Arms Wide Open - Chapter 1

Gods, you touched him - nobody ever did that.  He struggled to appropriately respond, stumbling over his words.  “No, no… there’s no need…” he replied.  Was his voice really high right now?  “I’ve had plenty of near misses with this one…” he gestured toward Grogu.  “So it was my pleasure…”

Pleasure!!??  What a dumb and awkward thing to say…

Series Masterlist Main Masterlist

Summary: Din didn’t see you coming, or… one fateful trip to the market and a platonic night together changes everything.

Notes: This fic was unexpectedly inspired by the opening scenes of “Anyone but You” - I loved the sweet, companionable dynamic featured in that first night together and imagined Din meeting someone who brought out the lighter side of his personality.  I do not take it on the circuitous route taken in the movie, though.  Din and reader will get their shit together a whole lot quicker here.

Warnings: Language.

Word count: 1.3k

Read on AO3

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You had to go… like really bad.

Your first day of work in the field office on Nevarro had gone quite well, but there had been one teensy little problem.  You had no clue where to find the freaking fresher and nobody around after lunchtime to ask.  So you held it.  All day.

There wasn’t even enough time to run home to your small cabin on the outskirts of town when you finally left in the early evening.  Your bladder was about to burst at the seams.

You looked around as you exited the building for any establishment likely to have customer facilities before running across the street to a small indoor market as quickly as your feet could carry you, praying to the Maker that you could manage to hold it for just a few more minutes.

Upon entering, you grabbed the first item within your line of sight, a small loaf of bread, and booked it to the checkout line…

…which traversed the entire length of the store.

Kriff.  

Time to resort to begging.

“Excuse me, sir?” you attempted, approaching the cashier who was busy with a customer.  “May I use your fresher?  I promise I’ll buy this.  I just really have to go… like immediately.”

He didn’t even look in your direction.  “You pay first, then you get to use the fresher.”

“Please,” you begged, crossing your legs in a vain attempt to keep the urine at bay.

He simply pointed behind him to a sign which read ‘Fresher for Paying Customers Only’.

“Damn it!” you exclaimed in frustration, then muttering to yourself under your breath.  “I’m going to wet my pants.  And then I’ll have to walk all the way home like that.  Fuck!”

“She’s with me,” you heard a distinctly staticy male voice say somewhere behind you.  “I’ll buy the bread, too.  Let her go to the fresher.”

You turned to see what stranger had intervened on your behalf.  

A Mandalorian - decked out in full armor and faceless, metal visage with a small, green child in his arms.  You’d never expected such a contradictory sight, but who were you to question it?  This man just saved your dignity.

The young cashier, suddenly alert and attentive, subtly bowed in the man’s direction.  “Of course, Mr. Djarin.  I didn’t know she was with you.”  The teenager finally looked at you and thrust a key in your face.  “Go ahead, ma’am.”

You took it without ceremony despite your annoyance with the boy, and even as you rushed to the back of the store, you took a moment to mouth a sincere ‘thank you’ to the mysterious man who subtly nodded back in recognition of your gratitude.

________________________________________

Damned Grogu’s cute face.  Nobody could resist it - not even the teenage attendant behind the register who offered the child free samples of those kriffing blue cookies.

Din didn’t dare refuse.  If he did, the treat would find its way into Grogu’s mouth instead by way of the force which he still preferred his son not use around aruetti.

As they sat at a small table in the dining area of the store, Din’s thoughts turned back to you - the desperate woman he’d never seen before begging to use the fresher.  Did you not know about the public facilities right in the center of town?  What were you even doing here in Nevarro?  It wasn’t exactly a bustling tourist destination.  

Perhaps he needed to do some sleuthing, make sure you weren’t a threat.  

It couldn’t possibly be that he just wanted to know more about you… your age… marital status… No, of course not.  He was just Nevarro’s sworn protector… It was his job… obviously…

The fact that you were both beautiful and appeared appropriately middle aged like himself had absolutely nothing to do with it.

“Mister… Djarin…?”

Din was startled out of his musings by your voice and looked up to see your lovely face beaming at him.

“Thank you again for your help,” you started, taking one of his gloved hands in yours for a moment before letting go.  “Stars, I’m so embarrassed… But please, let me pay for your groceries.  You can even keep the bread - I didn’t even need it.”

Gods, you touched him - nobody ever did that.  He struggled to appropriately respond, stumbling over his words.  “No, no… there’s no need…” he replied.  Was his voice really high right now?  “I’ve had plenty of near misses with this one…” he gestured toward Grogu.  “So it was my pleasure…”

Pleasure!!??  What a dumb and awkward thing to say��

To his great embarrassment (and relief), you laughed.  “I suppose it’s not every day you get to save a grown woman from wetting her pants.”  Ah, so you were funny, too… not that he was keeping track of your attractive qualities…

Grogu, bless him, intervened then to save his father’s dignity, reaching out to you with a cookie in hand.

“Why, thank you, little one.  I would love a cookie.”  You took it from him and placed it in your pocket.  “I’m not hungry right now, but this will be a very fine dessert after my dinner tonight.”  

Good with kids - check… and smart enough not to actually eat something that had been in Grogu’s grubby hands.

The child made a series of hand gestures in response, and Din was forced to translate.  “He says ‘you’re welcome’ and…”  A sigh emanated from the vocoder.  “... he wants to know where you came from…  Grogu, she doesn’t even know us.  We shouldn’t ask personal questions.”  Says the man who wanted to investigate your background.

Din looked back up at you apologetically before adding, “I’m sorry - he’s very curious.  You don’t have to answer that.”  But he hoped you would.

You smiled - and stars, he might die if this conversation didn’t end soon.  He was getting redder and redder under the visor.

“Well, Grogu, it’s very nice to meet you.  I am new here, just started a job directing the agricultural field office - see if we can get more vegetation growing so that Nevarro never goes hungry for healthy produce.”  So you were smart, too… check…  “Today was my first day, and silly person that I am, I let everyone go early to enjoy the pleasant weather before they could show me where the fresher was located…”  And kind… another check… not that he was counting or anything.

Grogu gave her a toothy grin in response - he found this woman quite nice and funny.

“They’re uhmmm…” Din started. Why was he struggling so much to speak?  “They’re in the building next to the magistrate’s office - public facilities…”

“Oh!” you exclaimed, knocking yourself lightly on the forehead.  “That makes a lot of sense.  Thank you.”

He cleared his throat awkwardly.  “You’re welcome…”

You stared back at him serenely for just a moment, sparking his heart rate, before holding out your hand.  “I’m Flora… nickname…”

Din’s hand moved to take yours of its own accord, and he responded dumbly, “Din… real name…”  Maker…

Grogu looked up at him through scrunched eyes for a moment before bursting into a delightful fit of childish giggles, and you couldn’t help following suit.  Din finally gave in, allowing himself to take this all as lightly as you were, despite his humiliation with the entire interaction, chuckling softly under the helmet.

Din didn’t have many light moments like this.  Could he have more?

“Din… and Grogu…” you said as you regained your composure.  “It was very nice to meet you.  Thank you again for helping me out.  I hope we run into each other… often.”  Well, that sounded promising… and terrifying…

He didn’t trust himself to say anything more, so he simply nodded as you turned away and walked out the door.

The moment you were out of sight, Grogu began furiously signing in his direction.

Din sighed - Grogu was too insightful for his own good.  “Yes, kid, I like her…  No, we can’t follow her - that’s creepy…  Yes, I know I do that all the time, but those are bounties - not innocent women… Stars… ok, fine…”

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Next chapter

Spittin' Wicked Randomness with Small Professor

or, Bizarre Rides II the Pharthest Cyde; 

or, A beginning doesn’t need an ending, only a portal

Make your body a temple. Make your home a shrine. You are a God, live like one!

—Timothy Leary, “You Are A God, Act Like One!” (1967)

Psycholinguistic structural confusion leads to insidious beat wrecking missions and continuous speech recognition, prescription, vocal anecdotal object impressions…. Synergistic sample arrangements.

—Jungle Brothers, “Trials of an Era” (1993)

EXORDIUM

I long for the anonymity the internet once provided. Everyone was faceless. Vacant visages—not even an avatar. I’ll often try to remanufacture this premillennial experience for myself. I deliberately avoid seeking images to accompany the names I see on the screen. Many people nowadays—most people, the writer bemoaned—make this nearly impossible. Vanity of vanities—all is vanity! But I do try, I do. I look away; I increase the scroll speed; I squint to blur and becloud. Like Iris DeMent desired, I try to let the mystery be. On Rakim’s plodding “The Mystery (Who Is God?),” the God MC suggests you can solve the mystery if you realize the answer revolves around your history. But I need the mystery to stay intact. So many years on, and I’m still figuring out da mystery of chessboxin’, looking all the way back to when Wu-Tang was in black hoodies on the man-sized chessboard—cloaked rooks shouting peace to all the crooks with bad looks. “You cannot hook up a 100 million years of sensory-somatic revelation to your puny, trivial personality chess board,” so says Timothy Leary. I’m inclined to agree.

Aside from his music, I’ve known Small Professor—Jamil Marshall, if we split the veil—only through his words, through his text on my chosen screens: pixelated patterns of character images. But late last year, I stumbled across an image of him appearing not unlike a cloaked rook. Draped in a black robe, Small Professor appeared beside his Wrecking Crew brethren as a Sith Lord. The occasion was a Halloween performance at Cratediggaz Records in South Philly. Small Professor’s face was hidden, and so I could fuck with this type of qualified exposure. His shrouded appearance elevated my intrigue rather than diminished it. This was no flashbulb, soul-capturing, photographic evidence of existence; this was no selfie self-absorption; this was simply some spooky shit. 

Of the many messages that Small Professor measures out into the ether[net], the ones that have frequently caught my attention make some mention of hallucinogenic drugs. Here again, we have [e]strange bedfellows—that being technology and drugs. Twinned conceptualizations: drugs as teknology; teknology as drugs [scanned as tricknology, too, two]. Programming in the Silicon [Uncanny] Valley with the capital-I Internet reformatted as a Third [Eye]nternet. You scream as it enters your bloodstream. “Build, elevate to a higher comprehension, / Let your third eye rise above evil interventions,” if we’re properly tuned in to the Jungle Brothers’ “Troopin’ on the Down Low.” Teknology and drukqs might be more familiar than we (Eye) thought.

As we know from Jesse Jarnow, psychedelic saints were known as “heads,” which, underground hip-hop stalwarts of a certain age will wreckonize as an honorific for their own dedication to a way of life and listening. Stewart Brand, author and publisher of the Whole Earth Guide, would later speak of computers and online communities as the most auspicious collective force “since psychedelics.” Hua Hsu brings this to my total attention, but with my full cooperation (word to Def Squad), so there’s a few more things I’d like to mention. Computer science research centers saw networking and information sharing as devout acts “borrowed directly from Deadhead communalism.” Again, not dissimilar from the tape trading so crucial to the spread of this thing of ours called hip-hop. John Morrison writes of how “hip-hop owes much of its early development and propagation to an underground economy,” to the “recording and circulation of cassette tapes of park jams, live battles, DJ sets, and radio broadcasts” that brought a burgeoning and insurgent art form to the masses. The backchannels and clandestine conduits that made this dissemination possible suggest a secret organization with figures like Geechie Dan and Elvis “The Tapemaster” Moreno as its stewards. These cross-cultural, cross-generational connections exist despite Jerry Garcia’s abhorrence of rap as a legitimate musical form [see below: “Deadhead” diss-poem]. Small Professor centers himself within the radial lines of this complex mandala. His production isn’t strictly for the psych heads, or the hip-hop heads—his musick is For the Headz at Company Z. 

Small Professor understands the possibility and catalytic practices of rappers, much like William S. Burroughs did: “With computerized tape recorders & sensitive throat microphones we could attain insight into the nature of human speech & turn the word into a useful tool instead of an instrument of control in hands of a misinformed and misinforming press.” Somewhere you can hear the echoing call of Newwwspaaaaperrrr from the  Jungle Brothers’ “Book of Rhyme Pages,” a song with a prophetic register, a song that reads. 

In Burroughs’ essay “Academy 23: A Deconditioning,” which appeared in the San Francisco Oracle (c. 1966-1968), the beatific junky proposes that “academies be established where young people will learn to get really high…high as the Zen master is high when his arrow hits a target in the dark…high as the Karate master when he smashes a brick with his fist…high…weightless…in space.” As high as Wu-Tang get, I might add, Allah allow us pop this shit. Burroughs believes it’s “[t]ime to look beyond this cop rotten planet.” The students in Academy 23 “would receive a basic course consisting of training in the non-chemical disciplines of Yoga, Karate, prolonged sense withdrawal, stroboscopic lights, the constant use of tape recorders to break down verbal association lines. Techniques now being used for control of thought could instead be used for liberation.”

Small Professor is already present in such an academy, his “lab”—be it Albert Hofmann’s Sandoz Laboratory or RZA’s antediluvian lab. Like Bobby Digital, Small Professor experiences the “Lab Drunk,” the studio stupor: Stumbled into the lab half-drunk—honey-dipped, stinking blunts. The neural activity of Madlib’s psilocybin; the mind expansion of MKUltramagnetic; outlaw practices: tripping on LSD or sampling on an MPC—same diff, really. “The experience,” Leary wrote in the East Village Other, “must be communicated, harmonized with the greater flow.”

PART I

[December 23, 2023 | 9:10 PM] 

Small Professor:  Ah, fuck. I was supposed to plan this out. Just took 2 tabs to the dome officially at 9:00 PM. At some point tonight I will be looking around at my room like I just got here from outer space.

[10:14 PM]

Caltrops Press:  Where’s your head at right now?

SP:  Difficult to see. Always in motion is the right now (to paraphrase Yoda). Right now I am listening to “Right Now” (HAIM, live).

CP:  Are you alone?

SP:  I believe that to be true, but we can never be 100% sure, can we? I don’t presume to speak for you of course, but I’d wager that you may have, at least once, considered that The Truman Show could be real life, after all. According to this, though, yes:

CP:  Somebody once said, “Every day is Truman Show. True men show their face and expose flesh…” Do you think acid allows you to see beyond this reality?

SP:  No. It allows me to see this one more clearly. Time, or whatever it is that we collectively agree is this forward feeling momentum, seems to slow. So you (me) see the same things that you see everyday, but that your brain kinda knocks aside after a while. Things look new.

CP:  Are you typically playing music when you trip? Does the music slow down? Not literally. But do you process it differently? And, of course, I’m curious if you ever try to make music in this state?

SP:  I like making music that barely makes sense in whatever state I’m in at that time, so when I come back to it I’m even more confused. Like leaving yourself a drunk voicemail, but on purpose. I’m generally high—it’s just a matter of how. And to the last question: Do or do not, there is no try. 

PremRock:  I think [Small Professor's] work has benefited from discovering [hallucinogens]. He’s pretty passionate about ’em! I think it’s made him more expansive and he’s more eager to try far out ideas. He was always psychedelic in nature, but this just provided more of a conduit.

Zilla Rocca:  Even without shroomz he always had a bugged-out sense of melody, rhythm, and layered samples. Smalls has always been a seeker. We connect like that. We love unearthing old rap to learn from it while appreciating all the new styles.

When brothers start buggin’, I bug the most.

—Jungle Brothers, “Simple As That”

CP:  I’ve never fucked with psychedelics, so I generally have either a romantic or sensational notion of what it must be like. Have you ever had any experiences where things went really weird, or have you ritualized it enough so that you know what to expect? Like it’s become yoga or meditation for you by this point. 

SP:  Yeah, it’s pretty meditative. The first time I had acid was so surreal that nothing else could dream to compare.

CP:  When was that? Do you still remember the details?

SP:  Well, first of all, I couldn’t have started such a journey without such caring guides, for they did not have to take time from their lives to explain how much to take, how much not to, to be mindful of the kind of media you’re ingesting while in that space—like nothing too scary and shit like that. They specifically said, “Maybe watch a comedy tonight. Something on the lighter side of things.”

CP:  I’ve heard that’s important, having a guide.

SP:  So I believe I initially started off with the smallest amount I could take, cuz I didn’t know any better. But the effect was immediate. I remember going outside and just standing in an empty parking spot in front of my crib and watching it rain. It was night already. I was like, Wow, this is the best rain I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of rain. And then I went out to get more tree. On my way home though, so…okay. How do I explain this? So, my Lyft driver on my way back to my house, he and I strike up a conversation. At the end of our talk, which included a phone call to someone of high stature in the 5% community who spoke to me directly, I embarked on the path to knowledge of self.

CP:  Like, sincerely? Or only until you stopped being high?

SP:  Well, I know now it started there. But I’ve always known that I am god, in some way. It’s just that, after you find out, what do you do with that knowledge of your own god-dom? That’s one thing I can appreciate about psychedelics. It’s like, Alright, well, if I know my brain is capable of such a thought or a piece of music in this one state, then I should be able to get back to it.

CP:  I get that. Like, “I’ve done this before, so I can surely do it again.” But, for so many artists, they struggle to capture whatever it is. I know a lot of times I’ll look back on something I’ve written and then ask myself, How did that even happen? Because the process—the making of something—is often so unconscious. 

Curly Castro:  Smalls calls me after the fact (bka “a trip”) and regales me with a cornucopia of odd and odder occurrences. I will say that one time [redacted] and that’s when [redacted] and what could say after [redacted]. I just told him, Say Less.

CP:  How long will this trip last? You took two tabs at 9 PM, and it’s been 4.5 hours.

SP:  Oh, I’ll be up for a while. Night hasn’t even begun.

CP:  I need to crash because I’ve got to be up early. But keep dropping whatever random thoughts you have here. We’ll call this Part 1.

SP:  Fantastic, Pt. 1

SP:  “God is never small.” Those are the words that man said, and my reply was, “...I am? I am. Ohhhh. I am.”

[Small Professor links me to a video showing Donald Lawrence & The Tri-City Singers performing “I Am God.”]

SP:  Also, I’m quite proud of the fact that my government name [Jamil], oddly Arabic considering how Christian my dear mother is, quite literally translates to “Beautiful Ruler,” with my first name actually meaning “god” in certain places (“Jamil” is one of Allah’s 99 aliases—I found that out earlier this year). My mom HATES THIS BOYEEEEE. She thought it just meant “handsome.”

