardcase’s song started up.

“We finish strong, right vode?” He asked cheekily.

“We still have to finish cleaning!” Dogma called back.

Hardcase only smirked in response, and sang quickly to keep up with the lightning fast lyrics.

“Backstroking lover always hiding ‘neath the cover, can I talk to you, my daddy say. He said, you ain’t seen nothing ‘til you’re down on a muff and then you’re sure to be a-changin’ your ways.”

He cupped his codpiece, bucking his hips forward into his own hand.

“I met a cheerleader, was a real young bleeder, all the times I can reminisce. ‘Cos the best things of lovin’ with her sister and her cousin only started with a little kiss, like this!”

He swung his arms wide, shaking his ass in time with the music and stuck his tongue out, having the time of his life.

“See-saw swingin’ with the boys in the school and your feet flyin’ up in the air. Singin’ hey diddle diddle with your kitty in the middle of the swing like you didn’t care.”

He walked backwards along the table, rolling his shoulders back as he moved.

“So I took a big chance at the high school dance with a missy who was ready to play. Wasn’t me she was foolin’ ‘cos she knew what she was doin’, and I know love is here to stay when she told me to walk this way!”

The rest of the 501st joined in with him, repeating the chorus of “Walk this way! Walk this way! Walk this way!” over and over again, Hardcase taking over again as the next verse began.

“School girl sweetie was the sassy kinda classy, little skirt’s climbing way up her knees. There was three young ladies in the school gym locker when I noticed they was lookin’ at me.”

He ran his hands along his thigh, mimicking raising a skirt.

“I was a high school loser, never made it with a lady ‘til the boys told me something I missed. Then my next-door neighbor with a daughter had a favor so I gave her just a little kiss, like this!”

“Do you think he has any idea what he’s singing about?” Kix asked Rose, leaning back against the counter and chuckling.

He watched as Hardcase went back to grabbing his own crotch, dry-humping the air and hummed.

“I’d say most likely.”

“See-saw swingin’ with the boys in the school and your feet flyin’ up in the air. Singin’ hey diddle diddle with your kitty in the middle of the swing like you didn’t care.”

Hardcase grinned, and to both Kix and Rose’s utter chagrin, Hardcase actually did dive off the makeshift stage and attempt to crowd surf.

“I’m not patching you up!” Kix shouted over the roar of the music. Rose chuckled, turning the volume nod down as the rest of the 501st shouted in protest.

“Alright, that’s enough for now.” The Lieutenant said, taking control once more. “We can listen to it quietly in the background, but we really do need to wrap up cleaning.”

“Why? Got a date tonight?” Jesse asked with a raised eyebrow. Rose punched him lightly in the arm, and they got back to work once again.

They worked in relative silence, the occasional voice humming or singing along to the music, but they remained productive right up until one of the final songs Rose had downloaded cut through the speaker. The piano wasn’t as rich-sounding as it was through a regular speaker, but even through the tinny cadence of the beat-up radio, every single trooper in the canteen bolted upright, eyebrows raised. Rose smiled knowingly, and turned up the volume once again.

Fives beamed, sitting down on top of one of the tables and laying back, one leg bent and the other stretched flat, a hand behind his head as he sang up at the ceiling.

“Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere.”

Jesse leaned back against the wall on the other side of the canteen, closing his eyes as he joined in.

“Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit. He took the midnight train going anywhere.”

Echo kept mopping, but was grinning as he picked up the next line. “A singer in a smoky room, the smell of wine and cheap perfume.”

Kix grinned. “For a smile, they can share the night, it goes on, and on, and on, and on.”

The rest of the 501st joined in together, their voices carrying in perfect harmony.

“Strangers, waiting. Up and down the boulevard, their shadows searching in the night. Streetlight people, living just to find emotion, hiding somewhere in the -.”

“Night!” Hardcase shouted, straining every muscle in his chest and neck as he struggled to reach the high note.

Tup picked up the next verse, climbing onto one of the tables and dragging Dogma up with him once again.

“Working hard to get my fill, everybody wants the thrill. Paying anything to roll the dice just one more time.”

Dogma smiled, nodding his head along to the music. “Some will win, some will lose.”

Tup threw his arm around his brother, and the two of them sang together. “Some were born to sing the blues!”

Rose’s voice carried from over by the radio. “Oh the movie never ends, it goes on and on, and on and on!”

“Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard, their shadows searching in the night. Streetlight people, living just to find emotion, hiding somewhere in the -.”

“NIGHT!” This time, it was Dogma, of all people, who rang out with the high note, and the explosion of shouts and cheers was deafening. They were screaming along to the lyrics, dancing and jumping and shouting and swaying in time with the song.

“Don’t stop believin’! Hold on to that feeling. Streetlight people! Don’t stop believin’, hold on-”

“WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!”

The booming voice was so powerful, it could be heard even over the shouts of all the clones. Echo was closest to the radio, and quickly shut it off as the song and dance stopped immediately, every clone scrambling to stand at attention.

The Jedi that filled the doorway was massive, an imposing shadow in the entrance to the canteen. He zeroed in on Tup and Dogma, who had been standing closest to the entrance, and stormed towards them.

“Who is your commanding officer?!”

“Me, sir.”

The Besalisk Jedi turned, spinning on Rose immediately. He stalked over to the Lieutenant, jabbing a meaty finger into his chest, hard enough to send him stumbling backwards.

“What is the meaning of this?” He snarled.

“Sir, we were assigned cleaning detail.” He explained. “We were just finishing up.”

The Jedi bared his teeth. “Doesn’t look like much cleaning was taking place to me.”

He surveyed the rest of the troopers, but turned his head back to Rose.

“What is your designation?”

“CT-7673.” Rose recited immediately, keeping his back ramrod straight at attention, even though the Jedi was deep in his personal space. He knew this man. General Krell had quite the reputation through the GAR, and Rose had no clue what he was doing outside of the Jedi Temple this late at night.

“Who is your commanding officer?”

“Captain Rex, sir.”

“Not a clone! Is there a malfunction in your design?!” The Jedi bellowed. A few feet behind him, Hardcase flinched at the sudden loud sound, but Rose held still. “Your general, CT-7673! Who is your Commanding Officer!?”

“General Skywalker, sir.” Rose said instead. The canteen was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

He turned his head, noticing the little radio on the table and picked it up, the device small in his massive hands, raising an eyebrow at Rose. “Contraband, disturbance of the peace, behavior unbecoming of an officer, insubordination.” He hissed. “That’s plenty of grounds for a court martial, Lieutenant.”

“Sir.” Fives spoke up, taking a step towards them. “Proper chain of command designates General Skywalker as the one to hand down a court martial order, sir.”

He narrowed his eyes, his voice dripping with contempt. “With all due respect, sir, you do not command this battalion, and cannot order a court martial on the Lieutenant.”

“Fives.” Rose snapped, whipping his head around to face Fives. “Stand down. Now.”

The ARC Trooper shrank back, his hands curled into fists at his sides, and the General turned back to Rose.

“Be that as it may,” he began icily. “You can rest assured this breach of conduct will not go unreported.”

“Yes sir.” Rose replied stiffly.

General Krell pulled back at last, surveying the battalion. “I want this canteen spotless, and not a word out of you in the meantime!” He ordered. “And I don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore.”

With one quick motion, he smashed the radio in his hands. Rose heard a soft, hurt sound somewhere behind him, but ignored it. He didn’t look away from the General.

“Dismissed.” Krell growled, turning and stalking towards the doors. “And as for you,” He turned, jabbing one large finger at Fives. “I’ll be mentioning you in my report as well. Pray our paths do not cross again, clone.”

And with those words, he left the canteen.

Rose relaxed, but only minimally so. The silence hung heavy over the 501st, and everyone quietly shuffled back to work.

Rose gripped the mop handle tightly as he worked, his knuckles turning white. His chest burned, a tight, constricting feeling wrapped around his insides. It was a feeling he’d never felt before – anger, sadness, humiliation, resignation – all rolled into one hateful ball, coiled in his gut.

“Finished with the kitchen, sir.” Came Tup’s small voice. He’d put his hair back up, the tight bun back to regulation standards. Dogma was standing stiff beside him, still not entirely relaxed yet. “And the um – the canteen area’s just about wrapped up as well.”

“Very good.” Rose said with a small nod. “I’ll report back to Captain Rex, let him know we’ve finished for the night.”

“Sorry about your radio, sir.” Hardcase murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s alright, ‘Case.” Rose smiled, but his eyes were sad. “It was – it was old, anyway. Just a silly thing.”

Fives bristled, his jaw setting as he tossed the bucket he’d been holding back into the supply closet with far more force than necessary.

“We aren’t supposed to leave base for the rest of the night, right?” Denal asked, arms folded across his chest as they finished the last of the cleanup. “Guess we could play Sabacc or something back in the barracks?”

There were a few murmured agreements, and the 501st shuffled back towards the barracks. Rose was still thinking about the General, and had a bitter taste in his mouth. They hadn’t been doing anything wrong, really.

Was it such a crime to enjoy oneself? To simply exist?

Fives and Echo fell into step on either side of Rose, the ARC Troopers bracketing their Lieutenant. “I bet Echo and I could rebuild the radio.” Fives offered. “Might take a little bit, but even if we can’t, Kix is real good at bartering stuff down in the markets. Remember when he got us those HoloDisc movies for just a tube of bacta?”

“We could find another radio for you?” Echo suggested hopefully. “Or maybe,” he lowered his voice slightly. “Maybe Y/N could find you one?”

“Let it go.” Rose said, picking up the pace and pulling away from the ARC Troopers. They reentered the now far tidier barracks, and Rose gravitated back to his footlocker, starting to close it up and push it back under his bed. The metal clacked slightly against the edge of the bunk, and he paused, the tinny sound echoing in his ears.

He knocked the footlocker against the bunk again, listening to the little noise again.

Kark it. He was more than just a mindless flesh-droid. He was a person. A human being. And he liked music.

And he wasn’t about to let anybody take that away from him.

“I never got to do a song.” He announced, straightening up and putting his hands on his hips.

“You can’t be serious, sir.” Dogma said, shaking his head at him. “Haven’t we gotten in enough trouble?”

“I’m sure the General’s slithered back to the Temple by now, where he belongs.” Jesse replied, turning back to the Lieutenant. “We don’t have a radio anymore, sir.”

“We don’t need one.” Rose said, pulling his footlocker back out and propping up one leg on it. He tapped his foot against the metal, the rhythm settling, nodding his head along. He took a deep breath.

“Standing in the rain, with his head hung low. Couldn't get a ticket, it was a sold out show.”

Fives recognized the song, and started tapping his foot along, drumming his hands on an overturned weapons crate.

“Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene. Put his ear to the wall, then like a distant scream.” Rose climbed up onto the table. “He heard one guitar!”

Jesse slammed a bucket from earlier down against the supports of a bunk, the loud clang mimicking the strum of a guitar.

“Just blew him away. He saw stars in his eyes, and the very next day, bought a beat up six string in a secondhand store. Didn’t know how to play it, but he knew for sure, that one guitar!”

Another clang, this time from Kix repeating Jesse’s motion, and Echo, Denal, Coric and Fives were all drumming on overturned buckets and crates.

“Felt good in his hands! Didn’t take long to understand, just one guitar, slung way down low, was a one way ticket, only one way to go.”

Tup and Hardcase had picked up a brush – typically used for scrubbing their blasters and armor down – and were knocking it against the durasteel wall. Dogma had rounded up the others, a look of sheer determination on his face as they clamored around the bunks and tables, smacking their fists in rhythm with anything they could get their hands on.

“So he started rockin', ain't never gonna stop. Gotta keep on rockin', someday gonna make it to the top!”

Rose stomped his feet, and the rest of the 501st joined him for the chorus.

“And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes. He's a juke box hero!”

“He took one guitar,” Rose sang, while the rest of the battalion echoed “juke box hero, stars in his eyes” around him. “Juke box hero, he’ll come alive tonight.”

The singing quieted down, listening for a moment to see if anyone was coming, and Rose grinned, starting again and pitching his voice low.

“In a town without a name, in a heavy downpour, thought he passed his own shadow, by the backstage door.”

The clones took position, preparing to resume their makeshift instruments as Rose picked up in volume.

“Like a trip through the past, to that day in the rain. And that one guitar, made his whole life change! Now he needs to keep on rockin', he just can't stop! Gotta keep on rockin', that boy has got to stay on top!”

Once again, shouts rang out as his brothers joined him for the chorus, their voices louder and more determined than ever, refusing to be silenced.

“And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes. He's a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes. Yeah, juke box hero, stars in his eyes. With that one guitar, he'll come alive, come alive tonight.”

As they finished the song, Rose panted softly, glancing down at his commlink again. He decided he was going to go off base after all. He wanted to see you, and nobody, not his Captain’s orders, and definitely not some karking General like Krell, was going to stop him.

“Dismissed.” He said curtly, and took off out the door without another word.

SONGS USED (because they’re all bangers and you should listen to them):

The 501st (introduction): Hotel California Echo: Hooked on a Feeling Fives: Kickstart My Heart Kix: Sharp Dressed Man Jesse: You Give Love a Bad Name Coric and Denal: Come Sail Away Dogma: Zombie Tup: Dancing in the Dark Hardcase: Walk This Way The 212th and 501st: I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) The 501st (Canteen finale): Don’t Stop Believin’ Rose and the 501st: Juke Box Hero

TAG LIST (Aka everyone on the tag list for BAON): @fat-zygerrian @ladydiomede @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life @threevie @cheesemachine44 @bubblyacey @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @loverofclones @starwarsgarbage @hockeyjedi13 @crazygirlwithasword @dar-manda-rjct @gotomarvelgal @baba-fett @whore4rex @bubblegumcat229 @generalcannoli @hellothere501stlover @in-the-crosshairs @vaderthepotater @for-the-love-of-clones @babyhowzer @imrealatedtothe501st @chewychewyque @bobafettuccini @baba-fett-writes @chromia7567 @coffeeandtodd @thedomesticatednerd @kirinpl @djarrex @a-c-lee @embarrassedauthornerd @kaorikoizumi @the-girl-of-rain-and-shadows @sammi9498 @theroguesully @salaminus

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reddeadreference · 2 years

Text

Journal - Chapter 2: Horseshoe Overlook

(This post is all of the journal pages and typed transcripts that were written specifically for chapter two. This post will not include stranger missions or side stuff.)

(Some entries may differ depending on certain choices/events. For instance: in Spines of America Hosea and Arthur waited until night to rob Carmody Dell, in A Quiet Time both Lenny and Arthur were arrested, & Arthur choose to help Mary in We Once Loved and True )

Finally, a thaw in this god awful weather. We got off the mountain, and rode east into some pretty enough country called The Heartlands.

Ain't been this far east in many a year. Hosea seems to know the country a little. Ain't been much of a spring. Now holed up at a place called Horseshoe Overlook, outside of some dumpy little cattle town, name of VALENTINE.

Dutch seems a little better. His eyes are sparkling once more and I can see he's thinking a little clearer.

I think we all feel a little happier, in spite of Blackwater and that whole mess.

After Polite Society, Valentine Style

Headed into Valentine with uncle and the girls. Girls went scouting out work while Uncle and I had a few drinks and he explained more of his theories on existence and bare faced lies about his past.

Things took a strange turn - some fella seemed to recognize me, or us from Blackwater.

Guess we had been holed up there too long while Hosea and I scouted the job that never was. I chased the bastard

Choice: Spare

and he nearly fell off a cliff - I spared him and he gave me an ink pen.

I hope I won’t regret my leniency, but I reckon he got the scare of his life. Jimmy Brooks was his name.

Choice: Kill

then I killed him anyway. Sometimes, there's no point taking a chance.

After Exit Pursued by a Bruised Ego

Took a day off and went off hunting with Hosea. He really seems to be getting his strength back a bunch, although he was lucky not to die as this big bear he’d been after turned on us.

I thought when we was stuck up in the mountains that the cold and the misery would kill him, and we’d bury him like we buried Jenny and Davey. But he pulled through and he’ll live a while yet.

I love Dutch like a father, but in many ways, I love Hosea even more. He’s kind and fair and like a human being. Dutch is something else.

This bear was also something else. Size of a god damn hotel, it was and mean with it.

After Paying a Social Call

Colm O'Driscoll slipped through our fingers once more and I saw my own life slip through mine. That gentle buffoon we kidnapped up in the mountains took us to a cabin. We were planning to kill Colm but he had just gone elsewhere. We shot a bunch of his boys and one was about to end my life when Kieran shot him. This FEUD, it’s bled out from Dutch and Colm’s mutual hatred into a loathing that permeates all of us and all of them.

Still, I found quite a shotgun in the cabin.

After Money Lending and Other Sins

Herr Strauss is back lending money, and I'm back collecting it.

The work mostly revolts me and shames me. Somehow, robbing people honestly with a gun and fists is less repellant than robbing them fully in accordance with the law.

It'll be the usual sort of desperados - sick farmers, pregnant maids, lovesick young men, and other dupes desperate enough and stupid enough to take Strauss' terms.

A usurer's life may be a comfortable one, but it is foul work.

After The Spines of America

Hosea and I went robbing, just like in the old days. A father and son pair of clowns at some farm house. Stole a wagon, sold it to some rat Hosea had met at some odd place called Emerald (?) Ranch. What goes on there, I cannot tell, but this little purchaser of stolen goods had us go rob his own family.

Even by my standards, that was low, but the father and son we robbed was proof that even God makes mistakes sometimes.

Choice: Day

Hosea performed brilliantly as some kind of huckster selling restorative care to crooks' backs. Whole thing was utterly ridiculous and brilliant.

Choice: Night

I snuck in at night and we robbed the loathsome bastards blind.

After We Loved Once and True

Saw Mary again. I feel like the luckiest man alive and I feel like a fool. That woman confuses me and plays me for a fiddle like no one else alive. Her little brother Jamie had joined some religious order and needed saving, or so she and the god awful DADDY seemed to have thought. I took him home, after a pathetic little squabble. Poorboy. Wonder what will become of him. Education and an unpleasant father have been a terrible curse for him, I fear.

As for Mary, I trust I will not make a god awful fool of myself once more but somehow I imagine I shall.

A <3 M

After A Quiet Time

(Note this page is for if you get arrested with Lenny, I am working on getting the alternate page.)

Went off drinking with young Lenny. Thanks to my own peculiar genius for trouble when drunk, the evening did not go quite according to plan, but somehow neither of us got killed or arrested for murder, I mean, we got arrested, of course, but not for murder, at least I don't think it was for murder because they let us out. Whole thing is a bit of a blur. Somehow, I don't imagine that the saloon owner in Valentine likes me very much after the mayhem I have caused there.

After Americans At Rest

Got into some god awful fight in the town saloon. Bill started it. He's wound so tight about something I reckon he'll start hitting himself soon enough. I was stopped from beating some big yokel to death by a local do-gooder.

I could not tell if this made me pleased or real angry. The local crowd seemed to want to see BLOOD however.

Afterwards Dutch accosted me with old Josiah Trelawny, back and quite as slippery and confusing as ever.

He'll come and go again, no doubt and leave none us any the wiser as to who or what he is.

Trelawny told us that Sean had not been killed in Blackwater, but was a prisoner there, held by scalp hunters awaiting payment. Charles Smith, Javier and I met in Blackwater and rescued that loud mouthed maniac. Before we'd even cut him free from the tree he was mouthing off at us.

Javier said Blackwater is an impossible situation and I guess I had better forget about all that money.

All them years wasted earning that stuff! Guess I'll never quite know what happened, but the upshot is, we're on the run, and known to more folks in authority than we would like.

After A Fisher of Men

Took young Jack out fishing as a favor to Abigail. Many years ago, before she fell so hard for that fool MARSTON, perhaps I should have married her. I think part of me has always thought that, yet, God damn you, Mary! Jack is a good boy. A dreamer. A boy with a momma who loves him. I wonder if he will find what we seek - peace and truth away from all this nonsense and lies. If that is what we still seek? Not that that’s a new development. Not sure I know myself anymore.

Sometimes I’m not sure Dutch does. As we fished, a couple of Pinkerton agents appeared - Milton was one of them. I forget the other fella’s name, they knew all about me. That’s a new turn of events. Apparently there’s five thousand on my head alone. After Blackwater, or maybe before, it seems we may be in real trouble. I just don’t know.

Dutch don’t seem too worried but I am beginning to have some doubts as to this wisdom in his indifference.

After Money Lending and Other Sins III

I went to call in a loan, some farmer, local do gooder. Think I'd seen him in Valentine before when I was fighting that big fella. He begged and coughed and spluttered and I beat him half to death. Such is life. Such is the world. His boy looked at me like I was the devil and perhaps for him, I was. The whole thing confused me. Maybe that's wrong. The whole thing revolted me/my part. These sad, sad, desperate bastards, their silly expectations of life and their tawdry reality. The unkindness of existence I can handle that just fine. But I do not love it, nor those who try to make things otherwise, I guess.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #Arthur's Journal rdr2

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cosmicjoke · 3 years

Text

Alright, chapter 133 of SnK!

I’ve got a few things I want to talk about here.

One of the things that always strikes me about Levi as a character, indeed, one of his defining character traits, is his coolness under pressure. His calm demeanor, no matter the circumstances. One of the interesting things to go into is WHY Levi is like this.