SP:  Words mean things but don’t have to.

SP:  [Denmark Vessey & Scud One’s Cult Classic] (This is my official trip soundtrack.) “Throw bricks at him if you can’t build wit ’em, / Whoever marquee, top bill, I’ll Kill Bill ’em.”

SP:  It’s 8:23 AM. Still trippin’.

PART II

[December 24, 2023 | 9:15 AM] 

CP:  You awake? If so, talk to me about “Dettol.”

SP:  I feel like that beat was made along with a few others in that same span of time with Roc Marci in mind. Not only in terms of the drum un-emphasis but also being intentional about giving an MC room to operate, to breathe. On Midnight Marauders, both “Electric Relaxation” and “Lyrics To Go” are special beats because they operate within the parameters of 4/4 time but the bar lengths aren’t the typical 8. On “Dettol,” you have mostly 8-bar loops until it shifts to 12 for one measure, and then it starts over. (Not sure about my beat math there.) So the Armand Hammer guys had to each approach that in their own way. Couldn’t have drawn it up any better. “Numbers look crooked like King Kong shook it.”

CP:  (That’s your second Slum Village reference in this convo.) Paraffin was the first album I heard by them, so that beat would’ve been the third Armand Hammer song I heard overall. And that “giving them space” idea definitely benefited me—a guy who hadn’t been paying attention for years, specifically because lyrics weren’t grabbing me like they used to. 

The psychedelic experience is not just an internal, private affair. The “turned on” person realizes that he is not an isolated entity, a separate social ego, but rather one transient energy process hooked up with the energy dance around him.

—Timothy Leary, “You Are A God, Act Like One!”

CP:  How did you originally connect with woods and ELUCID? 

SP:  I may have been aware of ELUCID as early as 2005 by way of his Tanya Morgan/Lessondary/Okayplayer fam associations, but 2007 when he dropped Smash & Grab is when I instantly knew, Ah, this guy’s one of the best rappers ever. By 2009, that became, The best ever. That was the Myspace era, so we connected on there musically but also on some homie shit. We were working on a song of his in like 2011 or ’12 for the BIRD EAT SNAKE mixtape, “Dumb Out.” 

ELUCID:  BIRD EAT SNAKE is a whole lifetime ago. I had just met woods. I was also just beginning to develop the Cult Favorite record with AM Breakups. I was super charged creatively and was fortunate enough to have a lot of space to develop that. “Dumb Out” was such a strange beat that made my pen move immediately. Nothing overthought or drawn out. Just really chunky, vibed out, and punchy energy. I just began to acquire these attributes during the making of that tape. 

CP:  “Don’t eat the brown acid…”

SP:  Originally woods was supposed to be on there. I distinctly remember this being one of the first times I heard him because…okay. He recorded a verse on this beat and ELUCID sent his acapella but no reference to guide from. And I’m very good at matching up acapellas, so the fact that I could make no sense of his flow—where to place it in the mix—always stuck out to me. 

CP:  Is that why he didn’t end up on the song?

SP:  I don’t believe so. That would be funny if true, though. Because it feels like I have more music with those two than what tangibly exists. 

CP:  Also funny because, as their audience has grown—exponentially of late—the “discourse” returns to whether woods raps “on beat” or not.

SP:  Once I understood that the question of if he’s rapping on- or off-beat is the wrong one—when it should be, Why do I hear this as off-beat? How do I hear what he heard to deliver it that way?—that’s when it clicked for me.

CP:  Was “My Blank Verse” your first beat for them officially?

SP:  That was the very first song me and ELUCID made together. Don’t think it was for anything in particular, initially.

CP:  Got it. So it wasn’t approached as an Armand Hammer track, per se. Just ended up on an AH project. When did you connect with ELUCID in person?

SP:  I wanna say I met him in person at a show in Philly, at the Khyber. But the time I remember the most is when I was in Brooklyn with him (this actually might have been when we met up to record “My Blank Verse”), and he showed me the block where B.I.G. grew up. I like to imagine my power levels increasing on that day due to the residual holy hip-hop energy on the premises.

CP:  That’s dope. I’m surprised to hear you recorded the track in person. Both because so much is done remotely now—the producer and the MC separate—and also because ELUCID, I’ve read, is pretty private when it comes to recording. Maybe that came later, though.

SP:  Yes, that did come later to my knowledge. But also, I’m special. 

ELUCID:  This was the era when Willie Green’s studio was still in his apartment. I had just started recording with Backwoodz, and “My Blank Verse” was indeed recorded that afternoon. I usually don’t have people hanging in the studio while I record, but I think my comfort level with Jamil speaks to the ease I feel in our dealings.

SP:  I also remember going to meet ELUCID in New York specifically to get a flash drive that had he and woods’s verses for the Sean Price “Midnight Rounds” song they all should have been on together. His internet was down.

CP:  Why didn’t that track come to fruition?

SP:  woods’s hook was an interpolation of Apache’s “A Fight” (because, midnight rounds). The label was like, “Oh nah!” Word for word! Bar for bar! Sean P would have appreciated it.

CP:  Jersey’s own.

billy woods:  At that point in my “career,” I was kinda disappointed to get cut but not surprised. I guess I had a long history being snubbed regularly by peers and institutions in the indie music scene, so it just seemed like, Yeah, more of the same. I was pleasantly surprised to be invited, and unpleasantly unsurprised to be disinvited.

SP:  So, kept ELUCID’s verse and subbed in my man Castle, making this song the spiritual successor to a track I did on me and Guilty Simpson’s Highway Robbery, also featuring those two. Things fall apart, but they also come together. How they’re supposed to.

CP:  What’s the story behind “No Grand Agenda”? Also, where are we at in terms of the trip?

SP:  It’s slowing but at a light jog now. The beat for “No Grand Agenda” was originally part of an album I did made up entirely of exactly 1-minute long songs called You’re Killin’ Me Smalls. There were 60 songs. ELUCID was one of the only rappers I sent it to, specifically because it wasn’t “supposed” to be for raps. I had an ex who stomped out my computer and hard drives one day, including the original files for this project. All except for that one.

SP:  “Are we sure there’s no grand agenda?” And ELUCID took my stems and arranged it how he heard it. It was meant to loop in on itself, like the other songs on that project. It was originally named “Kelvin Spacey,” and I’m sure I’m misremembering but I wanna say “Dettol” was originally named “Kelvin Duckworth,” if only to verify Zilla Rocca’s guess that I was the producer in question that had sent woods a beat named after his favorite Portland Trailblazer.

CP:  So you’re saying, like any good friend, ELUCID jacked that beat?

SP:  Oh, I remember him asking to rap on it, perhaps for nothing in particular at the time. But who am I to deny the goat? And it’s obvious to me that this is how it was supposed to go; ain’t nothing coincidental or accidental, dunn.

ELUCID:  The making of “No Grand Agenda” was a cornerstone for a foundational era of style for me. I felt like I made a song that seamlessly weaved both verse and chorus in a way that felt absolutely hypnotic. It was a new belt for me, this sense of control. Small Pro was one of the first producers to trust me enough to send his beat stems. During this period is where I began producing more of my own music, so I also wanted to arrange the song how I heard it. Thankfully, Jamil dug it. 

CP:  What do you like about ELUCID’s rapping?

SP:  Some of it is the voice. Some of it is the things that he’s saying. But mostly, my favorite rappers all share this in common: they can get busy on any style of beat, any tempo, any sound, any Small Pro time puzzle. I was listening back to his older stuff a little while ago and heard him doing whole specific styles on one song, and never doing it again. The versace, versace flow, in particular. It felt like he was bored at the time and peered ahead three years to see how everyone was rapping, came back, did it, and that was that.

ELUCID:  [Working with Small Pro] is a special thing. Something that I’m still exploring. I think a Small Pro x ELUCID tape would be ill. Knowing his attention and care in the translation of my bars and flows is the type of partnership real MCs aspire to. It just hasn’t happened yet!

SP:  He and woods both have had a way of inspiring me through specific lines. “Go where the drummer commanded me,” for example. It’s me. I’m the drummer. And woods, a few songs before “Dettol” says, “Beg producers to take out the drums,” which he said was meant to be a joke, but I took it literally and started making beats that could exist with or without drums equally. 

All of my Backwoodz-related songs are credited as “Small Pro,” not “Small Professor.” I was on shrooms the week after my birthday earlier this year when I realized those are now different entities. Especially because woods was once like, “Wait, you did ‘No Grand Agenda’?” And I was like, “I did….I think? No, that was Small Pro.”

The last full project I—or I—did before moving back to Philly was a reimagining of A Jawn Supreme 1-3 from the Small Pro remix perspective. It was my—or my—first time remixing my own music, hearing things without the drums I put on them originally. It was an enlightening time. I hear voices at the fortress.

CP:  I think it’s rare for a producer to be so attentive to what the MCs are saying, let alone to look at what they’re saying as guideposts. The idea of a differentiation between “Small Pro” and “Small Professor” is interesting. Where does the Small Pro path ultimately lead? Into this larger Armand Hammer universe?

SP:  I feel like when I started out making beats my natural inclination has been to make things as busy as possible. Small Pro is like, What if I take away instead of adding? Or, How can I still have a million things going on in the track but it sounds bare or like, not done? “My girl say this beat sound unfinished, / I said, ‘Yeah, that’s where my voice go.’”

SP:  (Not sure when I passed out. I knew the crash was inevitable.)

[December 24, 2023 | 6:47 PM]

SP:  To your point about it leading to the AH-verse, that may be part of it too. They’ve both inspired me as rappers but also their production decisions and choices—ELUCID quite literally, as his production has always confounded me, but woods too. Two producers who have had just as much an influence on me as anybody I worshiped when first starting out are August Fanon and Messiah Musik—modern legends. Fanon can make beats for literally anyone. But Messiah’s natural style is one that both Hammers can sound great on from the get-go, whereas I have to consciously get myself into that mode. They also both sometimes do odd and potentially challenging things regarding time in their beats, as I do, but in their own way.

CP:  Do I remember seeing you mention somewhere that you still use Fruity Loops and Cool Edit?

SP:  Yup. I wanna say since 2008. Well, technically since 2003. But I’ve been using the same versions of those two programs for a minute now. Still using Windows XP, too. It’s comforting to me. And ridiculous. Like Rasheed Wallace faithfully wearing Air Force 1s his whole playing career.

CP:  I love that. Some real “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” ethos. Any rules for yourself when it comes to sampling? Strictly vinyl or are you irreligious when it comes to source format?

SP:  98% of my beats are made from mp3s. The remaining fraction is YouTube or some other source. Haven’t used vinyl for sampling purposes in many years but ironically try to make my beats sound like vinyl. As far as rules, everything I thought was law were things I later learned the musicians I look(ed) up to sneered at. 

CP:  Ain’t that the truth. Very little is sacred when it comes to process, I find. That’s a lot of ego. What efforts do you make to have the beats “sound” like vinyl?

SP:  On “Dettol” is my go-to record crackle sample. That’s also in 98% of my beats, and something I specifically remember was like, corny or something, but—ah, here it is: Slum Village reference #3 to fulfill the rule—on “Hold Tight” Dilla uses a needle pop as a snare bolster as well as the accompanying static. It’s there for added depth and texture but also can act as a counter-rhythm to your percussion. Reality features an inherent level of static in the form of cosmic microwave background radiation around us at all times. Art imitates life.

[December 25th, 2023 | 11:41 AM]

CP:  “No Christmas this Christmas…”

CP:  I always like to think of the story—apocryphal or not—of Evil Dee using bacon grease hissing on the stove for extra crackle.

SP:  The turntable hum is freakable too. Makes for a great bass sound but also something you can feel.

CP:  Do you ever have acid trips accidentally interfere with other obligations? I imagine you’re always planning for a blocked out number of hours. But best laid plans…

SP:  There’s a recovery period the next day, so that can be interesting to navigate. But yeah, I usually am in my room avoiding external interactions on whatever kind of trip it is. In my experience with acid, you gain more control over your “self,” and shrooms is the opposite, where your sense of self and awareness is reduced. Go home, brain—you’re drunk.

CP:  The loss of control is something I just can’t handle. Have you ever found yourself in a situation on shrooms where you emerge later, like, “Damn, that was a bad look”?

SP:  Yeah. My first time taking an 8th to the face (I ate it on a burger) after getting to and past the point of looking in a mirror and not recognizing my face for a sec. I later came upstairs and my BM had made some, like, lasagna? And it was so good that I’m just there demolishing it over the stove—like I was Garfield. Her friend walked in the kitchen at that moment and I should have been mortified, but in that moment there was only delicious lasagna.

CP:  Real Gs move in silence like lasagna…

CP:  Listening to Terror Management on Xmas morning. Is “Marlow” your beat/song with the most synchronicity between you and the rapper?

SP:  It’s up there. That album is interesting to me because of the repeating motif of having two beats from different producers for one song—always thought that was cool. The intro on that beat had the spoken part added after the fact, so it did really feel like some good ole fashioned teamwork. 

CP:  And specifically the serendipity of you naming the beat for your late father, correct? I imagine an artist won’t typically name their song after the name of the beat. Was there a reason you named that beat, out of so many, after your father?

SP:  Originally it was a play off of the artist’s name I sampled (a lot of my song titles are born this way), but I can also say it makes me think of my father’s dark side. He was one of the happiest, generally cheerful people I’ve ever known, but I’ve seen him go into green belt mode when pushed too far—only a few times, but it was like, Oh snap. 

woods closed his set with “Marlow” at a Philly show last year shortly after my pops passed, and it’s one of the nicest gestures anyone has done for me. I was at the bar crying like a newborn fucking baby, god.

billy woods:  That was a special moment for me, too. I really love that song. Pro and I have not worked that much together, but a lot of what we have done is really dope. He has produced a handful of Armand Hammer songs but they all hit, in my opinion. But [“Marlow”] is a song I really love and has come in and out of my setlist, but always makes it back in. The fact that it happened at that moment, and that it had that extra meaning for him was an honor for me.

SP:  That album [Terror Management] as a whole has always intrigued me because of the repeating motif of two producers each having a beat on one track (this happens on some Armand Hammer albums too, now that I think about it, but it’s a different effect when it’s two MCs on each beat instead of one). 

CP:  Lots of doubles—the name, the sides of your father, “Small Pro” versus “Small Professor,” two beats, etc. Double-consciousness, perhaps. Not necessarily in a Du Bois sense; more so in the sense of realities. 

SP:  I’m all about man’s rugged duality.

CP:  Did you and your father connect over music?

SP:  Oh, absolutely. Our music rooms were down the hall from one another when I got started in college, and over the years he would start wandering in to hear what I was working on. Eventually, as he started transitioning into working in DAWs, he would ask for advice with things he knew I would be able to help with. He loved showing me whatever he was working on, and I knew he valued my opinion as one of the people responsible for a lot of my music edumacation in the first place. 

[December 26, 2023 | 12:26 AM]

CP:  Would you reciprocate and show him what you were working on? Did he look upon hip-hop favorably?

SP:  He was from probably the last generation that didn’t grow up with hip-hop, and by and large it was probably offensive to him on two fronts: as a pretty religious dude the language and subject matter was too much, and musically all he heard were the loops, repetition, and sounds he loved and recognized being used all over again in an inferior, simple way. (I found a lot of the samples from Mobb Deep’s second album amongst his tape collection.) But over the years, as he saw how seriously I took it—as well as being impressed as a person who played 7-8 instruments by what I was able to do with two computer programs and mp3s—he was able to appreciate it as an artform (at least, the production side) even if it wasn’t quite his thing. 

He’s also half the reason I’ve always been enamored with non-common time signatures, a key feature in a lot of the music he dug—that Weather Report, Yellowjackets, Return to Forever, Herbie Hancock, Steely Dan, late ’70s, early ’80s chamber. My mother was more into “traditional” jazz and classical. They shared gospel personally—and professionally—as working church musicians. On my first album, there’s a 5/4 beat that I remember excitedly showing him because it took me forever to get the chops lined up in an un-choppy fashion, and there’s a switch on there between drum pattern grooves much like what you would find on a jazz fusion-type song. I felt like if I could impress him, I must be doing something right. The last time we hung out before the cancer did him in, he was showing me how far he had gotten learning how to play drums, and I got on the sticks and tried to replay the patterns on some of my beats (emphasis on tried). The “trouble don’t last” jawn, in particular, to which he responded by telling me I was already a drummer. Memories live. 

The times I saw his email pop up in my Bandcamp purchase notifications, I figured it was just a proud dad supporting his firstborn…nah, he was actually listening. His favorite project was the album I did along with my group Them That Do, which was my version of Madlib’s Shades of Blue on the beat tip. Besides digging the actual sound (updated jazz rap), I think he was most taken by the fact that he couldn’t quite tell what was sampled from where and that I had made all these sound from sometimes vastly different records seem like they were supposed to be together, and the beats made sense from the perspective of a person who understood music theory.

CP:  “I said, Well Daddy, don’t you know that things go in cycles.” Beautiful that you guys got to share those moments.

SP:  (I even said the part about two beats on Terror Management twice.)

SP:  My brother (the actual drummer of the family) just sent me “Spain” by Chick Corea, one of our dad’s favorites. Speaking of my brother—who I credit with teaching me how to program drums and how to count bars and all that—one time we were on our way to church with my dad, and Steely Dan’s “Black Cow” was on. Pops started to try to explain the lyrics, what a “black cow” was, why they were very high…all that. 

So a few years back I was proud to send [my father] “Gas Drawls” from Operation Doomsday because this story has always cracked me up, but also that’s a great-ass sample chop (and one that he appreciated, as opposed to the time my broski and I were buggin’ out over the beat for Jay-Z’s “Kingdom Come” and he was like, Is nobody doing anything original anymore?). 

[December 28, 2023 | 12:56 AM]

CP:  You should’ve sent him Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz after “Gas Drawls” and been like, “See.” As a drummer, does your brother fall more in line with your musical tastes or your father’s? 