We see it particularly exemplified in this chapter, I think, and there’s a few examples. For one, they’ve all just lost Hange as their friend and Commander, and this loss particularly impacts and affects Levi, since he was closer with Hange than any of them. But rather than allowing his grief to consume and paralyze him, Levi immediately begins trying to contribute when Armin says he wants to go over the plan, bringing up Hange’s theory about Zeke and how killing him might stop the Rumbling, etc... Then Eren transports them to Paths, and everyone reacts with shock and awe, except Levi, who’s expression is duly unimpressed and unsurprised. We see this from Levi throughout the series, of course. Situations that present themselves, new and frightening circumstances which throw everyone for a loop and send people into panic, Levi reacts to with calm collectedness, a distinct LACK of surprise or fear. He really does stand in sharp contrast with everyone else in this situation. Everyone there is a seasoned war veteran, at this point, they’ve all been through and seen some truly horrific things. But they still react with a kind of frantic uncertainty here. They then begin to plead with Eren, Armin and the rest trying to convince him through any means possible, to stop the Rumbling. They try to bargain with him, show him empathy, make promises, etc... They make their desperation obvious by saying whatever they think will appeal to Eren. Levi is the only one who, I think, is fully honest here. He tells Eren that if he stops now, he’ll let him off with JUST an ass-kicking. Levi doesn’t try to placate Eren, or show him sympathy, or empathy, he doesn’t try to be gentle or handle Eren with kid gloves. He tells him flat out he’s going to beat his ass for what he’s done, but he’ll show him some leniency for stopping by not killing him outright. The thing is, I think Levi’s known from the start of this whole disaster that talking to Eren wasn’t going to work. Everyone else was holding out hope that if they could just speak with Eren, he would stop, that they could convince him through words. But like I talked about in my last post, Levi is someone who’s just seen and experienced too much of life’s brutality and unfairness to blind himself to bleak reality. When the 104th goes running off after Eren appears to them, to try and reach him, Levi just sits down in the sand and has that resigned expression once more, and his expression continues to show a total lack of surprise when Eren puts the 104th back where they started, before they could ever even get close. Levi isn’t surprised, or even dismayed, I don’t think, at Eren’s refusal to talk, because I think he always knew he wouldn’t be willing to. That he wouldn’t be interested in hearing anyone’s pleas or promises. I think Levi always knew Eren was hellbent on this course of action, and it was more or less hopeless, trying to appeal to him. And once again, I have to restate, I think it’s because Levi’s just experienced too much hardship in his life to cling to false hopes. He’s world-weary and in many ways a realist, someone not given to delusion or fancy.

I feel like Levi probably glimpsed this uncompromising, hellish bent in Eren back in Liberio, his mercenary compulsion to follow through on whatever plan he had, which is why Levi was so disgusted by him on the airship back then. He saw a lack of mercy in Eren, and it reminded him of the brutes Levi grew up with in the Underground. Not just a willingness, but a desire to take from others to satisfy himself. It’s why, when they’re all transported back to the plane, while everyone else looks horrified and in shock at Eren’s refusal to talk, Levi looks as unflustered as ever, and states with a matter of fact tone that negotiations are over, before asking Armin what it is they do now. None of this is surprising to Levi.

Levi’s look of despair throughout this final arc continues to strike me as his resignation in the ugliness of humanity and the useless, pointless suffering they inflict on one another. He’s depressed, and disappointed, because everything happening around them is only a confirmation of all the worst things Levi saw and experienced, growing up.

All this ties into another point I want to discuss, which is Levi’s relationship with Jean, actually. I’ve found the relationship between the two of them really interesting since way back in the Uprising arc, when Jean was the most vocal in condemning Levi for his violence, declaring with certainty that he would never kill another person. Jean is disabused of his moralistic superiority not long after that, when he learns first hand the consequences of sticking to ones morals uncompromisingly, nearly losing his life, and forcing Armin to take a life for him. And it’s Jean who we see, again and again from that point on in the series, grappling with and coming to terms with this difficult lesson. We see Jean’s respect for Levi, and his understanding towards Levi, grow greatly, after this incident, and Jean himself having to grow, to change and accept that sacrifices are inevitable if one wishes to protect the things and people they care about. That sometimes even one’s own comfort and moral convictions are necessary sacrifices to achieve those things.

Levi tells everyone that he’ll take care of Zeke, but admits that he’ll need all of their help to get the job done. I feel like this is Levi, once again, asking if all of them are ready and willing to get their hands dirty, just like he did before they raided the Cavern underneath the Church on the Reiss property. He knows he can’t do this job by himself (which is just further testament to Levi’s strength of character, an ability to admit to weakness), but he wants to make sure everyone else is alright with plunging in to a situation in which they’re going to be forced to kill. Jean is the first to answer, telling Levi and all of them that he’s not going to let the sacrifices they’ve already made, the people they’ve killed in order to get where they are, be in vain, and that he’ll do whatever it takes to stop the Rumbling. This shows incredible character growth on Jean’s part. He went from someone who claimed that he would, under no circumstances, take another human life, to someone who declares that he’ll do whatever it takes in order to stop the Rumbling, to achieve a greater good. And I think this growth on Jean’s part ties directly into his relationship with and the influence of Levi. Levi never judged Jean for being uncomfortable with killing, never criticized or scolded him for it. He even told Jean that he couldn’t say, one way or the other whether Jean’s beliefs were right or wrong. That Levi himself didn’t know the answer to that. He never tried to convince Jean of anything. He just told him the truth. That his failure to kill had put the lives of his comrades in danger, including his own, and that it also caused Armin to have to bear the burden of killing another, one which should have been Jean’s own to bear. All of that is absolutely true. And it was really through this lack of judgment on Levi’s part that, I think, Jean was able to grow and expand his own views on killing, and adjust and allow for there to be circumstances in his world view which would justify taking another life. He wasn’t forced by anyone to change his views. He changed them based on experience and through Levi explaining to him that there is no definitive right or wrong answer to be found, and through Levi’s simply being honest with him. He was telling Jean that it comes down to what one is willing to sacrifice in order to protect the things and people they value. And Jean learned about himself that he’s willing and able to sacrifice more than he ever realized.

But it’s still a struggle, and something all of them, even at this point in the story, continue to battle themselves over. We see Connie struggling in particular this chapter, looking anguished over what he had to do back at the port. It’s only Levi who accepts that brutal reality of kill or be killed with a calm understanding, and I think this is probably because, unlike the rest of them, who all had peaceful, probably relatively easy and happy childhoods, without any exposure to violence or real cruelty, Levi, I think it can be safely assumed, probably took his first life while he was still a boy. And doubtless, that was due to desperate circumstances. Levi’s life has been one filled with uncertainty. Growing up in extreme poverty, he never could have known with any certainty where his next meal would come from, or when. Never knew with any certainty whether he could find proper shelter for the night, or a safe place to sleep. Never knew with any certainty whether he would be assaulted, or robbed, or if someone would attempt to take his life. Levi’s life has been one of desperation and a true, unforgiving struggle to simply survive. And so while all of his comrades have seen and experienced the horrors of war with him, none of them can know with the same level of understanding that true kind of desperation of simply trying to live day to day, that kind of awful and overwhelming uncertainty and fear of not knowing if you’ll be alive from one day to the next. It’s those kinds of experiences in life that really separate Levi from the rest of his comrades, and in a lot of ways, isolate him from them. It’s why the extremity of their circumstances and the desperation of their situation in this final arc continually shocks and overwhelms them, but Levi regards it all with his usual, if deeply saddened, calm.

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #Levi Ackerman #jean krischtein #snk 133 #meta #thoughts

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commanderfoxdeservesbetter · 3 years

Note

I WOULD KILL FOR A SCENE OF THE GUARD COMMANDERS' REACTION WHEN THEY FIND OUT FOX DESERTED

Please, not the younglings 😂😂 (I’m sorry; I really couldn’t resist). This took a while. I had several ideas on what direction I wanted this to go but I hope this satisfies you!!

~This post is what the story references to.~

Thorn leans back in his chair as another plant is thrown out the window. He grimaces, hoping his discarded baby at least sails past the sidewalks down to the lower levels, else they have a mess to clean up. He mourns the loss of his baby plants as Stone picks up another one, pacing in his too small office.

“-that piece of shit!! He at least should ha-” and there goes Thiran, named after Thire of course and was a native to Naboo, flying out the window. Thorn should probably stop the abuse of his baby plants but honestly, it’s preferable than his other precious treasures that lay in the office. “-ould have gone with him! Did he not thin-” Stone continues to rant, pausing slightly to breathe.

Thire jumps in at his pause. “Stone, please.” Thorn watches as tears slowly slide down his cheek, obviously as affected by the news as much as Stone is, though his reaction is more...less aggressive than Stone’s. “Please.”

What he’s begging for, Thorn doesn’t know, but Stone seems to understand. He slows his pacing down, though he doesn’t drop the newly acquired plant he desires to throw just yet.

“I just don’t understand! Why didn’t he-” Stone cuts himself off, sighing. Thire reaches out, grabbing Stone’s unoccupied hand and taking it within his own. Stone flops down beside Thire on the couch, resting his chin on Thire’s shoulder. “Does he truly distrust us that much?”

Thorn sighs, feeling his body weighed down by the stress. “I wouldn’t say it’s that.”

“Then what is it?! Why couldn’t he at least tALK TO US BEFORE-” Thire shushes him quietly, raising his unoccupied hand to run through Stone’s hair. Thorn can hear him mutter small pleas as ragged sobs leaves his throat from time to time. Stone drops the plant in his hand to wrap an arm around Thire, obviously trying to stop the sobs as much as Thire is trying o comfort him. Thorn sighs as he sees the mess on his floor; he just bought that plant two days ago.

“We must respect his choice,” Thorn hears himself say, gritting his teeth at the words. Oh, how he wishes he could be as expressive as Stone and Thire at the news of Fox’s abandonment but someone needs to pick up the slack and he knows Stone and Thire...they’re good men. They don’t deserve it. Fox didn’t deserve it. Hell, Thorn doesn’t deserve it. But he couldn’t help Fox, didn’t help him when he most needed Thorn, but he’ll be damned if he can’t save Stone and Thire from this pain and suffering of a position.

Thire sniffs, resting his forehead against Stone’s for a brief moment before slanting a look Thorn’s way. “We need to help him,” he weakly says. “He won’t...” he doesn’t finish as he chokes back a sob and Stone, whom Thorn can see is still brimming with anger, quietly reasons with him to breathe. But they all hear his statement, understands what he’s saying. He won’t survive out there, not without help.

And it hurts Thorn to admit it but Thire’s right. Fox won’t survive if the GAR finds out he left. The Coruscant Guard isn’t the most liked clones in the GAR, much less the Commanders of the Coruscant Guard. And Fox has had it worst, not only from the GAR but within the Guard itself. Unlike Thire, Stone and himself, Fox isn’t given the leniency to be expressive with his men, even if it’s in private. He’s the Leading Commander; he isn’t afforded that luxury.

Fox will be hunted down and treated as a...a traitor, defective if he’s caught. He’ll be sent back to Kamino to be decommissioned; that is, if the GAR won’t kill him first.

“Then I guess we better make sure the GAR doesn’t find out,” Thorn states grimly, already planning on how to keep Fox’s desertion a secret. He knows Stone and Thire won’t say a word but it’s only about time before the Guard realizes their Leading Commander is gone. Alongside that, they also need to come up with a plan when the Chancellor asks about him too.

Thorn grimaces, briefly hating Fox for leaving them behind. But he banishes that thought as soon as it comes. He doesn’t blame Fox for what he did. Hell, if Thorn was in his position, he’d leave too. Probably would have left a lot earlier, if he’s being honest. But shit, he could of at least warned them before flying off.

“We can say he’s on a mission,” Stone suddenly says, gears turning. He squeezes Thire’s hand before continuing, staring at Thorn. “This gives us a couple of days to hopefully get ahold of Vos and see if he can track him down.” He leans into Thire’s side as the clone relaxes at his words.

“What about Palpatine?” Thorn asks.

Thire clears his throat before speaking, voice rough from the crying. “We can say he’s unavailable, still healing from his last mission.”

“That excuse won’t last long,” Stone mutters harshly, quickly apologizing at Thire’s wince.

“But it’ll do for now.” Thorn glances out the window, the sound of cruisers reaching to his ears.

They didn’t deserve this. None of them did. But Fox has made his choice and Thorn is determined to allow him the freedom of that decision. After all, he’s still their ori’vod.

#star wars: the clone wars #commander fox #commander stone #commander thorn #commander thire #angst kinda #i tried

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whimperwoods · 3 years

Text

Oswin - Bedtime

Part 7! Oswin Greystone is a wizard, a con man, and, now, a warlock’s pet. It’s been several hours since he last begged. He only hopes it doesn’t make things worse. As much as he has the energy to hope.

tw: pet whump, tw: non-sexual nudity, tw: humiliation, tw: whumper is a policeman/city guard captain, tw: gags, tw: choking mention, tw: ptsd (not-post though? idk), tw: literal boot-licking, tw: threats, tw: strangulation mention, tw: death threats, tw: animalization

There’s a masterpost now!

Taglist: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @starnight-whump

****

Oswin hadn’t known how much he actually appreciated the noise of the other guards until it was gone. They had been coming in and out downstairs, laughing and joking, taking time to spar with each other, voices and the clank of armor and the clack of wooden training swords all drifting up the stairs toward him and his master, and he hadn’t even thought to appreciate it.

Now, it was quiet in the building, and he found himself shaking again, instinctively pressing himself harder to the ground.

I need you coherent while I’m alone on the evening shift. That was what his master had said last night. The other guards could wait to be called on in the daylight, could take off time between their assigned rounds, could hang out loud between shifts, but now - now it was night and things were dangerous, and he couldn’t help thinking that nowhere was as dangerous as here.

His master reached toward him from the chair and he flinched away, only to be caught by the back of the collar, his master’s fingers brushing against the burn mark on the back of his neck and making him cry out, the sound cut off abruptly as his master wrenched him upward, pulling him onto his knees by the collar.

Oswin straightened his back and pressed up against the seat of the chair with his arms to help hold his head higher, gasping in precious air as his master’s grip loosened.

Then the hand gripped his chin and forced him to meet his master’s eyes. His stomach squirmed, but he forced himself not to look away, even as his eyes started to tear up again, of their own accord.

“I’ll tell you when to be afraid of me, boy. Now you’ll have to be gagged, for the trouble.”

Oswin whimpered, unable to stop himself.

A vicious tug on his hair was followed by a motion to backhand him across the face, but at the last moment, his master pulled the blow, another warning, like the missed kick, earlier. He’d thought about it, since then. Thought about how to say thank you.

He’d thought he’d be on the ground, but he adjusted, ducking his head to nuzzle against the side of the man’s knee instead of bowing over his foot again, and whined softly, hoping his master would understand it as gratitude for - gods, it wasn’t even lenience, was it? It was only a pulled blow, meant to scare him, and the only reason it had been pulled was that his master didn’t want him dead, didn’t want one more drip of blood from his nose to be his last. But he was stronger than that, now, if only barely. He was healing. And if he played his cards right, maybe he could keep healing.

He gave the man’s knee a second nudge with the side of his face, this time humming to make sure there was some kind of positive noise, and the captain snorted.

A rough hand petted through his hair again, and the man’s voice sounded warmer when he spoke. “Enough. Open your mouth.”

Oswin’s entire body shook, the memory of choking around the gag suddenly real and impossible. His throat threatened to close up, and his breaths shortened, but his mouth opened instinctively to take in more air, and his master was somehow, impossibly, unbearably, already holding the gag. He thrust the bar in between Oswin’s teeth and started buckling the back, his strong hands forcing Oswin’s head down against his knee hard enough that he could feel his master’s kneecap digging into his forehead.

When his master released him, he raised his head but stayed still, mind reeling. He forced himself to breathe, concentrated on breathing, still clinging desperately to the seat of the chair, still hunched awkwardly with his head bowed low over his master’s knees.

As he got a grip on himself, he realized his master was petting his hair again, a little more gently this time. “There you go,” he said softly, “You’re ready to be a good boy again, I can tell.”

Oswin closed his eyes and tried to relax, laying his cheek against his master’s thigh, just a little above the knee, where it was softer and not so bony. Maybe if he seemed relaxed, he would be allowed to keep breathing. In through his nose. Out through his nose. Not too fast. Not too slow. Breathing. He was still breathing. It was ok. He was still breathing.

His master actually laughed. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?” he asked, but his hand was still gentle in Oswin’s hair. He shouldn’t respond, shouldn’t make it go from joke to more punishment, but some part of him was so relieved to hear his master happy that he could almost cry, and he nuzzled against the captain’s thigh with his nose, still keeping quiet.

His master’s hand swept gently through his hair one more time before the man shoved Oswin away from him, firmly but without the strength Oswin knew he had.

“Come on, pet. Time for dinner.” He snorted, half chuckle. “Mine, anyway. But you had lunch. We’ll see if you do better tomorrow.”

Oswin’s mind stayed thoroughly wrapped up in breathing, in through his nose, out through his nose, keeping his throat and sinuses as open as he could, breathing in, breathing out, not allowed to remember almost dying, holding the thought at bay, at arm’s length, only breathing, only allowed to breathe, and somehow he was down the stairs. Somehow he was kneeling beside his master, too in his own head to notice the smell of his master’s dinner or the growling of his stomach. Somehow, he was climbing the stairs again. Somehow kneeling beside his master as the man looked at a map of the town. Somehow still moving, still following orders.

He thought about breathing.

His master was speaking to him, and he realized with a start that he hadn’t been listening.

The Captain laughed. “That’s right, there’s some proper gratitude. You’ll still be chained, of course, but it’ll be softer up there. And you can keep my feet warm, if it comes to it.”

Oswin didn’t know what his master was talking about, but he made a concentrated effort to pay more attention, to listen when his master spoke, to notice the orders he was following instead of just trailing along.

He let his master shackle him to the foot of the bed, climbed tentatively up onto it when his master gestured, curled in on himself with his eyes still on his master’s face, but then - then his master was stepping away, leaving him there, moving to change into his sleeping clothes, and the only thing more frightening than having a gag in his mouth was having a gag in his mouth and his master clear on the other side of the room, or even worse, asleep and not watching to remove the gag if Oswin choked again.

Making a muffled noise through the gag, he flung himself off the bed and crawled forward, prostrating himself at his master’s feet as the man stopped in surprise.

“Pleathee, Mathhter,” he managed through the gag, “Pleathe, I cannn. I cannn bleathe. Pleathe.”

He couldn’t bear to look up, couldn’t bear to see his master’s face. He crawled forward still farther, hunching over to press his forehead to the top of his master’s foot.

“Pleathe, I cannnn.”

His master’s voice was cold and measured, which was at least better than an immediate flash of rage. “So you want your gag out,” he said, “After I specifically rewarded you. That’s not enough for you.”

Oswin’s eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t think of a better way to ask, a better way to beg, but even without falling, the tears threatened to make his throat thicken, his nose close up, to make him choke again, and all he could do was cry out more loudly while he still had breath.

“Pleathe, mathhhher. Pleathe.”

“Raise your head up.”

The voice was still cold as ice, and Oswin’s entire body trembled as he followed instructions.

For a moment, his master held Oswin’s head in his hands, watching the half-panicked breaths through his nose, the tears glinting in his eyes, taking it all in.

Then he unbuckled the gag and pulled it out of Oswin’s mouth. The moment his mouth was freed, Oswin found himself collapsing back to the ground, sobbing with his forehead pressed to the ground in front of his master’s feet, gasping and panting and managing only garbled, desperate “thank you”s in gratitude.

His master let him weep, let him pant and sob and humiliate himself, but he could feel the man’s stiffness even through his own relief, could feel tension in his stance and cold radiating from him.

When Oswin finally quieted, his master spoke again, that same ice in his voice. “Kiss my feet, wizard. I’m not sure you’re grateful enough, yet.”

Oswin complied, too wrung out with crying and fear even to hesitate. He pressed a kiss to the top of the well-kept leather of one foot, and was halfway to the other when his master snapped his fingers, stopping him. Oswin looked up, noting the way his master’s face was still strangely implacable, neither angry nor pleased, a mystery.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, calmly, and this time Oswin could hear the sizzle in it, could hear anger threatening to burst into flame. “Lick it. I want my boots clean enough to pass inspection with the king, before I let you go to sleep. I’m going to stand right here until you finish, and if you make me wait until I’m tired, you’ll be wearing that gag to bed if it kills you. Am I clear?”

Oswin didn’t try to answer, didn’t dare nod, didn’t know how else to say yes. Part of him knew that if he did this, there was no going back. The other part of him was already moving.

His master’s boots were mostly clean-ish already, kept polished as befitted his station, and he had been inside all day, but Oswin could still taste dirt and filth as his tongue swiped over the leather, his mouth already starting to go dry from dust and terror.

He focused on his breathing again as he continued, his mind squirming away from all the thoughts he couldn’t bear thinking, the thoughts that weren’t his task, his breathing. He wasn’t blushing, and passively, for a moment, he noted that that was strange. But then he had control of his mind again, control of his own focus. He was breathing. He was breathing. He was allowed to breathe, and this was the cost. He could only think about being allowed to breathe.

By the end he was barely on his hands and knees, barely able to keep going as his whole body shook. His mouth was dry. It was so dry. He kept having to stop, to swallow what dirt he could and force what moisture he could, but he kept his head down, kept his eyes focused on his master’s boots, tried not to look hesitant, not to look disobedient, gods, he couldn’t wear the gag again, he had to do this, he had to do this, he was still breathing.

Finally, he’d covered every inch of the leather, done everything he could, and he was going to stop breathing again if he couldn’t be finished, was going to have his throat close up on him from dryness and - and.

He pressed his forehead to his master’s boot again, one last silent plea before he crawled slightly backward, away.

He could feel his master’s eyes on him, on him and not on the boots at all, and he tried not to squirm under that gaze, not to shrink farther toward the ground or try to evade.

Finally, his master started moving, walking away without a word to him, and then sat on the side of the bed and took his boots off, looking thoughtfully at them while Oswin tried not to move, tried not to look afraid when he wasn’t allowed to be, tried not to look like he was trying to be more pathetic than he was, tried to keep breathing.