SP:  I’d definitely say my brother has a much more diverse and varied musical vocabulary/understanding/tastes than I. We both grew up hearing, and then eventually listening, to rap. Twenty-three to twenty-four years ago when the neo-soul era was beginning, we were smack-dab in the middle of it, in the literal eye of the storm. Things Fall Apart, Like Water For Chocolate, Black on Both Sides, Reflection Eternal were just coming out. Musiq Soulchild was on the radio. Voodoo (which I didn’t get into until much later when I listened to it riding through Zanesville, Ohio countryside in 2007 [it’s still “Brown Sugar” over everything, though]) was everywhere. But there was also his actual school music education from primary to college, as well as listening to people from all instinctive travels and paths of rhythm, so he knows it all—or because he’d be like, “Shiiii, no I don’t!—a bit about a bit.”

I keep saying “my brother” when I have two. My younger bro is the drummer but my older brother’s tape collection was everything in high school (actually, even before that I was stealing his It Was Written tape when I was in seventh grade to play on the way to school). Being eleven years older, he was in high school when the great 90s east coast revolution was happening, and his Nike shoebox archives reflected the sounds of the time. As far as his tastes go, if DMX was still with us and dropped an album today, he’d get it without a second thought.

[December 28, 2023 | 11:10 PM]

CP:  Sorry to trail off. Got a bit busy on my side. Would you be down to hit me with a handful of your most interesting beat names at the moment?

CP:  This is art.

SP:  The “Will Smith as…” series is new. They all slap.

[Small Professor posts a since-deleted message on X quoting Werner Herzog talking about stealing a 35mm camera from a Munich film school. The quote: “I don’t consider it theft. It was just a necessity. I had some sort of natural right to this tool. If you need air to breathe, and you are locked in a room, you have to take a chisel and hammer and break down a wall. It is your absolute right.”]

CP:  I love this. “A natural right” to make something. Like a compulsion within. (I also love Herzog, so I appreciate the anecdote.) Do you remember where you first acquired that cracked Fruity Loops (and maybe Cool Edit, too)? If I think back, I probably had a friend hand me a disk, a CD-RW, back in like 1999 or something. God knows what sketchy site he downloaded them from.

SP:  In college when I first started doing beats, I torrented everything—movies, programs, especially music—with nary a second thought. It’s a good way to give your computer a bad cold, which I did on several occasions. And I too appreciate Herzog because I love no myth more than my own as well.

CP:  Have you got any myths on par with rescuing celebrities from wrecked cars or nonchalantly brushing off bullets to your abdomen?

SP:  No, but I can say I did albums with both Sean Price and MC Paul Barman.

CP:  Indisputable. I think this is an appropriate spot to (un)officially close this. Anything else you want to talk about?

SP:  Gotta give a shout-out to the Jungle Brothers for making Crazy Wisdom Masters in 1991. PremRock told me legend was that they made it on shrooms and when I listened to it on acid I was like, Oh, yeah, y’all were high as fuck when this was made. I could tell not only because the music itself is bugged out but even the pace of the record is accelerated. They had some songs on there that were a minute-and-thirty-seconds but so much was going on , sometimes different things in either stereo channel that it gives off the effect of being on a trip and you’re noticing—for what feels like the first time again—that everything is happening everywhere at once.

Listen to Crazy Wisdom Masters when you get a chance. It’s a personal classic that I’ve listened to at least fourteen times this month. Warner Brothers did them dirty (this was their M.O. apparently—this was the same time period they were beefing with Prince) by delaying the entire record two years and having them clean up the tracks, and disrupting the carefully curated listening experience by taking tracks away and rearranging the entire thing. J Beez wit the Remedy, the resulting hodgepodge, would drop on my birthday in 1993, and when I first heard it, I was like, Hmm, something’s awry here, and that’s how I found out about Crazy Wisdom Masters. 

CP:  I think I downloaded it or thought about downloading it recently when people started talking about it again. Is there a “definitive” version to look for? I know Bill Laswell had uploaded a version to his Bandcamp page a while back. 

SP:  That’s a good question. The version I found that concludes with “For the Headz At Company Z” is the album as the god(s) intended.

Just as Small Pro is distinguished from “Small Professor”, “Crazy Wisdom Masters” is a distinct personality from “Jungle Brothers.” Small Pro is a definitive, lost Laswell version—a ra ra kid who catches wreck with randomness. He doesn’t channel, but grooves, as the most psychoactive Afrika Baby Bam and Mike G doppelgänger. We end up doubled-over; “dope-sick,” if you will. You sleep on it, then you wake up in the morning and dwells on it, as Small Pro casts his spells on it. (It’s as Simple As That.) SP’s Comin’ Through, and when he does, multiple realities accelerate as he explores radical possibilities. He’s chewing on the chemicals and raising up the levels on the decibels. We—his audience of lab assistants, his dilated pupils [and peoples]—“experience the ultimate, the infinite.”

Images:

Most images are from the Vol. 1, No. 10 October issue of the San Francisco Oracle or unknown issues of the Chicago Seed | Small Professor “Sith Lord” photo courtesy of Matthew Shaver for WXPN | The Grateful Dead tapers section photo, Unknown | Screenshots by Small Professor | Apache tape photo by Caltrops Press | Gilbert Shelton, “The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers,” East Village Other (detail) | “Deadhead” poem by Joseph Rathgeber

prayer no.1

I've been dreaming of a man I can call honey without feeling sticky and sick afterwards.

Of someone I can miss without getting lonely or restless or crazy.

I think I think he'll be someone who knows when to be quiet, when to yell at the top of his lungs and when to sit in between and whisper words to me in even tones until his voice becomes a beautiful drone.

I think I think he'll seem cold until he doesn't anymore. He'll find I cut his ice, not unlike salt.

He's so wise that he's unknowable but I'll spend my life trying -- spend my whole life loving to try.

What nobody seems to understand is that I'll worship him because I worship love. In friends and in fireflies, my mother and me; where there's love, to me, there's god.

The love of my life will be god's faceless visage until I know for myself the shape of his nose, the callouses on his hands and their origins.

I think I think I'll know him when I see him. I've seen pieces in many. When he comes it will be as a sigh -- an unburdening to know at last where he is at 3am.

I've said goodnight to him as a prayer every night since I was 18.

Part 2 in Petra’s Backstory

CW: broken bones, nightmarish scenes, infernal imagery, madness

@ebevkisk

Angel of Blood Part II

Petra continued to keep her wits. Her mind was strong even though her body was getting weaker. Transmutation was good for something and she had done all she could, but now, there was no one left alive that could be helped. That sadness in her soul remained as she pushed past bodies of people who would never wake up.

As she pressed deeper, hoping to find a way out, an Aasimar, lost to the madness, saw her and, in the struggle, Petra was shoved down into the pit of the catacombs. She fell for a good minute before her body cracked against the cobblestone.

“Fuck.” She said as she carefully stood up. Doing a quick assessment, she found that her ribs were broken as well as her left arm. Hobbling to a wall, she tried to find anything she could use.

“Come on, I, at least, need a stick. That’s all.” She said, tears finally breaking through to the surface. She found a torch that had probably been used centuries ago and snapped to light it.

“Ok, Petra. All catacombs have to have had a back exit. There is no way they didn’t build a secret exit.”

She looked up and wished she had thought of this sooner, cursing her own existence for sinking into her own grief. As she tapped the statues, her hand settled on a likeness of what she assumed was Malathriel, Goddess of Death, and the wall lit up, opening a corridor.

“Gods, it couldn’t have been the Veloria one?” She slipped inside and the door closed behind her. Stumbling through the hallways of what was slowly becoming a temple, she walked for six days. She knew this because her mind was attuned to the day and night cycle of the stars. It had been nine months since they were locked in the catacombs. That sadness still clung deeply to her brain.

As she walked, eventually the cobblestone gave way and she fell much, much deeper. As she hit the ground again, she slammed her one good hand against the floor. “Of course they didn’t map this. No one would map this. No one knows any of this is here. I’m just blindly stumbling through the dark.” She took a swig of her last Superior Healing potion and reset the bones in her arm and leg and finally noticed the whispers.

An eerie, deeply unsettling energy climbed inside her heart. Any frustration she felt was immediately replaced with fear. As she staggered to her feet, she saw a light at the end of the hallway. As she walked, she found a beautifully chiseled altar room. Marble pillars, bright holy fire torches on the walls, and in the center of the circular room, a single, full size, oval mirror.

As she looked at the mirror, that overwhelming feeling of dread tripled. Petra set down her torch. “Ok, so that mirror is clearly magical.” Her own hand was shaking in mortified terror. “Magic is your thing, babe. You just have to identify it.” She stepped closer, within arms reach, and cast identify, recognizing this as possibly the cause of the madness that had settled into the minds of the Aasimar. But the mirror acted first.

Rotating at lightning speed so she was fully in its visage, the mirror cast visions into her brain. The eyes of the dead, the feral insanity in the eyes of the living, they burned into her brain, chastising her lack of awareness. The screams of hundreds of thousands of demons and abyssal creatures echoed through her skull begging for release and for suffering.

As Petra grabbed her head, she felt her entire skull shifting and changing. Two sharp points jutted from her back as what felt like wings sprouted from her shoulder blades. She looked down at her hands and they were dripping with blood. As she looked into the mirror, she saw that she had become a faceless, eyeless horror. Her skin was blood red and, instead of a face, an octahedron made of molten infernal stone sat in its place. Her hands had become hellish claws. Tresses of her fiery red hair had grown into long flowing locks. Her rack looked amazing actually despite her being a terror to behold and, not two, but four wings had ejected from her back. A demonic halo sat at the crown of her head, if she could call it that, and her body glowed with eldritch markings in a malevolent magenta.

As this happened, immediately, a dam burst in Petra’s brain. A flood of memories awoke from her brain and she remembered everything. The Modify Memory her guardians put on her, her real father and mother, the years of painful brainwashing from her birth parents, and several other things. She clasped her head and she understood. This was her. Who she’d always been. Her father and mother created her, the unholy matrimony of an angel and a demon. The merging of the divine and the abyssal.

Willing herself to change back, she returned to look into the mirror and found her old self. Unharmed and healed, but still haunted. She knew what this was and if nobody found this and when the universe was brought to an end, it was destroyed along with everything else, it would still be too soon.

“I need to cover this.” She pulled out a blanket from her satchel and draped it over the mirror’s visage. Running from the chamber and sealing the door with the strongest magic she knew, she finally reigned in her hyperventilation. “The world can never find this room. Never.” Sprinting down the opposite side from where she entered, she prayed to whatever gods that no one ever found Malgog’s Symmetry.

~~~

As another eight days passed, Petra finally could feel the air shifting. “The wind. It’s been so long. I can feel it.” She felt herself starting to run as she saw natural light creep in from the end of the passage.

“Almost there. Come on, legs.” Petra sighed, hoping she had the energy to get there. She reached the door and shoved it open and, for the first time in nine months she felt fresh air enter her lungs. She coughed and laid down on the stone steps. She looked out and knew she was out in the untamed wilds of Cor Varias, somewhere maps and cartographers hadn’t reached yet. Or they had and were never seen again. As Petra stood up, a figure stood a good fifty meters out, leaning against a nearby tree.

“Ah, sister, I was wondering when you were going to crawl out of that dreadful hole. Took you long enough.”

2, 6 & 8 for laighe and ruan? 👀

A fun couple o' gals(gender neutral) 💖

2. What's their earliest formative memory?

Laighe's first memory was before she even emerged from her pod. Being a Wyld Hunt Valiant, she had her prophetic dream of course. Fighting the visage of a dragon, seemingly the one awake and wreaking havoc, alongside a faceless group she couldn't yet place, and Caithe. If we don't count Dream time, her first formative memory would be being taken to the Pale Tree to discuss her Wyld Hunt by Caithe. The realization of how great a task she had ahead of herself and how great a hero she was meant to be. It would form her early views on herself, and would later be devastatingly shattered.

Ruan's first formative memory was a simple day at home with their parents, when they were so young they only held a few memories at all. Being told of their heritage, shown the family heirlooms held tight and lovingly from Cantha. The paintings and stories and history...how they wanted to visit this far off closed land. It's been a cathartic time, End of Dragons.

6. What is, in their opinion, their greatest mistake or regret?

Laighe thinks her greatest mistake was accepting her Hunt full stop. It built her up in a way that was ultimately unhealthy and came crashing down in a very harmful way later on. A lot of her later mistakes snowballed from still being stuck in the mentality that Commander was the only path she had, that she could never make another choice. It took her a long time to realize this and snap out of it, she's finally retired and slowly figuring out what she actually wants from life. But damn she wishes she'd been able to figure that out sooner...

Ruan's greatest regret was falling for Balthazar's ambush. They fucked up, had to claw their way back to life, and even that effort only resulted in a front row seat watching people die by their own hands as they lay there trapped within their own mind as Bathazar's new replacement Herald. They almost killed the woman they love, and they've been able to move past it but they will always regret it and that moment haunts their nightmares.

8. Are there any juicy rumors about them floating around Tyria?

Laighe has rumors alright, if you look between her and the old Pact posters, you wouldn't even recognize them as the same person. Some people even think she's died because they never see that spry charming Commander even at public events any more. Others think she's gone wrong, hulking and scarred like a mordrem or something. Just give it time, she'll snap eventually... The lighthearted rumors have long since passed, with this twisted intimidating figure that can't die and holds the power of an elder dragon in the palm of her hand.

Ruan has a few rumors, mostly tied to their time as Balthazar's herald and how they still carry his flame within them. Some think the late god could be reawoken through them, others think they are a god now, taking up the mantle of war. And it's hard to refute with how battle follows them like a lost puppy. There's also, of course, rumors of their heritage back in Cantha. Having distant relatives connected to an old emperor will do that, and they're doing their best to quell those and secure the fact that they don't even remotely want to be a political piece on the chessboard in any form at all.

reid’s biggest problem with profiling isil is that he has no interest in knowing more. boy wonder only sees the surface in which she swims easily, calls it lake & is done with it. but there drowns his analysis, for one cannot read a book that has yet to be opened. the story hasn’t unfolded, fingers haven’t cornered the pages, lines haven’t been caressed in horror or in awe. only juno seems to have caught glimpses of her, but these too were watered down by lust & spit. cool girl, pretty girl, ditzy girl. she is a good time with a game face that never turns off. when they go out, she is with them, she gets them the good table & the right kind of cocktail. she introduces them to the barman, even though she’s been in the city for less time than most of them. and once the party is going & bonds are being weaved, one drunk confession at a time, they fail to notice that the girl is already long gone. ditzy girl, pretty girl, cool girl. already swallowed up by the crowd, buried between bodies of faceless companions. she is oh so fickle, barely a girl, so terrified of being bound that she can be seen gnawing at the rope holding them all together. calls it a hanged man’s rope, when truly it is only a necklace, one that most call family.

perhaps if reid had paid more attention to the whispers that have been going around the office, he would known that belonging to a family is of no interest for the girl who saw her mother murder each and every member of her cursed tribe. families are easy wounds to probe & she is not keen on repeating the process. oh, she remembers : even as a child, she understood that bodies were sacrificed at the altar of a wicked god and that her mother would blame her for it. rossi told hotch early on ; that girl is something else. he took it as a warning for her personality. in truth, it had and still has more to do with her abilities : it is that same shapeshifting trick that got her out of the village. visage bleeding from rock-inflicted wounds, “i’ll draw the devil’s mark on ya. ugly ugly daughter o’ mine.” walking across the soil that saw her bleed twice ; once as a girl & once as a corpse. there, the child attempted to make a promise ; found ungodly ways to keep it. child became woman and found that sex tastes like love if you keep it sweet & short. woman found that less personality means less affection, and so she became it ; cool girl, pretty girl, ditzy girl. never the one you’d imagine at the altar, never the one you’d find to symbolize home. oh, what terrible choices did she make, just so she wouldn’t suffer the same loss twice. but even that was not enough, for malborne’s body found its way to a casket and ishtar discovered that grief still tasted the same way as it did all these years ago : muddy & acrid. the lord god formed the man of dust from the ground & breathed into his nostrils the breath of life – ishtar throwed up all that dirt on her way out of the cemetery and vowed to never endure the same enchantment again.

perhaps if reid had paid more attention, he would have realized that she wants to replace him even less that he himself wants her to. all she desires is to get her hands on them so that she can learn the angles & curves of their beings. an easy way to learn how to make clay dolls of her memories, so that wherever she goes next she won’t have to go alone. it is difficult to be a living corpse. one must fill oneself to the rim with moments. only heavy memories keep you tethered – and ditzy girls aren’t the kind to get heavy.  

for the gift of her full attention, juno gets a toothy grin that curves around the pen. it is not rare for ishtar to suggest games ; riddles & dares that usually do not warrant any attention from the team. in quite the same manner as reid’s tangents, ishtar’s attempts at distraction tend to remain ignored. the few who play (penelope, derek, sometimes juno) usually get something for their gracious participation. be it files off their shoulders, gifts sent to their houses, or other gracious acts of service that remain anonymous, all is good as long as it gives them pleasure. her last deed was paying a month worth of penelope’s favorite treats & having them delivered to her house. the dare had been worth it : whatever she said in that phone got derek morgan so hot and bothered that he wasn't quick enough to avoid ishtar’s phone as she was taking pictures. with that kind of leverage on her phone, she was bound to get a few favours for the next month at least. so yes, ishtar was mischievous, but she was fair : and if juno was willing to play, then ishtar would make sure that there was something to win.

tag dump.

Kinktober Day 14: Tentacles

Slender Man X GN!Reader AFAB

[Warnings: NSFT, Slender in himself is a warning, degradation, bulge, tentacles, oral, I mention anal once and never go into further detail, if you are a minor DNI]

[AN: the amount of tentacle porn I looked up just to get inspiration for this is shameful. Haha what am I saying no it wasn’t. 1710 words.]

Kinktober Masterlist

Your breath lays caught in your throat like a thick lump as the man you view as a god raises you higher and higher into the air. It’s not often that you fuck up in your job, but when you fuck up, you fuck up bad. That means that he has to punish you.

‘Don’t deny it, you little slut,’ his deep, baritone voice rings like static in the back of your head. ‘You’re going to enjoy every second of this and you know it.’

You squeeze your eyes shut as thick, inky black tendrils akin to snakes wrap tighter around your ankles, waist and wrists. One even slinks around your throat, gently squeezing. Slick begins to build between your thighs. Your team had chewed you out for hours on how badly you performed the last task - it was simple, glaringly easy - and you still messed up. Your heart races erratically in your chest. You can’t deny it any longer, you wanted his attention.

As if he was reading your thoughts, the Slender Man hums in approval before cracking into a breathy chuckle, the mental image of a wolf grinning shining in the back of your head and clearly in your mind’s eye. ‘So you did fuck up just to get my attention,’ he coos, the tendrils grasping you even tighter. He laughs when he sees you nod. ‘You’re fucking disgusting.’

Crawling between your legs is one of his thicker tendrils. It’s cold to the touch, and something is oozing out of the glossy tip. Heat blankets your face as you glance down, seeing the Slender Man reclined back in his chair as he strings you up like a marionette, ready to play you in accordance to his desires. You flinch when the tendril’s tip traces your dripping cunt.

It lazily slides back and forth, getting a feel for your warm, heated body before a smaller tendril parts from it. The inky black pulls apart like one of those cross sectional pulls of a grilled cheese before it loops upwards, curiously as if it has a mind of its own.

A strangled moan escapes your lips when it circles around your clit. It rubs against it, back and forth, pinching it.

Your chest begins to heave.

The larger tendril finally pushes past your lower lips, the icy cold melting inside of you as it pulses, growing more accustomed to your body.

On instinct, you squeeze your legs together and writhe as the Slender Man holds you high up, his faceless visage looking at you with amusement. ‘You’re actually getting off on this?’ He cruelly chuckles in your head. ‘Humans are filthy, mindless creatures of passion and nothing more.’

After those words finish reverberating in your skull, the thick tendril wildly picks up pace. It slides thickly in, getting closer and closer to hilting as deep as your body will let it. Faster, and faster still. It expands inside of you, puffing its form, letting you feel every inch of its girth as it begins to pound into you.

“Fuck!” You mewl as your body curls in on itself. Your fingers reach downwards to the tendrils that are still wrapped mercilessly around your wrists and you squeeze, nails digging into them.

The Slender Man laughs, allowing it as ichor spills form the half moon crescents. His hands rest folded on his lap as he watches you take his thick tendril while the smaller one loops around your clit and squeezes, pulsing in tandem with the thrusts. ‘Can your body handle another?’ He absentmindedly asks as you blink your eyes open.

Your vision goes hazy with lust as you see him curling a second tendril around the one that’s sliding into your cunt. You watch as the tips of the intertwined tendrils line up with your greedy hole before slamming back in, twirling inside of you.

“S-Sir!” You cry out as you throw your head back. “Oh fuck-,” you whine, “please, please, please-”

The thick intertwined tendrils brush against your g-spot, working you closer and closer to your edge.

‘Would you like another?’ He asks in a sickly sweet tone, his posture shifting upwards ever so slightly.

You look down at your boss and crack a small grin. The fact he’s getting off to this sends electricity burning from your lower abdomen all over your body. The bulge that his two massive tendrils are leaving makes you flushed at the mere sight of him. It makes you cocky, the whole thing makes you cocky. “F-Fill me,” you manage to choke out as he fucks you in an unforgiving speed, the sound of slick and the tendril’s glossy skin smacking into your abused cunt again and again being the only thing filling his office space.

Pleased with your answer, two more tendrils whip out from the Slender Man’s back. He lowers his brow bone at you form, almost as if he’s guagung if you can really handle it before deeming that you are his play thing and nothing more.

‘Open your mouth for me,’ he commands.

You do so without hesitation.

Fluttering into your vision is a much smaller tendril, almost the size of an average human penis. It too is leaking the same substance you saw and now feel from the tendris that are occupied with whatever is going on down below. It traces your lips, the feeling akin to lip gloss, before it slides into your mouth.

It feels like ice on your tongue as you cautiously close your mouth around it, your own tongue lifting to brush around it. His grip on your throat lightens and you find you finally have more autonomy to move your head. As you squeeze your thighs together and tremble in his grasp, you begin to bop your head on his tendril, sucking and every now and then, brushing your teeth over it.

The Slender Man shudders ever so slightly as he feels your body constrict around him. You look so beautifully helpless high up in his grasp. The wolf’s jaws grin.

While you work on the tendril in your mouth and your legs shake from the pure amount of stimulation from him rutting into your cunt, you fail to notice another tendril sliding up the back of your legs. It traces your smooth skin, spending a moment or two at your little scars from over the years of working at his hand, also scars from existing in general (he seems especially enamored with the stretch marks), before it reaches the curve of your ass.

The Slender Man maneuvers the tendril around before finding what it desires and slowly pushing in.

The sudden rush of ice freezing your backside makes you pop the tendril out of your mouth and moan both in surprise and pleasure as it warms inside of you. Your eyes roll upwards as the three tendrils penetrate you harder and harder. It’s as if he’s commanding you to cum all over him.

You pop the smaller tendril back into your mouth and swirl your tongue all over him, your own hips just barely managing to buck into him as he drops you repeatedly onto his tendrils. You can feel your slick dripping down your legs like small streams. The scent of sex fills the air.

You huff through your nose as you feel that same icy freeze leaking into you - and it’s deep. He must be getting close too, but the sight of his unmoving, and businessman-esque posture has you thinking otherwise.

‘You’re filthy for enjoying this,’ he teases as he lifts you up before impaling you back on his tendrils. ‘You’re worthless for fucking up on your mission just to get reprimanded from me like this.’ More tendrils spring free from his back, wrapping around your limbs and practically swallowing you whole in a sea of black. ‘And you’re even more disgusting, absolutely deplorable in my divine eyes for making me enjoy it just as much. You are a menace,’ his tendrils hilt in your once before pulling back, ‘you are a bane in my life,’ they hilt again, ‘and you are worth nothing but your body. Without it?’

You listen to his words echo like unholy choirs in your head as you pulse around him, your body ready to release. Your stomach is fluttering, sweat coats your body, and all of your holes are filled to the brim with pleasure. You can’t take it anymore. Your moans are guttural as you beg him to take you higher.

‘I would have no natural use for you. You should be grateful I even looked your way.’

His tendrils spike harshly inside of you all at the same time, and he revels in the feeling of you writhing against him. His tendrils bring you closer to his reclined form so your face is roughly in level with him.

Your body releases and it releases hard. White hot, dizzying pleasure bursts free from your lower half and spreads across you like wildfire. It’s such a disorientating contrast from the icy chill that is him and him alone. Your face scrunches up, eyes rolling back and mouth letting out a choked scream as he continues to work you through your orgasm. The waves of pleasure feel like a maelstrom as they rock through your body, it’s almost too much.

Freezing liquids seep into your holes, filling you to the brim as the tendrils pulse, pumping you full of what you recognize to be his cum. It almost cools your overheated body - but you’re still burning. The icy chill lights you up in an entirely different way.

The Slender Man’s hands finally unfold as you slowly reopen your eyes, that dazed look clouding your irises. ‘You are nothing more than my fuck toy, something for me to enjoy and dote upon when I see fit,’ he coos sweetly as he pets the side of your face, the tendril exiting your lips and allowing you to heave for breath.

The tendrils suddenly pull you up and back away from his face, the warmth of his hand departing with it.

You furrow your brows together, the lust slowly swirling in your eyes again as he refolds his hands together.

‘I see no better time for that than now.’

SECONDARY BURIAL IN THE RAT’S PRIESTHOOD: WHY WAS CHUCKY CHEESE’S EFFIGY DESTROYED?

Cheese temples are an abundant, frequently excavated type of Neolithic archaeological site. The rat’s priesthood was clearly far reaching and embraced by millions of devotees (as a protector of children, gamblers, and harvests), and yet effigies of the rat himself are surprisingly rare— whether in the form of priest’s anthropomorphic costumes, or automatons. Recent findings, such as the unrecognizably dismantled automaton in Fig. 1, and a rare depiction of the destruction process in Fig. 2, have indicated that Chucky Cheese’s effigies were almost universally deliberately destroyed. 

Fig. 1

While human remains and burial grounds are not typically discovered within or nearby excavated cheese temples, the ritualized destruction of Chucky Cheese’s effigies closely mirrors burial practices in which the skull is broken. 

Fig. 2

In the authors’ opinions, this may indicate that the rat’s priesthood symbolically continued to bury their god as they once buried men.

Fig. 3

Discoveries of complete or even partial Chucky Cheese effigy heads, as seen in Fig. 3, are rare. The destruction, whatever motivated it, appears to uniquely target the rat’s face— or, to be specific, his skull. Though this violence was initially believed to be the actions of opponents to the rat’s priesthood, reading it as an act of desecration simply does not account for the scale on which it was done, nor for where it was done. All evidence points to this practice belonging to Chucky Cheese’s followers. 

Until recently, archaeologists and art historians could only guess at the motivations behind this practice. However, a recent finding (the Showbizpizza Tome) has provided astonishing new insights. 

Fig. 4

Fig. 5

Fig. 6

Fig. 7

In Fig. 4, 5, 6, 7, we see selections from the Showbizpizza Tome in which the rat priest reader is instructed as to the proper ritual care for the rat’s anthropomorphic costume. Clearly a document intended to preserve Chucky Cheese’s dignity and educate his priests in his mysteries, the real revelation is that it also provides instruction in the destruction rites. 

Fig. 8

In Fig. 8 (also the complete context of Fig. 1), Chucky Cheese explains himself: “Ouch! That smarts, but is very necessary so that I am no longer recognizable as Chucky Cheese. After de-identification, I may be discarded.” This depiction of the rat god clearly indicates a belief in defacing (literally!) the body before burial, which invites new speculation as to the origin of the rat’s priesthood. 

Did the rat’s priests originally destroy human bodies before burial as well, before retaining the tradition in the symbolic destruction of Chucky Cheese? The theory may at first seem absurd, but consider Chucky Cheese’s words. Why must his skull be destroyed for a proper burial? Evocative of other Neolithic secondary burial practices, such as the (roughly contemporary to the rat’s priesthood) mass grave site found at Herxheim, at which people of the Linear Pottery culture broke apart a staggering number of human skulls with peri-mortem violence, Chucky Cheese insists on de-identification. 

Perhaps Chucky Cheese was originally a death god, and his priests responsible for the care of the dead. 

Fig. 9

Why continue symbolically enacting a formerly-practiced burial method, if that is the case? We know that many rat priests themselves were buried in “coffins” or cremated, and have yet to find any evidence of ritualized skull destruction done to any human follower of the rat. Perhaps Chucky Cheese’s status as a deity who protects vulnerable members of society— children and gamblers— contributed to a need to protect him in turn. In Fig. 9, a modern reconstruction of a cheese temple, we see a pair of mosaics depicting Chucky Cheese alive and well, alongside happy and healthy children. 

Fig. 10

The architecture of the cheese temples, as seen in Fig. 10, which depicts another angle of the temple reconstruction, is eerily reminiscent to our modern readers of something which immediately resembles a tomb. It is tempting to ascribe significance to this similarity, especially when so many other details appear to support a theory that the rat’s priesthood really did stem from a funerary order of some sort, but this sort of building may have had no such connotations to its builders. Even if the authors’ suggestion is correct, the style of architecture seen here could just as easily have had the opposite meaning in its context, and been an attempt to separate from the religion’s deathly origins. We must not make assumptions from our own perspective! 

Fig. 11

Fig. 12

Fig. 13

Fig. 14

Fig. 15

In figures 11, 12, 13, 14, and 15, we can observe the destruction pattern of effigies preferentially targeting Chucky Cheese’s face/skull. This pattern is undeniable, unlike tenuous connections such as the tomblike atmosphere of the cheese temples or basing an entire analysis on a single document. Regardless of its origin, the destruction of Chucky Cheese’s skull undoubtedly held a deep ritual significance to the rat priests. In Fig. 15, only Chucky Cheese’s eyes have survived. 