“You can have a drink of water,” his master said after a moment, “But you’re sleeping on the floor.”

Oswin was exhausted, half dazed, and he couldn’t work out how to answer as a dog, could barely work out how to answer as a human. “Yes, master,” he whispered. And then - “Thank you, master.”

He didn’t have the energy, when his master placed a bowl of water on the floor, to wonder when he’d brought it up here, how long he’d been planning this. He just crawled forward and drank from it, right there beside his master’s bed, lowering his head all the way into the bowl to drink awkwardly from it and trying to think only of the relief of cleaning his mouth out, of wetting his throat, of breathing easier, of feeling less like he might gag.

He drank what he could and then pulled away, certain of one thing and one thing only. When he was rested, he could think of getting away again. For now, he could make sure his master didn’t make anything worse.

He pressed his forehead to each of his master’s stocking feet in turn, and stilled without moving away when the man’s hand reached for him, tipping his chin up so that he had to look into those cold brown eyes.

“You’re pathetic,” the man said, his voice half growl, half disdain.

Oswin knew what answer was wanted. “Yes, master.” It was almost a whisper, but he knew the man would hear, knew how hard he was listening.

“If you make me break you, I will.”

“Yes, master.”

“Anything you do for me, I will ask of you again,” he continued, voice growing quieter, more thoughtful. He patted Oswin on the side of the face, “Remember that before you pretend to be more broken than you are. I don’t like playing games.”

“I understand, master.”

The man rose to his feet again. “Sleep on the floor. And if you make a sound after I so kindly removed that gag for you, I will strangle you until you die under my fingers and then I will make you wear the gag again when he returns you to me.”

The Captain didn’t even look back as he made the threat, moving steadily back to his chest of drawers to get his nightshirt.

“Yes master,” Oswin answered, more loudly, so that it would carry all the way to his master’s ears, hoping he wasn’t about to die for it, “I understand.”

His master’s only answer was a short grunt, and then Oswin tucked himself away, halfway under the edge of the bed, his tongue falling silent. He had a lot to think about, but for now - for now his mind was as tired as his body, strung out and wrung dry.

He fell asleep quickly, his body curling protectively in on itself even in slumber.

#whump #pet whump #fantasy whump #d&d whump #dehumanization tw #gags tw #choking tw #threats tw #oswin series #anyway things are not gonna be this awful forever?#he's just not healed enough yet to really get to have and keep his brain all the time #he will be eventually #for now he's just holding on the best he can #they're playing 3d chess but he's too tired to keep track of it just now

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thedeviljudges · 3 years

Note

Re. your post - something I love about the show and that ep in particular is it's very good at giving both sides valid points. As someone who is 100% anti-death penalty, I agree with Gaon AND Yohan - we shouldn't be executing ppl full stop, let alone live on TV...but if you’re happy to vote for the death penalty then you should bloody well be prepared to flick the switch yourself! How many ppl's enthusiastic support is conditional on them never actually having to get their own hands dirty? 1/2

It’s the cause of so much death and damage all over the world and most of us are culpable to some degree. BUT...if Yohan sees the world as it is, Gaon sees it as it could be, which is why they need each other - realism without hope = rage/despair, but hope without realism = ineffectual at best, complicit at worst. Yes, rage CAN be a positive force - it's rage (Yohan) which burns it all down after all...but you need hope (Gaon) to rebuild something better in its place. So much food for thought!

i have the brain of a goldfish so i don't remember which post this is referring to so i am SO sorry about that. however!!! you do make some excellent points in regard to hope vs realism and that they actually really need to be together because idealism isn't ever going to be realized without realism to pair and fight through systems of oppression or the general rules in which have been established in society.

which makes them both a really great pair because you have pessimistic vs optimistic, and the truth is, i really do think yohan wants to believe there is better, that there can be better. after all, he does believe in gaon. he may not have the same hope, but his belief in gaon's instincts and ability to see good is what yohan believes in, and if that's not a start to seeing things better, idk what is. to believe in someone's ability is the start of open possibilities that it can be better. i know gaon finally understand that things do not change easily via the committee meeting, but yohan gave that stage to gaon, allowing his hope to flourish into something better for the system. without gaon, i don't know that yohan would've ever held out any hope.

to the death penalty point. i think this is a very interesting topic to discuss, and this isn't me trying to play devil's advocate but more so introducing the philosophy of death in general and how we perceive it based on culture. because when you look at death as a whole, especially in early centuries, it's written as almost a past time. it's a thing people did. it happened, and it was normalized. now granted, there could've been just as much backlash for it as there is today; we are not privy to the cultural context of the time bc ya know, history; we will never live it. but i think people tend to forget we've always lived in a pro-death (for lack of a better word) society. it's come and gone in many different forms (gladiators, guillotines, crucifictions, etc). i'm sure there's a lot of academic discussions about its evolution into what it is now, but the bigger question at play, and something tdj put in there to address, is when/is it right? when/is it wrong? who is responsible for it? the parallelism to the business man in the beginning of the show who knew about the contaminated water and people died and the technicalities of being once, twice, three times removed from tragedies; is he or is he not responsible? what makes his life sentence okay but not the death penalty since he was responsible? why do we give more "leniency" to some who are involved in death but not others?

so to your point: gaon and yohan have valid points for both, but where is the line? who dictates that line? has society actually moved far beyond the penalty of death given its history within the world?

like, yohan escalated each punishment to technically fit the crimes that were committed, but also consider his ability to understand that maybe it's not entirely an outdated practice (even though people convince themselves we as a society have moved beyond it and want laws changed) because he understands the culpability of humans and how easy it is to lie to themselves that they are better, superior even, to history. when the the whole point of his revenge was to prove and show the world how much human nature repeats itself—he knew the elite did not change, and he proved it by paralleling their actions in the church in the courtroom. are we actually beyond it? tdj's society clearly answered that question until a bucket of cold water made them realize.

(also interesting to note, going back to what i said above about the business man being removed from the community's death but also not really—the actual story is a parallel to people voting for the death penalty via the app. it's the complicity without actually have their hands bloody).

please do not get me wrong here either. i'm not condoning the death penalty by any means. but what makes people think our society is any different than those of the past? how far are humans willing to accept certain conditions/actions if it is seemingly justifiable? yohan's actions put the mirror up to society and told them all to look at themselves, that it's easy to convince yourself what you would say/tolerate and what you wouldn't. but reality is far different, especially when it comes to the power of words. i think h*tler is a prime example of that.

fjalsdkf anyway uh i could run circles around this topic specifically just because it is so interesting, and there is such a huge philosophical, ethical and moral component to. is it uncomfortable to watch in tdj? yeah, but i'm also kind of went there, ridiculous as it was. in what other setting/situation could you realistically have a conversation about society's view of death and its complexity beyond true crime and prison docu-series?

#x #the devil judge meta #the devil judge #genuinely i just find this whole topic so interesting like difficult yes but the complexity? damn

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woogyu · 3 years

Text

A World Tinted Gold | Mingyu; Chapter Two

Kalon; beauty that is more than skin-deep

streamer!y/n x werewolf!mingyu

notes; werewolf au

word count; 1749

previous | next | masterlist

summary; The only werewolves you encountered were the ones living inside your video games. They were nothing more to you than mythical creatures you often had to kill in order to complete objectives. You had a good thing going with your online gaming setup. Your supporters were kind and usually tipped well during streams. Sure it meant you had to deal with the occasional creep sliding into your DMs, but it was worth it. Playing games online was putting you through college. Little did you know your quiet life was about to be turned upside down at the hands of someone you didn’t think existed outside of the virtual world.

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Are you seriously watching that steamer again? Why don’t you just play the games yourself?” Seungcheol questioned as he stepped into Mingyu’s room, chuckling as the younger wolf quickly turned around and blushed.

“It’s not the same… I’m not really interested in the games, I’m interested in her” Mingyu admitted sheepishly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. He didn’t know what it was about you that made him so transfixed, but he had a hard time tearing his eyes from the screen. Hell, just the other day when you read his comment aloud, he was over the moon.

“It’s rare for you to show interest in a girl at all” Seungcheol remarked, eyebrow pulled up in question. Until a wolf found its mate there was little reason to get involved with or show interest in others romantically. There were of course some wolves that preferred being unmated; it allowed them to be explorative with their romantic partners. Not all wolves longed to find their mate, and not all wolves would end up finding their mates. He knew destiny had a hand to play in it all, but the thought of never finding who he was supposed to be with made the wolf in him whine. Mingyu wasn’t an unmated wolf that enjoyed exploring his options, he was desperately waiting for the day he met his mate. Right now, Mingyu wasn’t sure if he was simply lonely or if there was something more going on.

“There is just something about her…” Mingyu started, pausing for a second to find the right words, “I just have a hard time tearing my eyes away from the screen. There is something about her that just draws me in” Mingyu explained. He wasn’t doing a very good job at explaining the feelings that bubbled up inside him when he saw you on screen. When he tried to explain it he could never quite describe the feeling that settled over his chest and body, it was a warmth almost like a subtle glow within him.

Seungcheol didn’t comment on it any further as he moved into the room and crossed his arms over his chest. Mingyu knew better than to ignore the alpha, closing his laptop he turned to face Seungcheol fully. Their pack had a different dynamic than most. Normally a thirteen-member pack would be impossible because of the strain it put on the head alpha. It worked for them because while Seungcheol was their main alpha, they had two secondary alphas, Jihoon and Soonyoung. The three of them shared the work of looking after the group and it worked perfectly for them. He liked that the alphas didn’t abuse their power, there was a lot of lenience in the pack and it made for less confrontations.

“Joshua has to head into town tonight and won’t be able to run the perimeter. Would you be alright with doing it?” Seungcheol asked, pursing his lips as he looked down at the younger wolf. Mingyu normally enjoyed running the perimeter, it meant he got to shift and stretch his body, but this time he was a little bit more hesitant with his answer. Mingyu knew that later on tonight you would have a new video posted and he would have to wait even longer to watch it. It seemed like a silly reason, but his heart ached at the thought of not being able to ‘see’ you on screen until early tomorrow morning.

“Sure! I don’t mind” Mingyu answered with a half-smile, Seungcheol never asked him for much so he figured he could help him out with this. Seungcheol breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back against the wall.

“Thank you, I didn’t really want to be the one stuck doing it again” Seungcheol admitted, the alpha had been on perimeter duty for the past 3 nights and must have been eager for a good night’s sleep. Mingyu smiled and nodded his head a few times, his own wants would just have to be paused for a little while.

Before leaving the room Seungcheol patted him on the shoulder, yawning a little bit as he headed toward what Mingyu assumed was his own room. Mingyu was thankful that Seungcheol’s parents had left him their families pack house. Coming from a family of alpha’s certainly had its perks, and it meant they all got their own rooms.

Once Seungcheol was gone he checked the time, he had roughly 4 hours before he would have to head out.

»»————-　♡　————-««

“I just don’t understand what this trend is supposed to be” you complained to Ciri for probably the 20th time over your video call. Apparently, there was a trend going around among streamers to recreate video games in real life. You hadn’t thought much of it when it first gained popularity, but now Ciri thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to join in on it. Her big plan was a two-part video where the two of you recreated iconic aspects of the Witcher 3 video game. You should have known she would want to do it, she already owned a Cirilla cosplay.

“It’s going to be fun” Ciri reminded you, drawing out the last syllable as she drew a fake scar along her face, effectively transforming herself into the iconic video game character.

“Come on, I even sent you the Yennefer cosplay and everything!” she exclaimed, using her make up brush to point at the camera accusingly. You rolled your eyes as you reached up to adjust the dark black wig that you now wore. To her credit, Ciri had sent you everything you would need to transform yourself into Yennefer of Vengerberg. How she somehow guessed your sizing right you would have no idea. Probably the Witcher powers.

“I wish we lived in the same city” you sighed, leaning your head back and looking up at the ceiling. Things would be so much easier if you and Ciri, and the other girls, didn’t live so far away from one another. But that was the price you paid for finding your friends online.

“Me too” Ciri said with a gentle sigh, setting her make up tools down and picking up her phone, her face coming into full view.

“I sent you the script, I won’t be able to stay on the call with you while we are filming because data rates are crazy, but I know you’ll do amazing” Ciri said with a reassuring smile. You would have to film all of this on your own, which was just a little bit intimidating. Ciri’s script mostly just directed you to do a lot of handwaving and she would add in the ‘magic’ elements later.

“Just find a good spot in the woods and it’ll be perfect” Ciri finished with a nod of her head. You sighed, straightening yourself up and looking down at your phone.

“I’ll call you later on when I’m finished to send you the video” you mumbled, pouting a little bit as you stood and picked up your phone.

“Good luck!” Ciri told you, waving a little bit before ending the call. Great, now you actually had to go do it…

»»————-　♡　————-««

You were lucky there was quite a bit of woods around where you lived, the problem was going to be trying to get to the woods without anyone seeing the ridiculous clothes you were wearing. You threw on a huge coat, effectively covering up most of the costume. After grabbing the bag with your equipment, you ventured outside, keeping your head down as you walked to avoid drawing attention.

Twenty minutes later you were standing in the middle of a beautiful calm forest. Now that you were here you questioned why you didn’t come out here more often. You couldn’t hear the loud noises that came with living in a bustling city and the air felt fresh on your face. Once you reached a small clearing by a river you laid your things down and took a deep breath, basking in the coolness of the air. Maybe this trend wouldn’t be so bad.

After setting up your camera in a place you were at least half sure wouldn’t result in it falling over, you walked into frame and took a deep breath. You briefly checked your phone to see what Ciri’s notes asked of you, before you began doing your best to follow directions. Your portion of the video wouldn’t be long, but you did re-film it 4 times to try and get your motions to be less stiff.

After forty-five minutes of waving your arms around, you walked back to your camera, picking it up before taking a seat on a nearby log. Reviewing the footage, you winced at how awkward it looked, you seriously hoped that Ciri could work some magic on this because you didn’t have it in you to film it again.

The forest around you was darkening as the day began to draw to a close, but you couldn’t bring yourself to head back right away. The forest was too peaceful and serene. Reaching up you pulled your wig off, stuffing it in your bag as you sighed with relief. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, focusing in on the sounds of nature around you. Maybe coming to the woods would become a weekly thing for you, like therapy.

A low deep growl broke you out of your trance, your eyes flying open and flickering around to find the source. Your heart hammered against your chest, and your whole body stiffened in fear. A few moments later a dark black wolf emerged from the trees, larger than any wolf you had seen on tv. You could vaguely see blood dripping from its muzzle, and its dark red eyes were focused right on you.

It paused at the edge of the clearing, its lips pulling back to reveal sharp blood-stained teeth. Your breath came quick as you leaned back, unsure if you should run or try and hide behind the log. Both seemed unhelpful in this current situation, but you were really low on options.

The wolf’s body tensed before springing toward you. Your hands instinctively grabbed whatever was nearest to you, which happened to be your very expensive camera, and threw it toward the wolf. This did nothing to deter the predator from its prey, and within seconds the beast was on you.

#seventeen werewolf #werewolf!seventeen #werewolf!mingyu #seventeen x reader #ultkpop #seventeen #svt #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfic #seventeen scenarios #kim mingyu #Werewolf!AU #werewolf!svt #mingyu imagines #mingyu scenarios #mingyu x reader #seventeen mingyu

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ladyfloriographist · 3 years

Text

Descent of Man

[Image source]

Pairing: Commander Joseph Lawrence (The Handmaid’s Tale (TV)) x femme!Reader

Warnings: SPOILERS, Canon-Divergence, Non-Canon, Post Season 3, Repression, Oppression, Dystopic Future, Dystopian Themes, Older Man/Younger Woman, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mentions of Death, Traditional Gender Roles, Religious Extremism

XXXX

“Straighten your back, dear. Don’t slouch.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your red leather suitcase as you walk up the concrete path that leads to Commander Joseph Lawrence’s front door. Nerves in your legs tingle back to life. The drive from the Red Center was long, and Aunt Lydia had counselled you to mind your patience when you’d grown restless. But now, as you make your way to the crescent-shaped steps, you can’t help but hope for even one minute more in the van.

The overcast sky looms grey and ominous overhead.

“Remember, the Commander is a very powerful man.” Aunt Lydia’s cane clacks on the concrete alongside your footsteps. “He is very well respected, Ofjoseph. This is quite the opportunity for you.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

The old Victorian becomes grander and more imposing with every step you take towards it. Your gaze lifts higher and higher: first floor, second storey, then dormers and a tower that let light into what must be the attic. Stonework and Roman arches over the windows and doors signal the age of the house—it has to be at least one hundred years old.

“He has suffered great losses recently, as you well know.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.” She had recited the story over and over—and made sure you could tell it back to her, too. Your and Aunt Lydia’s footsteps fall into stride along the concrete path, fast approaching the stairs up to the house.

“His dear Wife, Mrs Eleanor Lawrence—may God protect and keep her—and then his Handmaid, too.” The Aunt tuts. “Oh, that wretched girl. I’d had such hopes, Ofjoseph—but you won’t disappoint me so, will you, dear?”

“No, Aunt Lydia.” The knot in your gut tightens.

“No, good girl.” Aunt Lydia modestly raises her brown skirts to ascend the concrete steps with grace. “Posture,” she says pointedly, brow arched, looking back at you with an appraising, approving glance before she knocks on the large black front door.

Just before you bow your head to look to the concrete beneath your feet, your eye is caught by something to the right, attached to the burnt-orange bricks that make up the gloriously antiquated home.

It’s a black wooden plaque, with three golden numerals in the centre framed by a golden ovoid ring.

132

You glance down quickly. You should not even be making an attempt to read, whether it be letters or numbers or anything. If Aunt Lydia saw recognition register on your face, she’d march you straight back to the van to return you to the Red Center for the swift removal of one of your fingers.

Leniency, for your first offence.

“The Commander has been very gracious in accepting you, Ofjoseph. You have a privileged place here.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia. Praise be.”

“Mm,” Aunt Lydia hums in righteous agreement. “Praise be.”

…But still, it strikes you as unusual, as you stare at the grey concrete, that such a plaque should even exist, now. Such decorative tiles are relics from the time before Gilead—forbidden, now, and what’s more, utterly useless. How could such an inscribed plate remain intact when there are no more street signs to direct your way let alone numbered houses?

The front door swings open, shocking you out of your thoughts.

“Blessed day. Come in, Aunt Lydia.”

A female voice. Younger? Deferential.

A Martha: one of the two you’d been told to expect here.

“Blessed day, Sienna, thank you,” Aunt Lydia replies pleasantly. “Come along, Ofjoseph,” she says promptly, without a look back at you as she steps inside.

The interior of the Commander’s house greets you like, once, a warm hug might have done. Off the foyer is two sitting rooms, and they seem dark, but not sinister inside. The walls are papered with cranberry-red brocade and muted-toned, aging florals, or else—painted with rich, deep hues of colour. Dark-stained wood pocket doors with etched glass inserts lead to one sitting room and an archway with a stained-glass transom at the top leads to another. The heavy, patterned curtains inside make the sitting rooms feel cosy and private—even, dare you think, warm. Full and ornate bookshelves, rugs of paisley and Persian patterns, and an abundance of leather seating furnish the cluttered rooms.

“This way, please,” offers the Martha named Sienna, gesturing through the open pocket doors.

You follow Aunt Lydia, your eyes struggling to adequately absorb every detail of the room. Lamps on side tables, artworks from many different Schools arranged effortlessly on the walls, chests, sculptures, a chandelier, a fireplace.

Cushions and blankets strewn over the leather couches. Stacks of books lazing on armchairs.

An old, freestanding record player in one corner.

Knowledge, art, and music all reside here.

The house is lived in. Still. Even now.

“Can I getcha a tea, some coffee, Aunt Lydia?” comes a man’s voice from the far end of the room.

Before you can think better of it, your gaze snaps to the sound of his voice—relaxed, even casual in tone. He stands just inside another arched opening, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. A generous head of ghost-white hair tops his head. He has thick grey brows and a white beard peppered with silver and grey. Thin-framed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. He wears a waistcoat, and a buttoned vest with a scarf tied like a cravat, in an ascot knot.

It’s the first you’ve seen a man of Gilead not dressed in a black suit and black tie.

“Commander Lawrence,” Aunt Lydia smiles, with only a slight waver in her voice. “Blessed day, Sir.” Your raised wings catch in her periphery and she glances at you with beady eyes.

You drop your head immediately, quickly and quietly pretending like you’d been studying the many colours in the Persian rug beneath your brown boots.

The Commander’s gaze flicks to you—not that you see it—before he looks back at the Aunt. “Hi, yeah,” he says, “blessed, good morning.” He calls down the hallway, “Sienna?”

You shift on your feet, tightening your grip on your own gloved hands where they rest in front of you. The Commander’s casual, informal, incorrect greeting stirs a sense of unease in your stomach. Was he merely distracted or… wilfully disrespectful? Could you even think such a thing, about a man like him?

Beside you, Aunt Lydia bristles, drawing in a sharp, quiet gasp. But she settles herself quickly.

“Sienna!?” calls the Commander again, louder this time before turning back to his guests.

Well, his one guest, who brought with her the newest member of his household.

“’d you say coffee, Aunt Lydia? I think Beth made scones.”

“Ah…” the Aunt hesitates, gathering herself in a way you’ve rarely seen her need to do. “Oh my. Tea would be a delight, Commander,” she recovers. “No need to waste your delicacies on me!”

“Hm,” Commander Lawrence huffs a mirthless laugh in response to Aunt Lydia’s self-deprecating smile, and the resulting silence is broken by a set of hurried footsteps that quickly enter the room.

“You called for me, Commander?”