As a note, it is not possible to identify which of these effigies may have depicted figures other than Chucky Cheese, given the complete destruction of the skull. De-identification truly does appear to be the goal. However, it is possible to identify separate eras of Chucky Cheese’s depictions, indicating that this practice continued across centuries. 

How might Chucky Cheese have transitioned from a death god to the deity his priests seem to have recognized him as?

Fig. 16

In Fig. 16, we see a tentative timeline of Chucky Cheese’s depictions throughout the centuries, beginning in the 1977th century BC and ending in the 2012th century BC. 

Fig. 17

His earliest depictions are obviously chthonic (Fig. 17). Around the 1994th century, these associations begin to disappear, giving way to a greater emphasis on his physicality, energy, and youth. 

While he seems to have remained a protector of both gamblers and children throughout the prominence of the rat’s priesthood, artists increasingly placed emphasis on his status as a protector of children, foregoing the guise of a high-stakes gambler, and the chthonic imagery. Chucky Cheese became a young athlete, then a musician, then an unemployed man enjoying a life of leisure (Fig. 18 shows an effigy depicting a later incarnation). 

Fig. 18

This overall movement away from the underworld towards a celebration of life are an excellent reason to consider that the mysterious origins of the rat’s priesthood (lost to history) may have been outright connected to the dead. 

Fig. 19

Sometimes, the removal of Chucky Cheese’s visage leaves no doubt as to its former presence, as seen in Fig. 19, which shows a partially excavated cheese temple. This defacing is reminiscent of damnatio memoriae which occasionally assists in recognizing faceless portraits (as certain historical figures whose faces’ images were destroyed), and yet a ceremony with apparently opposite intentions— to honor the deceased— to praise Chucky Cheese, not to bury him.

Cheese temples and the rat’s priesthood remain a little-understood part of Neolithic history, despite the abundance of rat-associated sites and the many well-preserved cheese temple artifacts. It is our hope that this article has invited the readers to make their own studies into the subjects of Chucky Cheese, secondary burial (ancient and modern), Neolithic skull destruction, cheese temple architecture, death gods, and so forth, in order to draw their own conclusions. The field is always in need of fresh eyes and new minds to think outside the bun! 

You Will Go Down With This Ship {Whumptober o26}

if this gets 100 likes Juniper will push Joshua Graham off the falls of Zion (Not Clickbait)

Prompt: Fallen | Waterfall | Trap Door

The only use for an animal in our temple is sacrifice.

The words spoken by the burned man in rage ran endlessly in the courier’s mind. Hours after they stilled his hand, spared the life of Salt-Upon-Wounds, and returned Zion to its people.

He may think himself a man of God, but he’s traded one dogma for another. Has he not subjugated a new group of people under his name? Be it indirectly, his influence can’t be denied. Rather than hiding behind the Bull, he’s hidden behind God.

They may as well be kin. Hiding behind monikers, serving under new masters.

He’d ask they join him in celebration of the liberation of Zion. An oxymoron if there ever was one. Still, the courier followed him to the edge of waterfall. All of Zion before them as the early dawn light washed the stars from the sky.

He waxed rhapsodic his rhetoric, lording over the land like a king. Thanking the courier for stilling his hand, how in the moment he let the rage of his past take over him. Repeating his gospel of the daughter of Babylon, who must be destroyed.

They could take him out with one push. Their mouth dries at the realization, it’s everything they’ve ever wanted and more. Overcome with vertigo, the courier struggled to stay standing. Thankfully, the burned man failed to notice the eerie silence his companion oozes.

He survived the fall into the canyon. What if he survived this?

The courier took a step closer to the burned man. Fingers twitching in anticipation. He wouldn’t survive this fall. Even if they had to throw themself down after him. The burned man would live no more.

“You're a good neighbor to us.” He stated, turning to face the courier fully, hand on their shoulder in gratitude, “We all go through periods of darkness. In such times, we can turn to the Lord, but it's good to have friends.”

He returned towards the rising sun, watching Zion glow below them. Silent contemplation as the courier seethed beside him. The contact had been brief, but it left a burn on their shoulder.

Stilling their hands at their side, the courier turned away from the burned man. If they were a bitter person, they would have pushed him over the edge. The resentment in their bones replaced by more pressing matters. Even the anger in their heart had run cold from their time in the grave.

But the child remembers.

Who else but the Malpais Legate descending on that ancient border town decades ago? And now he preaches forgiveness, but all they hear is retribution.

He wouldn’t remember them, just a youth of seventeen amongst the conquered. Another faceless visage within the legion of subjugated women and men. They’ve dreamed of this moment, to kill the man that raided their town. To make him suffer as they did so many years ago.

But it would be an affront to Zion. There has been enough blood shed on this supposed hallowed ground. Let the ghosts of his past haunt him to the grave. Let him play pretend for a while longer.

The spirits of this place will decide his fate.

They felt nothing.

Numb.

Dead.

Negative Reinforcement

Dom!Amanda Young x Fem!Reader

SMUT

Summary: After accidentally throwing a pebble in the Pig’s eye, you find yourself in her grasp as the last survivor of the trial. She fully intends to punish you for your actions.

Contains: degradation, humiliation, spanking, face sitting, dubcon

Warning: The requester specifically asked that Amanda be mean, so she is MEAN in this fic.

You wince as a solid boot grinds a bruise into the soft flesh of your thigh. The seething figure above you cuts an imposing shadow under the harsh lighting of the concrete room. Eyes sparkling with rage glare down at you from beneath the face of a pig. The boot digs into you further, making you clench your jaw and furrow your brows. “You were being a major bitch today.” The pig hisses at you, lifting her boot and bringing it down onto your tender flesh, causing you to cry out. She leans down and grips you by the collar of your shirt to lift you up nose to nose with her mask. “Any chance you had at surviving went out the window when you pulled that little stunt earlier.” Your shoulders tense as you remember how you had accidentally tossed a pebble into her eye while trying to get her to drop Kate. Said eye still looks a bit irritated. You can’t help the airy chuckle that leaves your lungs at the memory of the cute squeal she had let out as she frantically scrambled to soothe her eye. You immediately realize your mistake as her fist tightens in your shirt. Her eyes narrow, furious points of ice digging into you. “Do you think that was funny?” She roughly shakes you, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking. You squeak and claw at her wrist, trying to alleviate the burning needle points in your scalp. “You little fucking whore. Did you seriously think you could get away with that?” You grit your teeth and look up at her with teary eyes as you grip her wrist. “No! No, it was an accident! I swear!” Even though you can’t see her face, you can practically feel the sneer that twists her lips. “Yeah fucking right.” She drops your head to the floor and stands up to roll her shoulders out. “Accident or not, you deserve to be punished.” Her hands tug the pig head off, allowing her natural hair to fall over her sweaty visage. You freeze, mouth slightly agape as you take in the sight of the previously faceless killer. She stares down at you, pale face chiseled like cold stone, and red lips pulled into a snarl. Her hazelnut eyes bare down on you from under an unruly mess of black hair. A flush creeps up your cheeks at the realization of how disgustingly cute she is under the mask. She sneers at you and kicks your leg, jolting you out of your observations. “Pathetic bitch, didn’t your mommy teach you it’s rude to stare?” She drops down, digging her knee into the still tender flesh of your thigh. You hiss and scrape your nails over the concrete, tugging your gaze away from her. “Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought. Here’s how this is gonna go. You’re gonna lay over that chair over there-“ She motions to the rickety chair off to the side of the room. “And I’m going to teach you a lesson. Got it?” You clench your jaw, pointedly refusing to look at her as you mull over your escape options. She digs her knee in harder, causing you to shout as a sharp wave of pain courses through you. “And don’t even think of trying to get out of this. The more you misbehave, the more I’m going to punish you.” Your body sags against the floor in defeat, watery eyes reluctantly wandering over to her face. She raises an expectant brow, coldly regarding your fallen face. “Okay. Fine. Make it quick.” She chuckles darkly and pats your cheek like you’re nothing more than a dog. “Good girl. Get over there.” You grit your teeth and glare daggers at her, body tightening in hatred at the way those words send butterflies through your gut. With heavy feet, you get up and move to stand by the chair, eyes flickering between it and her pointed eyes. She waves her hand in its direction, giving you a toothy grin with zero mirth in it. With an irritated sigh, you drape your body over the chair and raise a brow at her. Her heavy boots mark a rhythm against the hard floor as she slowly walks over to you. You squeeze your eyes shut as you wait for the sharp sting of her knife in your flesh. The silence is deafening as she stands still, watching you. The shuffle of fabric causes you to flinch, hands tensing against the floor. You expect her to stab your vulnerable back, but instead yelp in surprise as your shorts and panties are ripped down your legs, allowing the faint cold to ripple over your bare skin. Your head whips back to look at her, body rolling to hide yourself from her. “Hey! What the fuck? Why did you do that?” She looks at you with enough rage that you shrivel up on yourself, body shrinking back into the chair. “Are you really so fucking dense that you can’t figure out what I mean by punishment? I suggest you flip back over onto your belly before I decide on something more cruel than treating you like a bad schoolgirl. I have a few new traps that you’d look awful pretty in.” You stare up at her with wide eyes, face slowly burning up as you realize what she has in mind for you. The butterflies return to your gut, making the starting sparks of arousal harder to ignore. “You’re going to spank me? Are you serious? You’re not my-“ She roughly grabs you by the hair and twists you painfully to look directly up at her. “I’m not your mommy, but I sure as fuck am now your master. You are beneath me, and you will take whatever form of punishment I see fit. I could just as easily carve you up. Understand?” You whimper and tense up, a single tear rolling down your cheek. “Yes! I understand.” She snarls and drops your head, allowing you to roll back onto your stomach and hunch over in defeat. “Good girl.” She hisses, making you wince as your body lights up at the words. Cold fingers trace over the curve of your ass, causing the skin to tighten into goosebumps. Without warning, the hand rises up and comes back down on your ass with a harsh clap. You tense up, muscles clenching at the unexpected sting. You have little time to prepare before the hand returns again with more force. You clench your jaw, trying to prevent your traitorous throat from letting out any sounds. You don’t want to give her the satisfaction. Though, you don’t have much of a choice, as two sharp hits to your rear cause a whine to build in the back of your throat. More tears spill from your eyes as you feel arousal swirl deep in your gut at the harsh treatment. Your breath comes in short pants as she continues to abuse your ass, sending fire laced waves of pleasure up your spine. You barely manage to keep track of how many hits she’s landed on your burning backside. 10,12,15 with no breaks, no mercy. Her now heated palm traces over your surely marked ass, marveling her work before harshly whipping over the sore flesh. Between the fog in your head, and the sound of skin hitting skin, you’re dizzy and barely able to keep up. You can feel a drop of slick dripping down your lips, trailing down your thigh. 20,22,25 and the hand finally pulls away, satisfied with the way your skin has raised in the shape of her hand. You sob, body sagging against the chair as the overwhelming sensations finally stop. The pig chuckles, watching your body shake as you cry. She observes your ass with half-lidded eyes, blown pupils sparking with interest as she notices the way the light reflects off your inner thigh. You don’t have it in you to protest as she moves to pull your ass and thighs apart to look at the source of the wetness. “Oh my god, are you seriously getting off to this? Look at how fucking wet you are! You really are a whore!” She laughs and walks around to your front, roughly lifting you by the hair to look at her. She regards your tear stained visage with a venomous smirk. “You’re the real pig here. Little piggy cunt.” She hisses, thumbing your nose up and laughing viciously as you whimper, face burning with arousal and embarrassment. You try to twist away, but she harshly yanks your head back to stare at her. “Now that you’ve learned your lesson, I think it’s time for an apology, yeah?” You’re too far gone to resist anymore, so you weakly nod your head, a faint spark of hope lighting up inside you. Maybe she’ll take care of the fierce ache between your legs? She drops your head, moving back to shuffle out of her own pants. An eager whine rips from your throat, desperate eyes taking in the sight of her similarly soaked pussy. You don’t get long to look at it, as she drops to her knees to be on eye level with you. She gives you a sickly sweet smile, dangerous eyes piercing through the fog in your mind. “You’re gonna get down on the floor and say sorry with your mouth. Maybe, if you do good enough, I’ll let you escape.” You immediately scramble off the chair, whimpering as she guides you onto your back. She places her knees to the sides of your head, looking down at you with a sinister grin as you drool at the sight of her dripping cunt over your face. You eagerly lean up and swipe your tongue over her lips, moaning at the taste of her. She sucks in a breath, hands wandering to tangle in your hair. With a growl, she pulls your face into her cunt, chuckling as you rush to push your tongue into her hole. You waste no time in gathering all her essence with your tongue, savoring the smooth tang of her arousal. She forcefully grinds herself against your mouth, groaning as you flick your tongue over her clit. Her thighs squeeze around you as she drops her hips, causing your head to smack against the ground. You don’t even get time to fight through the fog in your head before her hips are forcefully rocking against you. With a hazy moan, you stick your tongue out so that she can fuck herself against it. “That’s it baby. Submit to me. Take it like the bitch pig you are.” Your tongue roughly flicks up against her clit, causing her to let out a delighted moan. She stops fucking your face for a moment, allowing you to wrap your lips around her clit and suckle. Her nails dig into your scalp as she growls at the intense stimulation. “God you were made to be stuffed between my thighs. Filthy fucking whore.” She ruts her hips against your lips, and you let your tongue come out to drag from hole to clit. Her pussy is clenching and pulsing against your tongue, more slick coating your tastebuds as she works closer. She begins to fuck your face again, causing your head to rock with the force of her hips pushing against your mouth. Your breaths are coming in labored gasps, breathing difficult with the way she’s smothering you. Your mind is cloudy from the lack of oxygen and the all-consuming arousal in your head. You manage to look up at her with hazy eyes, watching as her lips twist into a vicious snarl at the way your tongue pushes inside her. Her eyes meet yours, the bright ring of hazel almost blotted out by her pupils. She reminds you of a predator, with the hungry way she’s staring at you. Her thighs clench hard around you as her head tosses back, a shrill whine erupting from her throat. “Fuck! I’m gonna cum. You gonna take it like a good girl? You want me to cum all over your face?” You nod eagerly, tongue working faster to please her. Black spots dance at the edge of your vision as she continues to smother you, but you ignore it in favor of stuffing your face further into her pussy. Her slick drips down your chin as you stuff your tongue in as far as it will go, eyes rolling back as she clenches around you. Your tongue drags roughly up to her clit, circling around it and causing her to let out a shrill moan. Her thighs tense around your head as she cums, hips jolting against you. A new wave of cum coats your tongue, making you moan breathlessly at the taste. As she comes down, her hips lazily rock against you, thighs loosening their hold on your head. With a sated sigh, she lifts her hips from your face, allowing you to take in a large gulp of air. With shaky legs, she scoots back to look down at you. You surely look like a wreck: face covered in cum, eyes hazy, hair all mussed up. You mindlessly gaze at her, brain still recovering from the lack of air and being face-fucked stupid. She chuckles and tugs your face up to her, planting a rough kiss to your lips. You barely have it in you to respond to the kiss, tongue swiping against her own. She pulls away with a wet pop, tongue swiping her own cum off her bottom lip. “That’s the most fun I’ve had in ages. Should’ve cornered you sooner.” You give her a lazy smile, and she returns it with a flash of white teeth. “And now, for the cherry on top.” You look up at her in confusion, freezing as a sharp pain blossoms across your neck. Your vision blurs as you look up at her, words attempting to bubble up around the blood pouring from your mouth. “Did you seriously think I would let you go? Oh babe, you’re so naive.” Her words are muffled to your ears, your head slumping back to hit the floor as she releases you. “You’re my new favorite now. You don’t even want to know all the things I’m going to do to you the next time I see you.” You let out a pathetic gurgle, eyes rolling back into your head as your consciousness fades. Her last words barely reach you through the fog in your head. “I’m fucking obsessed with you now.” You awake at the campfire with a jolt, wide eyes taking in the night sky. Your body feels fresh, free of the wounds from the previous trial, but your mind is twisted like an animal in pain. The memories rest heavy in your head, the taste of her still faint on your tongue, and your arousal still sharp in your gut. With an irritated groan, you roll to sit up. Meg casts you a worried glance. “You good? Did she give you shit?” You simply nod, choosing to not look at her as you mull over your thoughts. You’re so fucked.

here be dragons

Part 1 of the Hospitality series

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x fem!Reader

Rating: T/PG-13

Word Count: 4.6k 

Warnings: One use of a slur, aimed at the reader.

A/N: ahhhhh it’s a little late, but i finally finished this. now i can finally start posting this series in the RIGHT order, oh my god. check it out on ao3 here, if you want.

It’s late.

You lie in your cot, staring into the darkness. Unable to sleep, surrounded by the vicious tempest outside. It’s raining heavily; pelting down so hard you can hear it through the roof and feel it through the floor. Occasionally, you hear a boom of thunder, and the inn doors rattle and shake.

You’re glad you fixed the waterproofing this morning.

In a storm like this, you hold some half-hearted hope that a traveller will stop by. Someone soaked and freezing; desperate enough for you to hike up the price of lodging without turning away business.

Swindling a tourist here and there can’t hurt, in the grand scheme of the galaxy. You have to eat, after all.

The rich scent of waterlogged earth fills the room, and something about it seems unfamiliar. You’ve accustomed to the occasional downpour by now, having lived on Takodana for many years. But the lingering air of petrichor reminds you just how different home was — all dry deserts and salt flats, the odd dust storm. Certainly no lush greenery or blue skies.

As a lump settles in your throat, you miss the mechanic stand from your childhood. The slick smear of oil on your mother’s cheek as she gave the speeder a tune-up. The stripes on your father’s montrals above the welding mask as he soldered wires back together. When he was done, he’d always squish your little face in his palms. Smoothing his thumbs over the white markings on your face, near identical to his. The only symbol of your Togruta heritage, contrasted on a face of your mother’s colouring.

You sigh, and sit up. Now, you’re stuck here. Running an inn by yourself, out of business and in denial about it. You miss the feeling of freedom that came and left with youth; running through the streets, being swept up in warm, protective arms. Your mother rolling her eyes. Your father’s laugh.

Suddenly, a bang. You hear front doors slide open, and your heart leaps into your throat. The sound rings in your ears for a moment with its violence. Blindly, you grab the vibroblade from the table and scramble to the entrance. You’ve never used it before, and you pray the doors are just malfunctioning.

As you skirt through the narrow passageway, your stomach drops. No such luck. A large, silhouetted figure stands before the main desk, looming ominously as the wind howls outside. Maker, they’re huge. Far bigger than you, and a small, nagging part of your brain says they could kill you in a heartbeat.

It’s still dark. Frozen as you are, you haven’t turned the lamp on. In vain, you hope they might leave if no-one arrives. A bolt of lightning flashes outside, and the glare arcs off the stranger’s helmet.

Your eyes widen at the glimpse of a smooth, glass t-visor. A Mandalorian.

Oh, you’re fucked.

In that moment, they turn to you directly. The back of your neck tingles, and you realise they can see you. Their helmet turns down to the vibroblade in your hands, before returning to your face calmly. Of course. You don’t think you’re a very threatening sight, cowering in the doorway like this.

You feel remarkably stupid.

Hesitantly, you step forward and switch on the lamp at the desk with your free hand. Light pours out softly between you, doing nothing to calm your nerves. You squint, eyes adjusting to the brightness, trying to control the pounding of your heart.

“I am in need of lodging.”

You blink. The voice, low and rumbling, is scrambled by a vocoder. Male, from what you can tell, and the static scratches at your ears. He’s covered from head-to-toe in deep blue armour; rivulets of water drip off the steel, puddling on your floor. Some kind of pack rests on his back, and you try, fruitlessly, to ignore the glint of a trigger and scope.

Towering over you, you’d have to crane your head just to look him in the visor. You don’t have the nerve, in any case.

It occurs to you, faintly, that you could die tonight. It also occurs to you that the chances of an untimely demise would be significantly higher, if you keep gawking at him like this.

“Uh…”

“Lodging,” he repeats, sounding distinctly impatient. “Is there a vacancy?”

Maker, when is there not.

“Yes! Yes, there’s a— there’s a vacancy.” Fumbling for the log-holo, you set the vibroblade down in a cubby under the desk. Still within reach, and your receptionist autopiloting kicks in. “Uh, single room, how many nights?” You glance up at the shiny helm. The usual questions, but it feels… impertinent, asking for information. Like you’re violating his sanctity, or something, just daring to wonder. Especially about someone so clearly hostile. How does a faceless sheet of beskar manage to make your stomach churn?

“One.”

Of that, you’re grateful. One night, and you’ll be done with this. “Okay,” you reply, dragging out the sound. You sound nervous. He must be able to tell. “And, uh, name?”

He stares you down. It suddenly feels cold, frigid, even though his visage most definitely cannot change. It strikes you, in that moment, that even your sensitive nose can’t detect anything on him. The rain has washed it all away, except for a stubborn, smokey hint of blaster ammunition. Recently fired. A shiver runs up your spine.

Acerbically, he snaps, “Pick one.” There’s a rising heat behind the words, you don’t push your luck.

“I’ll— I’ll just put ‘Mando’,” you mutter, entering the moniker into the log. Once again, in the span of less than five minutes, you feel like a moron. Heat rushes to your cheeks.

But there’s one more caveat. You should probably forget it, just this once, but for some reason: “You’re not allowed to bring weapons inside. While— While you’re staying.”

A golden rule. One of the conditions upon which you were even allowed to run this place was your responsibility to maintain peace. (You often wonder what the Pirate Queen was thinking, believing you capable of breaking up any kind of violence.)

To your relief, the Mandalorian doesn’t explode with rage, or any such violent gestures. His shoulders are tense, but this — dealing with irritated, tired travellers — is familiar. He’s no different, you tell yourself.

“The weapons stay.”

“I can’t let you—”

“I’m a Mandalorian. Weapons are part of my religion.” You blink, and your silence seems enough for him to continue. “I won’t be using them on you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Keep your distance, and there won’t be a problem.”

A threat. Perhaps he’s trying to reassure you, in some strange way, but it doesn’t stop the cold fist of dread from closing around your heart.

“I’m… not supposed to—”

“You have my word.”

A muscle in your jaw ticks. Despite the nerves wrenching your stomach, there’s an urge to stand your ground. To defend the principles of Maz’s territory. (Or, more selfishly, to rebuke how easily he’s trampling all over you.) You shift, ready to argue.

But then he moves, one hefty arm lifting upwards, and you flinch. He pauses, before fishing a leather pouch out of a pocket and dropping it on the counter. You hear the familiar clink of credits. The sound elicits an instinctual reaction, a lurch of hope. You lean forward with a frown, inspecting the offering.

You gingerly pluck it by the drawstring, and its weight is a pleasant surprise. The contents are promising — a fee far exceeding the cost of one night’s stay.

A prickling mixture of shame and embarrassment heat your cheeks. Oh, how quickly your righteous anger fades at the promise of payment. Again, the back of your neck tingles. A reminder, that the Mandalorian is watching.

Taking a steadying breath, you bring your eyes back to the visitor. “Should I… show you to your room?”

A beat, then he nods.

You step to the side and flick the overhead lights on, waiting for him to go first. But he continues staring, and your skin itches with the weight of judgement. You realise he’ll only follow behind.

You swallow thickly, keeping your gaze averted as you lead him inside. Your little bungalow inn doesn’t have that many rooms to begin with, so you keep them all clean and ready for a guest — that’s not the issue.

But you have to go the night knowing there’s an elite warrior, perfectly capable of silencing your heartbeat, staying two doors down. You have to sleep with that knowledge.

You realise the vibroblade still rests in your palm. It feels clunky. Foolish, in your inexperienced hand. The Mandalorian’s heavy footsteps thud behind you, accented by the clank of metal armour. You clamp down the urge to rub the back of your tingling neck, and in some peculiar urge to reconcile, you half-turn to him as you walk. Slowly, showing him the weapon.

“Ah, I wouldn’t use this, you know. On you.” He’s crushingly silent, appraising you. He has to duck his head slightly to fit in the passageway, nearly filling up its width with his bulk.

You blather on, blindly spitting out words to fill the silence. “It’s just— all sorts pass through here, you know? This place has Kanata’s stamp of approval and all, but better safe than sorry.”

Still, no response, and you wince at just how green you sound. You swallow, having reached the doorway; you’ve led him to the quarters with the largest bed, having figured he’ll need it.

“There’s instructions to set the passcode inside. If you need anything,” you say, hoping he won’t, “I’m that door over there.” For one, awkward moment, you stand, feeling horribly out of place with the brooding figure at your side. “Well. Goodnight, then.”

You turn around, credits and blade in hand, ready to step into your quarters and get some kriffing rest, when the crawling, fuzzy feeling on the nape of your neck intensifies.

With one foot through the doorway, you hear him call out to you. “I thought no weapons were permitted.” A coarse noise crackles through the vocoder, and you realise it’s a laugh. You feel a cold sweat run down your back. “Is that blade just for show, then, little innkeeper?”

He— he sounds amused. Finding entertainment in your clear disadvantage. You feel sick, sick to your stomach, and slam the button to close the door behind you. Wetness springs to your eyes like clockwork, but the tears don’t fall even as you collapse on your cot. You’re pathetic, you think. Unable to stop him from belittling you, never mind barring him entry.

Sleep, though it eventually comes, is fitful and disturbed. Phantom helmets and mocking, modulated laughter fill your head.

In the morning, his room is emptied out. Bed made, fresher tidied.

No trace of the Mandalorian, at all. You’ve never been more grateful.

———

The second time you meet the Mandalorian, you’ve got your hands full.

“I’m not running a charity here.”

A Zabrak man has his hands planted on the desk, leaning into your space uncomfortably. Maker, guests like these test your patience.

It’s a poor attempt at intimidation. He’s taller than you, certainly, but gangly in a way that screams awkward, rather than lean. Scrawny, drawn out. Even the spikes protruding from his yellowish face are lumpy and faded. You wrinkle your nose at the faint, rank odour of sweat and booze. Overall, you’re unimpressed.

Besides, imposing figures don’t phase you much anymore. Not since that fateful encounter, nearly a cycle ago. You’d feared for your life that night.

Few were as large a threat as that Mandalorian.

The Zabrak hisses in your face, “Maz Kanata owes me a great debt. I’ll take it out of my bill.”

In your periphery, you can hear the telltale sounds of landing gear outside — a new arrival, but you can’t deal with that right now.

You blink slowly, and sigh. “Listen, this shtick you’re trying to pull? I’ve heard it before.” So, so many times. You’re not the only cheapskate in these parts. “You have a problem with Maz, you take it up with her. She doesn’t control my inn any more than I control the Castle.” That’s… not exactly true. But you doubt it matters to him.

Twisting his face unpleasantly, the man snarls, “I demand recompense, innkeeper. Return my credits, and we won’t have a problem.”

You recall being browbeaten at similar words. That night you cowed, frozen by the weight of mortality hanging over your head. But you have since hardened in the months that passed, and you steel your resolve.

Leaning close to the Zabrak, getting in his face, you speak through bared teeth. “You’re right. You get out of my inn, and we won’t.” Curling your lips into a disgusted half-sneer, “So I’ll be keeping my credits.”

“Insolent fool,” the Zabrak growls, and he moves to reach for something concealed behind his back. You jaw clenches — how did you miss that he was armed? — and you flinch backwards as he reveals a blaster. Before you can reach for your trusty vibroblade, the doors slide open with an innocent ting.

Standing there in the doorway, is your Mandalorian.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him, huge as ever, ducking his head to step over the threshold. Armed to the teeth, as per usual.  He saunters forward slowly, purposefully. The swagger, the presence in his gait impossibly makes him seem… bigger? Somehow even more bulky than last time?

The Zabrak whirls round, only to balk at the steely-blue cuirass his chin comes to level with. He’s harmless compared to the warrior before him. You can only imagine how tiny you must seem. The Mandalorian keeps his head inclined down to the horned man, who’s now gripping the desk behind him, but his words are for you.

“Trouble, innkeeper?”

Maker, it’s been months since you heard that rumbling voice. It still knots your stomach, but less so, you think, than it did. You’re surprised he remembers you.

Your confidence with the pesky guest has not dissipated, however, and you find your words. “I don’t know.” You address the Zabrak calmly, “Is there any trouble, sir? It’d be a shame if things got… unpleasant.”

The wilting man cranes his head to you with a frantic look in his eye, and you feel a flash of pity. Ah, kriff. You’ve made your point.

Glancing at the Mandalorian, you make a subtle ‘back-up’ motion with your palm, half-wondering if he’ll take offence. But thankfully, he does as you request, and the Zabrak’s wheeze of relief is audible as he deflates.

“Takodana Castle,” you start, a little gentler than before, “Is three miles that way.” You thrust a thumb to the side. “One path, cuts through the forest. Can’t miss it.”

The Zabrak stumbles his way around the Mandalorian, never taking his wide eyes off the helmet. The armoured man steps aside silently, and it’s a wonder how he makes such a simple gesture seem so mocking. Saying that he’s the one in control, even if it’s temporarily at your behest. All in the way he shifts, the dangerous glint of his blasters in the light.

The memory of his laugh, hearty and sinister, echoes in your brain. Your toes curl in your boots.

Once he’s out of the door, the Zabrak gains some ill-founded sense of security. His wiry frame tenses, and he glares at you, spitting, “Watch yourself, halfbreed.” With a single, fleeting glance to the Mandalorian, he runs off towards the forest.

…ah.

You purse your lips, and look to the floor out of habit. Heat rushes to your cheeks. The slur is not unfamiliar to you. Your lack of montrals and lekku allow you to blend in, to lie low. But your markings reveal who you are. It’s strange; you think you’re proud of them. What they represent, who gave them to you. But the wave of shame that crashes over you sends blood roaring in your ears. For the Mandalorian to witness this? It’s a pitiful sight.

In the corner of your eye, you see him clench a fist, and you quash the sickness of your heart down with a vengeance. There are more pressing matters at hand.

“So. It’s, uh, been a while.” You cringe at the heavy-handed attempt to change the subject. Now that cursed Zabrak has left, it’s like all your bravado has sputtered out. And, really? Last time you saw the Mandalorian, a man from a culture of elite warriors, you thought he was going to murder you in your sleep. Been a while, indeed.

He plays along. “Well, I was in the area. Figured I should save the damsel in distress, while I had the chance.” He leans an elbow on the counter, resting his weight on it, and for a moment you’re perplexed.

The Mandalorian is… teasing you. Relaxed against your desk, standing close but not enough to be invasive. It’s a far cry from that shadow in the pouring rain, haunting your doorstep. “Although, from where I was standing, you didn’t seem to need much help,” he continues smoothly.

Compliments? Maker, if it were anyone else, you might even think he was making a pass at you.

But it’s him, and you give the helmet a strange look. It’s a little freaky, in all honesty. “I… see. What business do you have here, then, Mandalorian?”

The helm sags slightly in what you can only describe as a falter. It’s jarring. So incongruent with the persona you have crafted in your mind.

“I can’t just drop by?” You imagine your disbelief is evident on your face, because he sighs, a deep and raspy thing, before his voice sobers a fraction. “I have business with the Pirate Queen.” Your shoulders slacken. Of course. It’s a relief, in some way, to know that the purpose of his visit is so normal.

You ready the holo-log at your side. “Ah, sure. How many nights?”

He straightens and rubs a hand to the back of his neck briefly. You stare at the offending limb, entranced by such a normal, hesitant movement. It’s… It’s so very human, for lack of a better word.

“I’m not looking for lodging.” You blink up at his visor, frowning. “My work should only take a day, at the most.”

“Then…”

“I told you. Just wanted to drop in.” That doesn’t answer anything at all, and he elaborates, “I rarely visit Takodana, innkeeper. I thought I’d say hello while I was here.”

Your lips part. What? How… how can there be so much lost in translation? You’ve been afraid of this man, or a barebones idea of him, for months now. Like some kind of boogeyman, under-the-bed horror to spook children into good behaviour. And he comes to you with something like friendliness, with a smart one-liner and warmth in his tone?

You shake your head, dazed; reluctantly, you decide to give it to him straight. “I… I wasn’t under the impression that we were friends, Mandalorian.” He stills, and you keep going. “Honestly, uh, last time. It wasn’t great, for me. You— You scared me.”

‘You still do’ sits on the tip of your tongue. In the disarming haze of his amicability, you can’t tell if it’s true or not. You ramble in the face of his silence, if only to quiet the conflict in your mind. “I thought that you’d— I mean, I thought that I might. Y’know. Die, that night. I was tired, okay, and— and I didn’t know what to think…”

You trail off.

The Mandalorian stands before you, wordless. Your knees aren’t trembling, but there’s a worry seated deep in your chest. It’s interesting, maybe, that you don’t know who it’s for. Guilt begins to creep up on you, bitter at the back of your throat. Kriff. Just as you open your mouth to say something, his voice comes through the vocoder.

“I apologise. I was not… I did not know. It was never my intention to scare you.” His voice sounds hoarse, like the very thought of your fear repulses him. His words are not clumsy, per se, but there’s a rawness there that makes you notice how eloquent he usually sounds. The visor does not stray from your face. “I am sorry. Truly, I am sorry.” His shoulders are slumped, and he’s curling in on himself slightly. Making himself smaller, you realise faintly, and he presses a gloved hand to his chest. The helmet bows. “Ni ceta. I apologise, innkeeper.”

You blink rapidly, not knowing what to say. That’s… an awful lot to take in. You can’t remember the last time someone really begged for your forgiveness like this. You swallow thickly. Don’t cry.

The air seems muggy, somehow. Heated. As if all the truth that has burst forth carries a flame with it, burning the space between you. Hesitantly, you place a hand on his vambrace. The metal is cool against the warmth of your palm, and you’re careful not to touch any of the buttons on the control panel.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “I appreciate that. It’s— it’s alright. I think.” You nod determinedly, as if to reaffirm your words.

Heartfelt apologies don’t spill out so easily from heartless men, surely. He’s worth more trust than you give him. And his stance — defeated, ashamed — no, it doesn’t suit him at all. The helm tilts back up to your face, and you shoot him a small smile. Some kind of impulse lurches in your chest; to comfort, to come together. It’s genuine, and there’s a rosy warmth to your cheeks that feels pleasant.

You slide your hand away from his arm to offer it in the air. It hovers boldly, an attempt to bridge the abyss. It takes him a second, but he clasps your hand in his. You shake firmly, and his grip is strong, yet not painful. Reassuring, in a way. You suspect he’s controlling it for your sake.

“Let’s start fresh, huh?” You give him your name, and he repeats it.

His baritone resonates in your ears; it sounds like molasses, dripping into chest and heart. To hear your name uttered with respect, reverence, in that clear-cut way he speaks. It is nothing short of a miracle, in a moment.

You reassure him immediately, “I don’t need yours, if you’re worried about that sort of thing.” You lick your lips nervously. “But I do need something to call you. Got a preference?”

He hums, and you’re grateful how at-ease he sounds. It’s better this way. “What was it I told you that day? ‘Pick one’, I believe.”

So. This is the Mandalorian. He’s got jokes.

You snort, more at the realisation than anything else, and his posture brightens. “If you’re sure.” You press your lips together, thinking of a name. The back of your neck tingles all the while, and the weight of his stare is welcome for the first time. “We could just keep simple? ‘Mando’ would work.”

“Original,” he drawls, not unkindly. “But fine by me.” You have no idea, but it sounds like he’s smiling.

“Alright, then, Mando.” It’s so surreal, chatting with your own personal nightmare after months, just to find out he’s kind of… sweet. Nice to talk to, in a way you didn’t know you needed till now.

———

You two make small talk for a while over the counter. Mild, lighthearted. You learn that Mando’s a much more nuanced soul than you first assumed. Thoughtful, contemplative — careful in the way he speaks to you. You’re not used to that kind of consideration, and it’s appreciated. He’s funny, too, in a crooked kind of way. Like a mismatched puzzle piece fitting in the wrong set, bringing a bemused, entertained quirk to your lips. He conveys wry amusement surprisingly well, despite wearing no facial expression to back him up.

Now that you’re not quaking at the sight of him, your curiosity emerges. Is it a pain, lugging so much armour around? Does he sleep with the helmet on? When did he get that ship, parked just outside? Is it painful, having such a pensive heart, but evoking fear with every step?

Mainly, though, you’re just happy. The blue of his beskar is softer to the eyes, now. It’s the feeling of dipping your toes into chill, crisp waters. Testing the mood of the current, of this new depth you have yet to discover.

Being friends. What a novel idea.

Mando turns to look out the window. The day is well into the afternoon; there’s still time before sunset. “I should get going,” he states, but makes no move to shift off the desk.

There’s a twinge of disappointment. “Oh. Right, your work.” You scuff the toe of your boot against the floor. What can you say, really? One day of budding friendship doesn’t give you the right to impose.

“Yes. The Castle is… eastward, you said?”

You hum in agreement with where his finger is pointing. A shame. You thought you’d have more time with him. “Three miles through the forest,” you intone glumly. “Can’t miss it.”

Would you have to wait a cycle to see him again? More? Would you be waiting here, stuck in your idyllic, but oh-so-small corner of the galaxy, waiting for your Mandalorian to return? You purse your lips; the image doesn’t agree with you. You don’t agree with it, rather.

Finally, he straightens, and the height difference doesn’t startle you, this time. (Impresses you, maybe. Makes something giddy flutter in your chest. But you can’t afford those thoughts, can you?)

Mando tilts his helmet side to side slightly, as if he’s considering something. Weighing the pros and cons, and the action is somewhat exaggerated. You pay no heed, picking at a nail bed idly. It’s childish, sulky.

“Three miles can be travelled by foot. No need to waste the fuel.” He turns to you. “Never been through these woods before, though. Might get lost.”

In your disgruntlement, you don’t catch the leading inflection. You sigh. “I don’t think a Mandalorian would have much issue with an uninhabited forest. You’ll be fine. Just one straight path; don’t stray and it’s easy—”

Mando bends down a little, and says your name seriously, prompting you to look up. "I might get lost. Could use a guide.”

Your lips part in realisation, forming a small ‘o’. That’s what you say, too, and heat blooms in your cheeks at his static-filled snicker. He thinks he’s clever.

“So,” you start swiftly, attempting to recover your dignity. “Is it my turn to save the damsel?” He turns to the door, and you step round the desk to join him.

“I can slay my own beasts,” he snarks, and the mirth you hear is lilting. “You can return the favour, for the dragon I just scared off.”

You huff. “Hardly a dragon, I think.” With finality, you flick off the electric lights and step outside into the clean Takodana breeze.  “Wasn’t really a rescue so much as pest control.” You detect the light, spiced scent of the fragrant tree bark nearby. It grounds you to this moment. Taking in a hearty breath, you do your best to put that stinking Zabrak out of your mind.

A few hours off would be good. You barely get any guests anyway, and Maz is the understanding type. Living for millennia must do that to you.

Mando says nothing as you punch the lock code digits into the door, and start to make your way towards the forest. You know the path to the Castle like the back of your hand, like the strokes on your face, but you have never walked it with company. You smile, unabashed.

There’s a first time for everything.

———

[note: if there’s any warnings you think should be mentioned, please let me know.]

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Reassurance

{Following: To Have Waited so Long... & Burial Rights}

The sweet scent of lemongrass and spearmint overpowered the green tea that steeped, billowing from the kettle. A soothing and serene aroma that ran counter to the current conversation. Wafting up to fill the small space, separated from the the whole of the overpacked shrine with naught but a few paper dividers. 

Kirollis couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the temple-town morphed into a bustling city. Food carts lined the balcony outside, coming from all corners of Pandaria, offering fighters a warm meal and whatever else they could. Citizens caught making their pilgrimages through sacred lands, waylaid in their ancient rites, were forced to find shelter, scattered through the neutral parts of the Vale. Refugees huddled around the small rooms, overcrowding the already limited space. A triage area, even if it wasn’t much, was set up in the main hall of the Shrine, where warriors from all walks of life were treated after their battles. Races from all corners of the globe came in defense to the Vale of Eternal Blossom in its time of need.

The bustle reminded him of Orgrimmar, or Silvermoon. Certainly not the sleepy hills of a Pandarian province.

Soriya occupied herself with the kettle of tea she had brewed. Pouring one for Kirollis before she poured her own mug.