The young Martha, her rich brown eyes wide, a sheen of sweat making her warm-brown skin glow, her voice slightly breathless.

“Auhm, yeah,” says Commander Lawrence, swivelling to address her. “Tea, please, Sienna—and bring three cups, would ya? Some of Beth’s scones, too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Three cups?

“Thanks.”

“Three?”

Aunt Lydia’s incredulous voice cuts through the room like a warm knife in soft butter. It’s so abrupt, so much shriller than you are used to that your gaze flicks upwards.

The Aunt’s round, wrinkled face is dropped in an expression of pure shock. The room is silent, even Sienna’s retreating footsteps have ceased, as the three of you look between each other—stunned in the face of this blatant and brazen flouting of Gilead-sanctioned decorum.

It seems, as tested as Aunt Lydia has been since arriving at the Commander’s house, that this act of hospitality extended to you, a Handmaid, is the extent of what she can handle.

For the first time since meeting him, you spot a hint of a smile flicker across Commander Lawrence’s face, as elusive as the passing of a shadow, or a ghost. “Three, Lydia,” he says quietly, with a self-assured confidence that dares her to question him further—especially since he refused to use her title.

The air is thick with tension. You hold your breath.

Aunt Lydia’s lower lip quivers as she searches for words. Her brow creases, her small eyes flitting between his as she holds the Commander’s gaze.

You hear her suck in a breath before she speaks again.

“Th-hank you, Commander Lawrence.” Aunt Lydia swallows. “Praise be, you are most generous, Sir.”

Everything breathes again. Footsteps recede down the hall once more, the walls themselves sigh with relief. For a moment you almost think you hear birdsong outside—but that’s next to impossible, over all the radio chatter.

“Welcome,” the Commander replies, lazily omitting words in his speech once more. His tone is breezily self-assured once again, but his dark eyes have hardened into a cold stare. He turns his gaze on you. “Sit.”

You look to the floor so quickly there’s a twinge in your neck, and you drop into the nearest seat. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Under His Eye, Sir.”

“Alright,” the Commander cringes at your nervous rambling. “No problem, just, yeah. Siddown.”

You clasp your gloved hands together in your lap, your eyes fixed on the tiny balls of lint that have gathered near the seams. Everything about this man, from his clothes, to his manner, to his home, is contrary to what you’d been told to expect.

“Please,” says the Commander to Aunt Lydia, gesturing and offering for her to take a seat also. He walks around one of the armchairs, picks up a stack of three books and unceremoniously drops them on top of the existing stack on a nearby side table so he can sit down, too.

Aunt Lydia, frazzled and just barely recovering from the disrespect afforded her by the Commander, uneasily sits down on one of the brown leather couches. She sits like she’s perching on it, not quite setting down all her weight, on an angle to take up only the smallest possible amount of space.

She clears her throat. “Commander,” she forces a smile, shifting to face him, “it is my great hope that Ofjoseph will bring some,” she pauses, anxiously looking around at the many artworks and stacks of books that decorate the room, “stability, to your household, Sir. By His Hand.”

“Thanks,” says Commander Lawrence. “’ppreciate it.”

“I…” Aunt Lydia stammers again, stumbling over the Commander’s audacious disregard for social custom. It’s unorthodox—or rather, much worse—it’s a deliberate, transparent, shameless violation of his role as a Commander in the Republic of Gilead.

Lost for words, Aunt Lydia merely nods her head in deference. Her fingers flex around the gilded handle of her cane.

The Commander hums to clear his throat as Sienna brings a laden tray into the room. One teapot, three teacups, a plate of scones, and one small ramekin of butter.

The Martha sets it all down on the coffee table and the porcelain rattles softly in the stifling silence.

“Thanks, Sienna,” says Commander Lawrence, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea as the younger Martha leaves the room. “Hey, uh,” he sits back in his armchair, cup and saucer in hand, “you.”

You feel his eyes on you. This is how he chooses to address you? To draw your attention to him? ‘You’?

The stillness in the room is expectant, now. You tell yourself to lift your head.

“Ofjoseph?” Aunt Lydia prompts you.

Commander Lawrence speaks over the top of her. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s nothing hard or soft in his stare, nothing warm or cold in the way he regards you. He merely sees you—his eyes observing, his lips in a line that neither smiles nor frowns.

He’s a wall, but built to defend or protect, you can’t read right now.

“My last Handmaid was a bit of a rabble-rouser,” he says easily, his voice nonchalant, “so I'm gonna say to you the same thing I said to her, ‘kay?”

You swallow, absorbing his candour. Aunt Lydia had told you never to speak of the last Ofjoseph, even if it was asked of you. But this particular question posed by the Commander requires more than a passive response. You get the sense that a number of conversations with him will be like this, and so you steel yourself to speak with a clear voice. “Yes, Commander.”

He keeps his gaze locked with yours, and brings his steaming teacup to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes trained on yours, and you resist the urge to shrink and shrivel into yourself.

The Commander swallows and sets his cup onto the saucer. It clinks, and after letting the small sound land for beat he says lowly, “You’re not gonna be any trouble, are you?”

Your breath catches, your voice stalling in your throat. Staring at him heats your blood, makes your palms perspire in your gloves. The man is dignified; he holds himself almost regally wherever he sits or stands. Is it the power he holds that makes him handsome, or is innate attraction purling in the pit of your gut?

…What will the Ceremony be like with him?

“No, Sir,” you say, your voice so soft it cracks. You gulp and collect yourself. Timidity does not seem to be a quality Commander Lawrence respects—another lesson you’d ardently learned only to be proven useless in his house. With more confidence, but not too much, particularly for Aunt Lydia’s benefit, you say, “Praise be to you, Commander, and may He make me truly worthy.”

You can feel Aunt Lydia’s presence lift with pride. You can see the smile spread across her face without needing to look at her, and can hear her words in your head without her needing to speak them.

‘Very good, dear,’ comes the Aunt’s voice in your mind.

The Commander looks you over, stoic as ever. “Ya,” is all he says in reply.

“Ofjoseph is one of our most promising Handmaids, Commander, allow me to assure you,” Aunt Lydia chimes in, now, finally, feeling on equal footing again. “Since the horrendous tragedies that your household has withstood, we thought it right and just that you be unburdened in at least this regard, Sir.”

“Unburdened?” the Commander replies flatly, his stalwart gaze now fixed on the Aunt.

You’re not sure whether you can look away from him. Does he wish for your eyes to remain on him? Does he expect you to look at him and from him at your own discretion? Would he like you to use your own judgement?

Regardless, it is clear that the decision of the Red Center Aunts to provide a pious, docile new Handmaid as consolation for his wife’s death is—at the very best—unappreciated by the Commander.

But whether or not Commander Lawrence appreciates the gesture and the gift that the Aunts have made you into is, ultimately, not your concern. Your first and last and only priority is that you fall pregnant with Commander Lawrence’s child as soon as humanly possible—or it’s the Colonies for you.

However, you being his sixth Handmaid, the Commander needs you to fall pregnant with his child just as quickly—given, especially, the sudden exodus of most of Gilead’s children seemingly overnight.

“Forgive me, Commander,” Aunt Lydia frowns, her eyes softening apologetically. “I only meant—”

“’s fine,” he interrupts, setting his cup and saucer back on the tray. “Tea’s gone cold, anyway,” the Commander stands from his seat and straightens his waistcoat, clearing his throat. “You can find your way out, Aunt Lydia?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Aunt Lydia assures him, mirroring his movement and standing from the sofa, somewhat uneasily on her injured leg. On instinct, you rise to your feet too.

“Til next time,” the Commander says, his voice laced with sarcastic fondness, as he strolls from the room and into what must be his private study. He doesn’t spare you a single backwards glance as he pulls another set of pocket doors closed behind him.

Silence settles over the sitting room like night.

Just like that, the visit concludes, and the realisation washes over you.

You’re not leaving with Aunt Lydia, when she goes, which she’s sure to do in just a moment.

This is it. The transaction is complete.

Your place is here. This house is now your home.

“I’ll be back the day after the Ceremony, dear,” Aunt Lydia says, leaning on her cane to stand. “In about, oh!” she pauses, looks at you with bright eyes, “seven days! Oh, sacred number. Blessings, Ofjoseph. May God bring forth His miracle.”

You muster a smile for her. Despite how this woman screamed at you, berated you, withheld your food and your sleep and denigrated your sense of self until you believed you were worth nothing more than being impregnated and delivering a healthy baby, her absence from your daily routine will be an adjustment.

You say, “Under His Eye, Aunt Lydia.”

She cups your cheek. “Under His Eye, dear.”

The Aunt makes her way to the door, met by Sienna and the second Martha, Beth, who stand in the foyer to see her off. The front door closes behind Aunt Lydia, and as soon as the latch locks it’s as if a dark, heavy storm cloud lifts from the house.

The Marthas sigh and relax, chattering eagerly and bickering animatedly about tonight’s dinner and even complaining about the Commander’s fussiness as they strut down the hallway to the kitchen. From the other side of the house, you hear a flare of music go up: some kind of Big Band era song, with trumpets and tubas and horns playing vivace—lively and fast.

The sun peeks out from behind the shroud of overcast sky, lighting up the sitting rooms with the glow of mid-afternoon.

You take a breath.

This old house feels alive.

#commander joseph lawrence #joseph lawrence #commander joseph lawrence x reader #commander joseph lawrence x you #joseph lawrence x reader #joseph lawrence x you #the handmaid's tale #g writes

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cdyssey · 3 years

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Summary: After Nick arrives at the beach house, Frankie escapes to her studio to process her emotions. Post 7x04.

A/N: I've had such Grace and Frankie brain rot these past few days that I figured I should put it to good use and write another fic. It was really fascinating to try Frankie's POV. Lily Tomlin imbues her with a lot of subtle pathos that I totally wish the show would explicitly explore more.

AO3 Link

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Frankie excuses herself to the studio for dinner, so she can process her very big, astonishingly inappropriate, and entirely overwhelming emotions without resorting to calling Nick a “wavy-haired, Pierce Brosnan wannabe douche canoe.”

As delightful (and totally true) of a turn a phrase that it is, even she knows that saying it aloud would be trespassing a boundary that she’s sworn herself never to cross: Grace is married.

Unhappily married, maybe.

Complicatedly married at the very least.

But until the day that they mutually say “I do” to divorce papers, there isn’t enough room for three people in the Skolka marriage, however much that Grace—bless her increasingly unthawing heart—tries to ensure otherwise.

So Frankie lets the newly reunited couple have their dinner alone under the guise of a generosity that she doesn’t exactly feel, and she takes leftover pasta into her studio to moodily pick around the bowl until her fettuccine looks less like fettuccine and more like unevenly perforated confetti.

(Woo fucking hoo.)

After a few minutes of this aggressively unconstructive practice, she places her nearly full bowl on a nearby work table and stretches out across her paint-stained couch, staring at the ceiling and resisting the reactionary urge to light a joint. Mary J might help her feel better for the present moment, but tomorrow morning, she’d still wake up and feel invaded in her own home.