He stared at the steam as it wafted out from the top of his cup. Contemplative. Concerned. Confused. “Run me through it again?” He spoke with worry laced in his tone. “This has been going on for how long, now?” 

“Since the first day the Vale was attacked.” Soriya replied in a quiet, confessional tone. 

Another huff had escaped him unwillingly. The same sound he had made every time his daughter had brought up the nightmares that ravaged her subconscious. A sound that became quite prevalent in their conversation, given the topic.

It was no small secret that he had dealt with the Old Ones before. He was familiar with the mind twisting horrors made to break even the strongest of wills. Fought against the monsters that had been champions of the Darkness. Friends who had succumbed to the whispers. It had left its mark on him, much like it did any who dared fight back against chaos itself and walked away.

Never once did he think that the plague of madness would come for his daughter. Never once did he consider that, she, for all her strength and composure, would fall prey to the consuming thoughts of maleficence. She was strong, she was stronger then he was- in more ways than just mentally. It didn’t make sense to him.

But there she sat with weighted bags under her eyes made it seem as if she had been awake all week. Her youthful visage full of salt and damp highways for her tears. Posture slumped and sagged, deflated by all she had seen within the Vale. That vibrance, that zest for life, the warm toothy smile that he loved to see- none of it was present. Perhaps, to him, that was the most heartbreaking of all.

“So… You had a dream about the Vale, smothered in Old God, and that dream came true- or almost true?”

Soriya took a deep breath to collect herself. Noticeably in disarray whenever she had to speak on it, “The first one was… I was in front of the Shrine of Seven Stars. Everything was worse. It was like they- it was like it was passed this point already. Like the aftermath. The whole shrine was engulfed in those same growths you see on the mountainsides around the Vale. It was like an assault…”

“But that didn’t come to pass, right?” 

“No.” She confirmed. “...Not yet.” was quickly added in an afterthought.

“The second dream though, the one with your friend, that one came true?”

Soriya paused for longer than a moment. Her teal gaze averted off and to the side. Away from the questioning glance of her father. Trying her best to hide the pangs of shame, but... he saw through it all the same.

“Sori…” He spoke in a gentler tone. “Whatever happened. Whatever it was… it wasn’t your fault.”

“I could have done more.” She offered up in a diminutive and defeated voice. Her hand subtly coming to grasp and hold at her side as a pained expression flashed across her face.

“No.” Kirollis started with little room for discussion. “Soriya, you couldn’t have done anything. If it’s like you said, if they’re already yelling about serving some dark god? Chances are they’ve got some deeper seated corruption. It ain’t their fault either, as crappy as it is to deal with.” His words came with an air of experience to similar situations. “The best thing you can do, the only thing you can do, is find the source of the corruption and destroy it.”

Leaning forward a tad the rogue leveled squinted emerald eyes over his daughter, “What I’m more worried about is you. Something out in these fields wants you to suffer. You’re sure you haven’t seen any weird marks? Shadowy figures? Voices in your head promising power?”

“None.” Soriya confirmed.

Kirollis pulled back as a paw came to rub, slow and continuous, against his cheek. It was a moment before he finally responded, “That’s good and bad.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well… if they were trying to convert you they would do so with open arms. Promise you the power to weather whatever is about to come. It’s… more like death flirting with you rather then just… actually dying. But these things seem to want to wear you down rather than outright convert you, right?”

Soriya ticked her head to the side, confused slightly by his line of thinking, “That seems like a bit of a leap.” 

“Have you been promised a slice of the Void?”

“No.”

“Then they want to kill you.”

“It’s that simple, huh?....wonderful.”

“They’re beings who want to reshape the world in their image. For all the cryptic talk... they really are awfully straight forward. Aren’t they?”

Where a smirk would have come at the joke, nothing but a tired sigh left the monks lips.

“My point is…. You pissed something off. Do you remember anything out of the ordinary? Anything that might have earned some ire from the faceless monsters?” Kirollis questioned, doing his best to keep the topic alive while Soriya was still willing to field them.

“I don’t… think so? Nothing stands out to me, at least.” Pleading teal eyes shot upward to meet her father's own inquisitive glance. “The first vision came before I even got to the Vale, I don’t…I didn’t...”

“Okay. Hey, its okay.” Kirollis was quick to comfort as he watched frustration overtake the young monk. “Listen….” He shifted around the table only to seat himself beside Soriya, tossing an arm around her shoulder, “I’m not going to let this thing get away with what it did. We’re going to face this together, okay? You’re not alone anymore.”

She leaned into him slightly as a heavy breath pushed passed her lips. Wiping the tears that welled from her eyes sheepishly. There was a small amount of comfort in his words, words she knew to be earnest.

{Brief mentions @kat-hawke​ } 

“My lord...” the supplicant stuttered, “I know not what to... what to do. The people... the people...”

The statue remained placid. A stoic and implacable visage part nightmare, part beauty. A blasphemy, cyclopean, wrapped in black granite.

“This illness. Others have... others have come and gone. This one, this one is different. I... I.” The supplicant’s eyes were heavy with tears. This was a place of anger. A temple of antipathy. But that, too, can be expressed in mourning.

The statue’s faceless visage reflected dimly in the torchlight.

“What can we do? Our healers can treat it, but there are only so many. And the choices that must be made....” the supplicant slammed her hand into the sand below. “The choices that must be made... they are heart breaking. Gut wrenching. Perhaps it would be better if the plague were more obvious. If we all had it. If we all went... But to see oneself healthy and yet forced to watch as the children of a poor woman die while the children of wealthy men live.”

She searched the empty face. There were no answers, only cold granite. “Those who say we should be forced to choose. That we will become destitute if we do not force them to work on through the plague, I...” she sniffled, her face red with a very different emotion indeed. “What can a woman do? What can a man do? When faced with such outrageous brutality in the name of greed? What...” she shook her head and stood. “I am making a fool of myself. It is unbecoming.”

The statue cast a long shadow there upon the sand. The moonlight creeping in my though the broken portico gave it the appearance of a leering, anthropomorphized fang jutting upward from a previously empty sea.

She drew her sword and held it, blade up, arm outstretched. “Grant me the wisdom to use the gifts you have given me correctly. For I am tired. And I am weak. And this is not becoming of your servants.”

An aged priest, the one who had granted her entry here, stood in the doorframe. “That is enough, Helene, I think. You have said what you must. He will do what he will do.”

“Has he... “she sheathed her sword, her face hardening. “Has he heard, do you think?”

The priest’s copper skin, vaguely reflected in the moonlight, was stoic and impassive. Almost as much as was the statue. “There are those who say that all gods hear the words spoken within their sanctuaries. But how they respond, no ordinary man can know. I believe that all gods hear prayers. Whether they answer them in the way we would like... I think depends upon the prayer.”

Helene, the supplicant, nodded. “I shall take my leave, then. Thank you for your time.” The old man nodded. She turned her back and began to walk down the winding trail that would lead her back to the group of outcasts where she made her den. “Have you had many contracts of late, Helene?” The priest’s voice passed over her shoulder. She stopped. She looked into the darkened sky as she spoke.. “Not as many as I would like. When these things come, they tend to take the bravado and desperation out of the kind of person who would employ me. Yourself aside, of course.”

“We do not serve the Blood God, Helene. Passion is not weakness in the service of the Faceless. Neither is fear, nor even exhaustion. Eighty three summers have I lived, Helene. And yet I make this walk every day. I am old now. I am tired. And yet I think he values sharpness of wit more than physicality. Perhaps...” the old priest gave a dry, bitter laugh, the first sign of emotion she’d encountered from him this evening. “Perhaps even that is going.”

“Goodnight, Kappal,” she replied. “I think perhaps both of us require rest.” His voice was in agreement as she began to walk again. “Certainly. Certainly we do.”

Later, as he brushed the sand from the feet of the seated idol, Kappal, Priest of Malice for sixty summers (or was it more?) looked up at the faceless visage. And there, in the gloom, he beheld a wonder. A dozen times he had seen it. And a wonder every time.

There, in the shadow of moon and flickering torchlight, in a face that had no face, the lines of a scowl had formed.

“Thy will be done, Father of Vengeance. Thy will be done,” he bowed his head.

Helene’s prayer would be answered.

Harry Potter and the descent into Darkness..

Chapter 24

They were called 'katas', Harry had learned, but it looked like some sort of elaborate choreographed dance. He supposed it was. It was a muggle martial arts thing, or so he had been told. A repetitive set of motions that one practiced over and over again to work out the kinks in their technique. Harry had been stunned to learn that Voldemort had studied under a muggle martial arts master for about a year when he was in his mid twenties.

Apparently the then-future-Dark Lord, had been traveling to the far east in search of a specific magical artifact and had witnessed some martial artists during his search. He had been impressed enough to extend his stay in Japan even when he had determined that the artifact in question wasn't there, and the country was still in a rather pitiful condition because of the war that had only ended four years prior.

Voldemort was, by no means, a master of martial arts, however he prided the skill as it improved his reflexes, balance, and footwork. But hand-to-hand combat was an absolute last resort, and one he highly doubted he would ever have to resort to. Even in the unlikely scenario of being separated from his wand, he was capable of enough wandless magic, as well as his incredible repertoire of parselmagic that also required no wand, that he would likely never be in a situation where he could not fall back on some sort of magical technique.

Still, Harry could tell that the little bit of muggle martial arts that the Dark Lord had learned, was impressive. His movements were mesmerizing. The fact that he was barefoot and in a pair of loose pants, tied at the ankles, and no shirt, wasn't exactly helping matters. Harry couldn't fathom why the hell seeing the other man's bare feet was so mesmerizing, but for some reason it was. Can a person have handsome feet? Harry had never given it any thought before, but he decided that if anyone did, Voldemort did. His eyes weren't stuck on the feet for long though. The man's chest was far more mesmerizing. Harry was so utterly distracted by the scene he was witnessing, that he had utterly abandoned his own exercises that morning.

"Gods, you're beautiful..." The words slipped out of Harry's mouth before he even realized his mouth was open. He'd thought them so many times during the last two weeks; why his brain decided to misfire and speak the words aloud this time, he had no idea, but now that they were out, he couldn't take them back.

He felt his face and the back of his neck instantly grow hot with embarrassment, while the bottom of his stomach dropped out in horror as he feared how his words might get taken.

Voldemort stopped in his choreographed movements, turned, and quirked an amused eyebrow back at the younger wizard.

"I-I'm sorry," Harry said quickly, ducking his head.

Voldemort chuckled. "You compliment me and then apologize? Harry, don't be ridiculous."

"I just... I mean... I'm sorry if it... weirds you out or something."

"What on earth are you going on about, Harry? Why in Merlin's name would it 'weird me out' to receive a compliment from you?"

"Er, I mean, with me being bent and all," Harry mumbled, looking down and fiddling with the drawstring of his jogging pants.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and looked at Harry for a moment before speaking. "Bent... that's a euphemism they're using these days for being gay, correct?"

Harry blinked. He forgot sometimes that it had been more than a decade since Voldemort had been able to be around other humans, and who knew how distanced he was from that sort of 'slang' even before his first body was destroyed. Still, was 'bent' a recent slang term? Or maybe it just wasn't used much by wizards? He really didn't know.

"Er, yeah, it is."

"Well, I suppose it's better than the things that were tossed around when I was school age," Voldemort mused quietly. "The idiots I attended Hogwarts with preferred to just call me a faggot. But of course, none of them survived much past graduation. In fact, dear Myrtle didn't even make it that far," he mused with a wicked grin.

Harry's jaw dropped and he stared in dumbfounded shock at the Dark Lord opposite him. Had he just...?

"You're gay?" the words fell out of Harry's mouth before he could engage the filter between his brain and his mouth, but once the words were out, he could do nothing but curse himself for his idiocy. What the hell was wrong with his brain-to-mouth filter today?

Voldemort gave him a long piercing look through narrowed eyes before the corners of his mouth turned up into an amused smirk.

"Yes, Harry. I am gay. Obviously, this is not something that is common knowledge, but I did get publicly 'outed' in my fifth year when I was sloppy enough to get caught snogging someone in a broom cupboard, by an extraordinarily nosy Gryffindor. At first he thought he could blackmail me with the information – I'm sure you can imagine that if being 'outed' in the present day was unpleasant for you, being outed fifty years ago was considerably worse. I refused to give into his demands, but at the time I was not in a position to forcefully silence him either. He quickly spread word around the school."

"Wow. I bet his death was painful," Harry deadpanned.

Voldemort's smirk grew wide and wicked. "Oh, it was."

Harry chuckled lightly but quickly found himself imagining the 16-year old Tom Riddle snogging some boy in a dark secluded broom cupboard and instantly found himself growing aroused by the thought. His arousal only shot through the roof as the anonymous, faceless 'other boy' suddenly turned into himself. The sixteen-year old Tom Riddle in his mind slowly morphed into his older visage that Harry had grown so close to in the last two months and Harry almost groaned aloud as his whole body suddenly ached with desire. He quickly tried to stomp the image out of his head. He'd already embarrassed himself beyond reason; the last thing he needed was to be sporting an erection in the Dark Lord's training gym.

Harry glanced up to see Voldemort grinning wickedly down at him with that lopsided smirk, that he sometimes felt the Dark Lord reserved just for him. That smirk that had been sending flutters through his gut for weeks now. Seeing it now, combined with the rest of the Dark Lord's amazing presence, totally did him in. He felt himself getting lost in the other man's glittering blood-red eyes. Falling into them.

Beautiful didn't even begin to describe the Dark Lord. He was a fucking god. His presence, combined with his power, combined with his confidence, combined with his amazing body...

Gods, Harry wanted to touch him! Not just feel the other man's hand in his hair, but to actually touch him. Feel the older wizard's skin beneath the pads of his fingertips... The other man's exposed chest, glistening with a very light sprinkling of sweat, the faintest dusting of hair at the top center, and that teasing line from the base of his naval down to, and disappearing into, his black pants, was taunting Harry and he felt his lids growing heavy with desire as the coil twisted in the pit of his stomach.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he turned his head away and ran his hand through his hair roughly.

So what if the other man was gay? It wasn't like that made any difference at all in the end. Voldemort was the most powerful dark wizard in the world. At best, Harry figured the other man might see him as a protégé or an apprentice of some sort. He doubted that Voldemort considered him to be anything more than the scrawny kid who happened to be holding a piece of his soul, and who he was now training to be a better wizard. Harry obviously needed to be able to properly guard the precious piece of Voldemort's soul, and to do that, he needed to be able to defend himself. It only made sense for Voldemort to be training Harry. He had reasoned that this was the most logical reason that the Dark Lord would be willing to spend so much time with him and dedicate so much of his efforts to him. Even beyond all of that, Harry was more than aware of the significant age gap between the two, and doubted that the other man could ever see past it...

He huffed in frustration as he pulled roughly at his own hair and found his eyes drawn back to the Dark Lord's gaze. What on earth had he been thinking, letting his imagination run away with himself like that, anyway? It's not like he could pursue anything with the Dark Lord. What would he do if Voldemort was offended by his interest? What if he told Harry to leave? Refused to allow him stay for the summer? Refused to continue their lessons? Harry didn't think he could face that. His time with the man had become too precious. The idea of not being able to stand by his side, every day, made Harry ache. The man had become so important to him, so quickly. It was more than just familiarity, friendship, or the admiration of a mentor. The draw he felt to the Dark Lord felt magical. Literally. It felt like there was some powerful tug deep inside him, calling him to Voldemort. But just being in the other man's company didn't feel like it was enough anymore. Just like the company of his companion had seemed pale in comparison, after having spent some time in the company of the actual Dark Lord. Once he was exposed to one, the previous incarnation wasn't enough anymore. And now that he had become accustomed to being able to spend time with Voldemort, he knew he could never give it up. But deep inside him, a piece of him desperately wanted something more. Not just time in the other's company; but intimacy.

Harry blinked slowly growing aware of an added pressure in his mind. A gentle, featherlight caress that he realized had been steadily growing over the passing silent seconds.

"That's quite an imagination, you've got there, Harry," Voldemort's voice came out in soft whisper and Harry suddenly startled as he realized that the man had come to stand directly in front of him and his face was only inches from Harry's. "So many thoughts buzzing around in there."

Oh Merlin... he'd seen. He knew... How much? How long was he inside my head? Did he see the fantasy?

Harry's mouth fell open to say something, but he realized he had no idea what to say or do. Any words he might have found escaped him utterly when one of Voldemort's long-fingered hands came up and brushed gently along Harry's cheek. A tiny gasp escaped his lips and he felt his eyes falling closed as the gentle caress of the Dark Lord's magic seeped into him from the tiny bit of contact.

"You feel it too, don't you, dear boy?" Voldemort's whispery voice said a moment later. "I think it's caused by the soul and the blood bonds interacting. I'm not really sure, to be perfectly honest. Such magics are always unpredictable."

Harry's eyes opened and he looked up at the other man with confusion. "What...?"

"The pull that exists between us. I'd swear it's growing in strength. Perhaps I've indulged in it too much, but I just can't help it. I've never been much one for denying myself something when I want it."

Realization began to dawn in Harry's eyes and a tiny, but powerful, hope sparked to life inside him.

"Do you want me? The way that I want you?" Harry asked suddenly with a voice that was much more confident and assured than he probably felt. Part of him couldn't believe he was being so blunt, but if his Gryffindor courage wasn't good for much, it was at least worth something here.

Voldemort gave him a long look, but Harry couldn't quite distinguish what the older wizard's blank face meant. Finally Voldemort's hand dropped to his side, abandoning Harry's cheek and leaving him with the sudden feeling of loss.

"It doesn't matter, Harry. You're fourteen years old. You're practically still a child."

"I'm almost fifteen!" Harry suddenly said in a rather desperate tone.

Voldemort snorted and rolled his eyes. "You do realize how juvenile that response was, don't you?"

"Well, who gives a damn how old I am? I don't care how old you are!"

"Do you even realize how old I am?" Voldemort asked with a humorless face and a single raised brow.

"I said I don't care!"

"I'm sixty-nine, Harry. Sixty-nine years old."

"Fine, but you don't look it! You don't look a day over thirty. I don't look fourteen either! Since I finished taking the accellerant potion, I could easily pass for seventeen! Neither one of us has normal bodies. Besides, what the hell does age matter to an immortal Dark Lord? And if you're theory is right, then I'm immortal too! So I don't see any reason why age should factor into this!"

Voldemort sighed and pinched the bride of his nose for a moment before letting his hand fall to his side. "You don't understand, Harry. It is more than just your physical age. Age has a lot to do with mentality too. You simply haven't lived enough days to –"

"But you're always telling me that I act far more mature than a fourteen year old! You're always saying that you forget how old I am because I don't act like it!"

Voldemort growled. "It doesn't matter, Harry!"

"Fine, whatever! But you never answered my first question. Do you want me? Do you want more than just... just... whatever this is that we've been doing? Because I know I do!"

"There is magic at work here, Harry!" Voldemort yelled suddenly. "I don't even understand the nature of what's going on!"

"Yeah, well I don't bloody care!"

"I will not let some ancient magic control my actions and choices!" Voldemort bellowed.

"So it's nothing more than the magic to you? This thing between us – there's nothing more to it? Nothing pulling you to me aside from the soul bond and the blood bond? Nothing?" Harry asked.

Voldemort sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again.