Paradoxically, she’d also feel alone, goddammit.

She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against an invisible and piercing chill.

Frankie hates feeling lonely.

She spiraled when Grace lived in the penthouse. She nearly self-destructed to fill the gaping void that her roommate, her friend, her practical and beloved soulmate left behind. There was a period where she didn’t wash her clothes and ate a lot of admittedly non-vegan takeout. There were nights when she’d lay awake in her awfully huge bed, staring at the empty space where Sol used to sleep, and have the familiar waking nightmare of spending her final years in forced solitude. She was happy with Jack, and then Jacob—sweet Jacob—came around too, and she did something she still feels fucking ashamed about: she hurt both of them, and she lied when she said that she had just wanted to have some fun.

She knows herself.

Intimately.

She‘d been scared of being alone again, so she tried to hold on to two people who were helping her to stave the awful feeling away. Those men wanted her, and Frankie used them. They wanted her, and she pathologically loves to feel wanted because she sometimes and irrationally fears that she might not be needed.

To be fair to her irrational fears, all the people she’s ever needed and felt needed by have hurt her before.

Sol cheated on her for twenty years.

Her own sons stuck her in a nursing home.

Grace just fucking left her.

She eloped in Vegas like a blushing twenty-one year old bride and just disappeared.

She says it was a mistake; she sat across Frankie in a sunlit restaurant and candidly told her that she didn’t like the person she had become when she married Nick.

And to be completely fair to her, Grace has been adamant about not wanting to leave again—so perhaps she never will—but if her husband is here to stay, it's also a distinct possibility that she’ll never have to make the choice to physically leave to… well… leave.

She can perpetually honeymoon with Nick and still call Frankie home.

It could be a happy ending for Grace… and a fresh new hell for Frankie, who'd just started to feel secure again.

God knows she wants her best friend to be happy, but the big man in the sky must also surely understand that she had hoped that she alone could be enough for Grace, that this unconventional life spent together in the beach house—so crazy, so weird, and so inextricably entangled—would be their shared happily ever after.

But even as she thinks it, the vestiges of her clearly misplaced optimism begin to evade her, dregs now at the bottom of an already drained cup.

She and Grace aren't married.

It’s always been an objective fact.

Tonight, it feels more like an unpleasant reality.

When the door leading into her studio suddenly flies open, Frankie barely has enough time to swipe the back of her hand across her eyes before she sits up to find none other than the lady of the hour.

Her collared shirt popped up stiffly around her neck, a martini glass surgically glued to her right hand, Grace looks quintessentially herself as she walks in, even down to the minutiae of her trademark I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it expression—brow furrowed and eyes Medusa cold. After all but slamming the door, she stalks over within a few clicks of her practical but unmistakably high heels.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine,” Frankie greets wryly, hoping to hell and back that her face isn’t as red as it feels.

It’s a tall order, though.

Alas, she was gifted (or equally cursed) with an exceptionally expressive face.

“Frankie, this is nonsense,” Grace says bluntly, using her martini glass like a pointer and leveling it straight at her head. “Come back to the house—your house—and have dinner with us.”

It’s the authoritarian nature of the demand that rifles Frankie.

Frankly, it pisses her off.

She’s always been a rebel contrarian.

“And by us, you mean you and your house arrested husband, right?” She returns evenly. She betrays herself by raising a single and devastatingly skeptical brow. “The man with whom you should be having a very emotionally honest conversation with right now about the parameters of your jacked up relationship?”

Grace shifts her weight from heel to heel and glances away a little too quickly for the gesture to be entirely natural. Frankie had blatantly stricken a pulsing nerve, and the guilt of doing so immediately swallows her.

She shouldn’t be so hard on her friend.

(She doesn’t know why it’s permissible to be equally hard on herself.)

“Well, I tried to have that conversation, thank you very much, but then I ended up wanting to claw Nick’s eyes out.” The obvious follow up question must shine in Frankie’s face because sighing infinitesimally through her nostrils, Grace adds, “His attorney argued that my advanced age and apparent capability to croak at any moment were reasons enough to grant Nick leniency. They let him out so he could take care of me—whatever the hell that means.”

Her no-nonsense voice never falters as she delivers the brutal words, but her eyes undermine her, seething with emotion, simply roiling. They tell a story of horror and disgust and searing, absolute betrayal; they’re heavy all over with sadness and the indelicate trappings of all her raw and mercilessly exposed fears.

Frankie understands immediately.

Nick used one of Grace’s deepest insecurities as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Being eighty-two years old.

But perhaps more accurately, feeling like it.

“Oh, honey,” Frankie melts. She can do nothing else but melt, to be suddenly overcome with fierce, protective, and terrifying love for the woman in front of her. “That fucking bastard.”

Grace immediately laughs, the sound hoarse and watery and a little unhinged all at the exact same time.

“Tell me about it,” she half-smiles and takes the swearing as a rightful invitation to join Frankie on the couch. With a gentle clink, she sets her half-emptied martini glass on the table next to Frankie’s completely full pasta bowl. “I said the exact same thing.”

When she chooses to sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing, Frankie intuitively knows that this is petty defiance against Nick for daring to intrude upon them and the world they've so carefully created together.

She temples Grace’s nearest hand with her own in an attempt to silently communicate that this right here—whatever this is between them—is love.

“So, please”—Grace squeezes her hand back—“please don’t be angry with me… I… I didn’t want this. You know I didn’t want this. I don’t want him to even be here.”

Frankie stares openly at her best friend.

Wide-eyed and hopeful against her self-loathing, self-centered will, she searches her broken face like it's revelatory.

It's stunningly rare that Grace Hanson ever articulates her wants so clearly. Forty years of an emotionally repressive marriage did their number and toll on her. She pedestalized rigid decorum over every conscious desire.

She played by the rules even if they hurt her.

And drank herself to oblivion on many a night to forget the very fact that she was hurt.

To deny herself the honesty she’d somehow convinced herself that she didn’t deserve.

“… you know this is your husband we’re talking about here, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. Frankie's pretty sure that they both fucking know that it’s insane that this conversation—that this entire situation as a whole—is happening.

“I know,” Grace replies firmly. “Believe me, I'm well aware. But you’re… you’re my partner, Frankie, and if I can’t be upfront with you, then I don’t know who else I can turn to.”

The very word partner sends shivers down her spine, and the shivers collect like butterflies in her already churning belly.

It’s just a word, she tells herself.

She scolds.

Grace doesn’t mean anything by it.

It's a label, and Grace doesn't do labels anymore.

“I... I wasn’t mad at you, Grace,” she finally admits. It's easier to do than questioning the extent to which her roommate would give up the world for her, but all the same, her voice is frighteningly weak, a pale imitation of everything Frankie usually projects herself to be: confident, cheerful, unshakeable, unshaken. Suddenly, it hits her that it’s been a very long time since she’s been so openly vulnerable, too. “I'm not even really all that mad at your jailbird husband either. I was just scared, and when I get scared, I skitter like a nervous little bug."

She shuts down.

She spirals.

She tries to put a smile on her face for the people who love her all the same.

And then she lies awake at night, drowning in the sheets of an empty bed.

Thinking about how she should probably tell someone that everything hurts.

But she’s Frankie, and she doesn’t do that.

Grace perpetually convinces herself that she doesn’t deserve honesty; Frankie has come to fear that no one wants her own.

“Were you scared of me?” Grace asks quietly, her grip so tight now that it almost stings.

“Frankie…” She presses when a few heartbeats of silence stagger by, limping painfully on all fours, pronouncing so many unspoken and profound hurts.

“Of losing you, Grace,” she confesses, the words defeated and scraped raw. She forcefully tugs her hand away from Grace's just to temple her own hands together on her lap, to lick her sundry and shining wounds in a private corner. “I was scared of losing you, of being alone again in this big, empty house… and I don’t like being alone.”

She can’t bear to look at Grace as she says it, staring at the paint-flecked floor without ever really seeing it, her eyes burning.

She wishes they’d stop burning but feels the precise moment when they begin to leak anyway.

It’s all so embarrassing.

And childish.

Frankie is an eighty-year old woman, and she shouldn’t be upset over her best friend having a goddamn life.

She should be happy for her, fucking ecstatic.

And yet, she's—

But before she can complete the miserable thought, her body becomes aware of another sensation entirely—warm arms enveloping her from the side and inexorably pulling her in, turning the space that once existed between two bodies—between them—intangible, negligible.

Grace.

Shock turns into realization, and realization transforms into aching, sweeping relief.

It can only be Grace.

Grace’s soft lips pressed to her cheek.

Grace’s fingertips curling into the fabric of her dress.

Grace’s nose against her neck as she slides her sharp chin across her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you, Frances Bergstein,” she declares. “Whatever happens between me and Nick, in the end, it’s going to be just you and me in this house that is our damn home. I swear that to you. I’d tell you every day just to prove it to you.”

Oh, these words.

These beautiful, tender, and long-needed-to-hear words.

They’re just words, she could tell herself again.

She could lie.

She could convince herself if she had to.

She could conveniently forget that Grace Hanson uses language carefully, that she employs every sentence with scalpel-like precision.

Or... more complicatedly still... Frankie could believe her.

Frankie could blindly accept these words for what they are, as manifest confirmation that she is loved by another—prioritized and cared for and needed.

She could be Grace’s partner and let that incredible word be electrically charged with so many complex and ridiculous and extraordinary ideas, none of which are traditional, and all of which feel true.

She could believe in her even if belief is not simple, even if belief is a product, first and foremost, of trust.

And Grace has certainly lost her trust before, but goddammit, she's earned it so many times, too.

“Oh, God,” Frankie laughs in such a way that it’s stupidly clear that she’s crying as Grace rubs slow circles into her back with her thumb. “This is all messed up. You’re the one with a house arrested, tax evading husband. I should be the one comforting you.”

“The house arrested, tax evading husband doesn’t particularly faze me,” Grace chuckles, her voice low. “Seeing you hurting and upset does. My priorities are remarkably straight.”

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word,” she smiles weakly as they slowly and clumsily begin to extricate themselves from their tangled embrace.

It’s hard to find themselves again.

To be apart.

“But I do,” Grace protests, emphatic and indignant and maybe even a few shades righteously pissed. “You’re the person I wanna share this crazy life with at the end of the day and every day. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because every day is an incredibly long time to be with me,” Frankie offers meekly, giving her one more perfect and easily acceptable copout, a neatly packaged excuse.

She can be too much.

She knows this.

“It’s just the right amount of time to be with you,” Grace murmurs, reaching up to brush an errant tear away from Frankie’s cheek, her thumb lingering, her quivering palm. “You’re kind enough to love me, and I’m lucky enough to be loved by you... so let me return the favor, Frankie. Let me be here for you."

And to Grace’s credit in this fleeting moment, she continues to hold Frankie.

It's a promise to never let her go.

#grace and frankie #grace hanson #frankie bergstein #grace x frankie #grace and frankie spoilers #reginianwrites #s: grace and frankie

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