"Because I know there's more for me," Harry continued in a desperate voice. "I feel the magical connection to you, but I'm also drawn to your mind; your intelligence and genius! To your personality; how you just take control of things. You exude power and confidence and I love it. I love being around you when you just take charge. I love our talks and the time we spend together just doing nothing. Just being in your company makes me feel so much calmer and I can think better, and I know that it's more than just some magical connection! I just know it! I look forward to coming here every day. I look forward to telling you about what's been going on in my life at Hogwarts and every day I look forward to hearing what you've read in the papers and what new spell or ward your working on. Are you saying that you don't feel anything extra about the time we spend together? Nothing extra about me? Are you saying that it's just the magic and nothing more? Because if that's it, say so and I'll never bring it up again. But if it's not... if it's not –"

And suddenly his words were cut off as Voldemort's lips were pressed against his own in a fiery display of completely unexpected passion. Harry was stunned for a moment but quickly began to melt into the other man's embrace. One hand was instantly buried into his hair, but it wasn't just threaded gently into his raven locks, it was fisted in them and pulling, hard. The rough tug shocked Harry, mostly by how much he liked it. How much part of him wanted the other man to pull harder.

Voldemort's other hand wrapped around his waist and pulled Harry flush against the older wizard. Harry moaned out against Voldemort's lips as he felt the entirety of the other man's torso pressed against his own, and his arms came up and wrapped around Voldemort's neck on autopilot.

The kiss continued and deepened. Harry almost gasped when he felt the older man's tongue slip out and brush against his lips, demanding access. Harry's mind was a whirl with confusion, lust, need, desire for more, but also the fear that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. This was his first ever kiss, and he wanted to do it right. He didn't want to disappoint Voldemort. He parted his lips and felt the man's tongue come in and probe about. It was strange and yet indescribably erotic. He felt his whole body reacting to their interactions, and he could feel Voldemort's body reacting too.

Instinctively, his hips gyrated and he ground himself against the other man experimentally. Voldemort growled into his mouth and deepened the kiss while tightening his grip on Harry's hair. Harry cried out in pleasure and shock and thrust himself against the other man again.

It was just so good. He could feel their magic swirling around and through them like a hurricane. Things in the room were shaking and falling about from the torrents of accidental magic flying off them.

Voldemort broke away from Harry's lips and the younger wizard almost whimpered in disappointment. He didn't want it to end yet. He wanted more. More. The whimper was, however, cut off when Voldemort instead latched onto Harry's neck and began to trail his lips and teeth along his long pale column and then began to bite and nibble along his jaw.

"Oh gods," Harry moaned and gasped as Voldemort gave another rough tug of his hair, pulling his head back and exposing more of his neck.

"Are you sure, Harry?" Voldemort's voice came out in a husky pant. "Sure that you want this?"

"I want it! I want it! Oh, please... please!"

"I won't let you change your mind, Harry. If you really agree to this, you're mine. No one else can have you. No one else can touch you."

"Yours. Only yours!" Harry panted and eagerly nodded his head as much as he could with the older wizard's hand still fisted in his hair.

Voldemort tugged Harry's hair, exposing the other side of his neck and trailed his tongue up it until he came to Harry's ear and pulled it between his teeth. By this point, Harry was quite literally writhing against the other man and panting heavily. He'd never felt anything so amazing in all his life. He could feel their magic twining together in some strange new way he'd never experienced before and it only seemed to heighten the feeling from the onslaught of physical stimuli. He could feel the most powerful coiling pressure he'd ever experienced building up in his gut, and had absolutely no hope of stopping his body from thrusting against the other man. Not that he needed to, since Voldemort actually began to grind right back against him in the most delicious and erotic dance of Harry's life. It was incredible and indescribable and he couldn't believe it was all happening so fast.

"Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods," Harry chanted with his quick shallow pants as the two bodies writhed against each other in rhythm.

"My name," Voldemort panted into Harry's ear.

"What?"

"Say my name, Harry."

"Wh... T-Tom?" Harry asked, in surprise.

"Yessss," Voldemort hissed.

"Tom...Tom. Yes..." Harry said, experimentally testing out the name on his panted breaths.

There was another insistent tug in his hair and the pain only seemed to exaggerate the extreme pleasure he was experiencing everywhere else. It felt commanding and controlling and for some reason he found it turned him on all that much more. At some point during all of this, Harry's hand had begun a desperate exploration of the other man's exposed chest, and it was like the palms of his hands and the pads of his fingers were on fire with that melded magical energy. Every touch set him alight and he couldn't get enough.

"Only you, Harry," Tom said, gripping a tight hold on Harry's rear and pressing them together harder in rhythm. "Only you can ever say it."

Harry moaned out as he was filled with a rush of some foreign emotion he couldn't quite place.

"Oh Tom... ahh... oh.. oh, I – I... I'm going to... oh fuck..."

"Yessss, Harry. Cum for me, Harry. Only for me," Tom growled out and Harry felt the other man's magic tighten around him as if latching onto him and pulling on something deep inside it. It was insane and intense and everything happened at once.

"Yes, Tom! Only... oh gods... only you. Only ever you. Oh Tom!"

Harry called out as his world exploded and he began to convulse erratically against the other man. It was so much more intense than anything he had ever self-induced. The best wank in the world couldn't hold a candle to what was happening in that moment. He'd never even imagined he could feel this good. His clouded, lust-filled mind only just barely recognized the fact that the other man was jerking and convulsing and moaning right back in the same way, and the thought that he had done that to the Dark Lord filled him with a surge of pride and even more powerful euphoria.

Tom grunted as he reached his own completion and his grip tightened in Harry's hair to the point of almost pulling a good chunk out, but a second later the hold loosened and slipped into a gentle threading through Harry's black locks.

The two sighed and panted against each other as they came down from their entirely unexpected activities. Harry buried his head in Tom's neck and smiled.

Tom.

It felt like it was some incredibly special honor and it was only his. Only Harry could call Voldemort by his real name. It would be weird to start thinking of the man as Tom after thinking of him as Voldemort for so long, but he somehow didn't think he'd have much trouble making the shift. Helooked like a Tom. This man who Harry had become so utterly attached to. Who Harry had grown to cherish and adore beyond reason. This man didn't feel like Voldemort to him. He felt like Tom. It felt right to call him that. But most of all, it felt glorious that the man had granted him permission to do so.

It truly seemed that this gesture had to have some deeper meaning to it. It had to have some greater significance that the Dark Lord was willing to allow Harry to use his given name. Harry didn't know what that meaning was, but he was sure it was important.

"Are you still sure this is what you want?" Voldemort... no Tom's voice came out quietly in an extremely rare display of insecurity. Harry felt his grip on the other man tighten protectively.

"I'm sure," Harry said in a muffled voice into the older wizard's shoulder with strong conviction. "I won't change my mind. And I... I hope you won't either," he finished with a far more weaker, and equally insecure voice.

Tom was silent for a moment while his hand threaded gently through Harry's hair and gently massaged the scalp that he had so recently abused.

"No, Harry, I won't change my mind. You're mine now."

Harry grinned widely and gave Tom another squeeze, relishing in the fact that he was holding the other man. That he was completely wrapped up in his arms and that it felt even more amazing than he had imagined. "Yours."

Tom seemed to be enjoying the embrace as well, but finally he pulled away and sighed quietly. His face was strangely soft and his eyes were filled with some deeper emotion that Harry couldn't quite place, but it was suddenly replaced with his normal mask.

"Come, Harry. We're both a mess and I highly doubt that either of us will be getting anymore work done in here this morning."

He turned and walked over to the hooks on the wall near the door where he had a loose outer robe hanging. He slipped it on and Harry sighed longingly at the loss of the older wizard's beautifully exposed torso.

Tom looked over his shoulder and smirked leeringly at Harry, causing him to grin and duck his head in mild embarrassment. Tom led him up the stairs to the second floor and to the door of the bathroom he usually used there. He instructed Harry to get 'cleaned up', while motioning to the shower, and to then join him in the study when he was done. The next moment Tom had closed the door and was gone.

Harry stood there in the marble and porcelain bathroom feeling as if he were still in a state of mild shock. What had just happened was slowly seeping in and he couldn't wipe the smile off his face.

His hand came up and he lightly brushed his fingertips over his still-swollen lips and actually giggled lightly. He rolled his eyes at his idiotic reactions and quickly stripped down and stepped into the shower.

It wasn't until after he got out that he realized he didn't have a change of clothes. Nor, in fact, did he have the soiled clothes he had come in with. They had vanished from the floor where he had left them. Best he could figure was that Mixey had popped in and grabbed them.

Over-eager house elves, Harry grumbled to himself as he wrapped one of the fluffy deep navy towels around his waist, and slung another over his shoulders. He didn't even have his wands since they were both in his bag back in the study. Otherwise he would have transfigured one of the towels into a bathrobe.

He stepped cautiously out of the bathroom and looked both ways down the long hallway. He felt exceedingly exposed wandering through the manor in nothing but a pair of towels and could only imagine how utterly embarrassed he would be to walk into the study in such a state. Part of him hoped that he would beat Tom back to the study and be able to change into his school robes before the other got there, but a bigger part of him doubted he'd be that lucky.

He hurried down the hall and slowly pushed the door to the study open and peered inside. Tom was there, just as he'd known he would be. Harry grumbled against his always-shitty luck and slipped inside.

Tom turned his head and his brows slowly climbed into his damp black hairline at the sight of Harry wrapped in nothing but a pair of fluffy blue towels. The corner of his mouth curled up into an amused smirk.

"Mixey made off with my clothes," Harry muttered. His face grew hot and pink as he saw Tom's eyes trailing over his exposed body hungrily. Finally Tom chuckled and turned his attention back to the newspaper in his hand.

Harry hurried over and picked up his bag, pulling out his cypress wand and his change of clothes. He hesitated, looking unsure for a brief moment before he began to head back out towards the door.

"You can change in here, Harry. It's not like I haven't already seen it," Tom said, and Harry could hear the amusement in his voice. Harry's face went red and he froze, debating his options.

"Yeah, but we weren't exactly... together or anything back then," Harry mumbled, and Tom only snickered more.

"Do you honestly think I didn't take a good look while I had the chance?" Tom asked humorously and Harry felt his blush increase dramatically, while he also felt a surge of delight at the thought that Tom had been checking him out, even that early on. It had been quite a while since the ritual in the big bathtub to remove Harry's trace, after all.

Finally he huffed, annoyed by the intensity of his embarrassment and just dropped the towels. He was facing the wall, with his backside exposed to the Dark Lord. He could feel the other man's eyes on him, but tried not to fumble too much to show his nervousness as he quickly pulled on his trousers and a light undershirt. He would wait to pull on his outer school robes until he left.

He ran his hand through his hair in a rough, nervous gesture and heard Tom chuckling from behind him. He turned around and scowled at the other man, but he couldn't hold onto any malice and quickly found himself grinning again. He was just too happy. He often joked about what piss-poor luck he had, but at the moment, he honestly felt like the luckiest man alive. Of course, he knew that few would agree with that sentiment, but that was just because they didn't really know Tom. No one else knew him the way Harry did. Or at least, that's the way he felt. He knew he still had so much to learn about the other man, but he realized that there was nothing he wanted more than to spend every waking hour finding out. He wanted to know this man's every nuance. His every experience, and his every desire. And he wanted to fulfill those desires. He wanted to be the one to make Tom smile. He wanted to be the one – the only one – to make Tom make that wonderful keening noise from the back of his throat as they writhed against each other.

He looked over at the older wizard, perched regally in his leather and wood office chair, with that devilish smirk on his lips, and had the most ridiculous urge to go sit in the other man's lap but Tom stood up, saving Harry from his own impulses.

"Come here, Harry," Tom said, motioning with his hand. Harry took only two long strides to get to the older wizard and came to an awkward stop a foot from him, wanting desperately to get closer, but unsure if it was okay. He felt so confused and unsure. He was excited and elated by the direction things were heading in, but he was also terrified that he'd do something stupid to screw it up. He knew he needed to try and work on his confidence or he'd just start to annoy Tom, but he was still too overwhelmed and confused to get himself sorted out yet.

Tom saved him the confusion by closing the distance between the two and lacing the fingers of one hand behind Harry's neck and into the messy hair there.

"Was that your first kiss, Harry?" Tom asked with a deep, smooth voice. Harry hadn't expected that question and floundered for a moment.

He ducked his head and shrugged before he shook himself, trying to force his way past the nerves. "Yea. It was. And my first... all the rest of it, too." Harry ducked his head and grinned, widely.

Tom made a pleased humming sound in his throat and Harry looked up to see the older wizard looking down at him with those hungry eyes and a wide, thin-lipped, smile.

"Good," he said before pulling Harry's head up and pressing his lips to his again. The movement was fast and unexpected, but Harry reacted much quicker this time, returning the kiss and wrapping his arms around Tom's waist and fisting his hands in the fine material of the man's shirt.

Tom pulled back and Harry was left panting and looking up at the older wizard with heavy lids and lusty eyes. Tom ground against his already straining erection and Harry groaned out.

Tom chuckled. "Ah... the joys of having a young lover. You recover so quickly. I imagine I'm going to enjoy showing you all the different ways in which two men can enjoy each other's company," he whispered in a husky voice before leaning in and pecking Harry on the lips again. Harry moaned out as a powerful jolt of lust shot through him at the implications of the other man's words.

"But now is not the time," Tom said, pulling away and earning another whimper from Harry. Tom grinned and ran his hand over Harry's cheek, looking down at him with eyes filled with that uncharacteristic, unidentified, emotion that seemed so foreign on the older man's face. "It is about time that you returned to the school. You need your breakfast. Come back after lunch. I suspect I'll complete the transformation tomorrow – assuming we don't get distracted," he gave Harry a pointed glare and Harry grinned sheepishly.

Harry almost literally dragged his feet as he made his way to the first floor corridor outside the time-turner room. Tom had escorted him down there and as the two came to a stop in front of the door, Harry was relieved when Tom once again initiated the one thing that Harry wanted more than anything else – another kiss, and another lingering embrace.

Feeling Tom's body against his own was an experience Harry couldn't explain. The strange magic was clearly playing some role in it because Harry could feel swells of magic coursing around and through them the closer they got. But he also knew it was more than just the magic. Every part of him ached for Tom. He wanted to hold on and never let go. The idea of returning to Hogwarts was practically depressing. He just wanted to stay at the manor and never leave Tom's side.

But what use to the man would he be if he did that? Tom didn't just want a house-boy. If Harry kept up his golden-boy persona at the school, he would leave himself in the prefect position to help the Dark Lord's cause when it came time to take the school, or get rid of Dumbledore.

He sighed into Tom's shoulder before taking in a deep, long breath of the other man's scent. It was delicious, and so intense this close up. Spices and musk and traces of whatever shampoo or body wash he had used in his shower.

Finally Harry pulled away, but not before Tom had given him another peck on the lips and smirked at him. Harry slipped into the time-turner room, and moments later he was two hours earlier, at 7:25am. His earlier self would have arrived at the manor a few minutes earlier and was currently in the 2nd floor bathroom changing for his morning workout in the gym.

Harry almost laughed aloud at the thought of what his earlier self was in for in the coming hours. Harry could still hardly believe it all himself.

He went out into the entry hall, activated the port-key and returned to Hogwarts with a secret smile on his lips.

It was Wednesday, so he had a free period in first block, and Charms in second. Ron never bothered to get up for breakfast on Wednesdays – opting instead to take advantage of the free morning period to sleep in.

Hermione also had the period free, then Charms, and then ancient runes later that afternoon after lunch – but she, unlike Ron, got up on time and still attended breakfast, so Harry knew he'd still be seeing her that morning.

He came through the portrait hole into Gryffindor Tower and made his way over to one of the couches in a dreamy haze before collapsing down into the overstuffed seat with a big dopey grin on his face.

"Where have you been?" a voice sounded and Harry sat up and blinked in surprise. Hermione and Ginny were both sitting on the couch opposite him with books and parchment all around then. He hadn't even realized they were there.

"Uh..." Harry floundered. His head was still to busy buzzing with thoughts of gentle caresses, rough grips, tugging hair, and the sensation of having Tom's teeth tongue trail along his jaw.

Ginny suddenly gasped and Harry turned his blank face to her.

"Is that a hickey!" she hissed with curiosity and mirth in her eyes.

Harry could feel his face go red and his hand instantly shot up to his neck. But he suddenly realized he had no idea which side of his neck a hickey might be on, since Tom had assaulted both sides.

Oh shit, what if there's more than –

"Several hickeys!" Ginny continued. "And are those teeth marks?"

"Oh bollocks!" Harry moaned as he quickly stood up, intent on racing out of the common room. It was still pretty unoccupied and his quick look around told him that no one else down there seemed to have overheard their conversation.

"Oh, Harry, sit down! Stop panicking. Hang on just a second," Ginny said, still grinning while she rolled her eyes at him. "One of my roommates knows some really good glamors for covering those sorts of things up. I'll just run up and ask her." And with that Ginny was up, out of her seat, and racing up the stairs.

Harry stared after her, gaping and confused as he slowly sunk back down into his previous seat. His eyes glanced up hesitantly to Hermione, who looked both shocked, and... amused. Harry rolled his eyes.

Hermione began to dig around in her bookbag and after what seemed like deep exploration, she came out with a small compact mirror. Harry was mildly surprised that Hermione even owned such a thing and apparently his expression showed this.

"I started carrying it around since the dance," she said defensively, and not meeting his eyes.

Harry grinned. "How are things going with you and Viktor? You two still meeting up in the library?"

Hermione blushed and ducked her head before looking back up and scowling playfully at him. She thrust the compact at him and as he took it, she whipped out her wand, tapped it, and cast a quick engorgio charm on it. It enlarged to the size of a dinner plate and Harry quickly began to examine his appearance as discreetly as he could manage in the public setting. He was just grateful that few Gryffindors were morning people.

His neck was littered with dark red and purplish marks, and a number of red teeth marks. His jaw also featured a number of red marks. At the sight he wasn't sure which emotion would win out – the urge to be deeply embarrassed, or the sudden rush of arousal that the reminder of the events that created the marks, caused.

He realized suddenly he was grinning and ducked his head, sheepishly before closing the enlarged compact, and canceling the enlargement charm.

He cleared his throat and handed the compact back. "Er... thanks."

Hermione rose a single questioning eyebrow and sent him a look that clearly said 'you will be explaining this.'

Ginny reappeared on the stairs to the girls dorms just then and quickly made her way over to them. A couple minutes and several fairly simple healing and glamor charms later, and Harry looked normal again.

As he examined his appearance in the mirror again, he was almost sad that he'd had to remove the evidence of his and Tom's activities. Having physical proof just made it that much more real.

"Thanks you two, for helping. I really appreciate it," Harry said as he hunched over in his seat on the edge of the couch.

"Well?" Hermione's voice came out impatiently.

Harry looked up and gave them his most innocent and bewildered look. "Well, what?"

Ginny guffawed and Hermione growled.

"No way, Harry Potter!" Hermione began. "You're not getting out of this without an explanation! What happened? How... who was responsible for – for – that?"

Harry's eyes darted between the two girls with a mild sense of panic in his gut. He knew he couldn't dodge this bullet, but he needed to give them something convincing, while not revealing any indication of anything even remotely close to the truth. A story popped into his head, and he could only hope it would be sufficient.

He twisted around, checking the other occupants of the common room before standing up and moving over to sit on the same couch as the two girls. He pulled out his phoenix feather wand and cast a quick privacy spell around them.

"I may be seeing someone," He said in a low voice, still looking around as if he were extremely paranoid of being overheard.

"Really!" Ginny almost squealed. "Who?"

"I can't tell you. He's... he's not out. To anyone. That includes his family, alright?"

"We would never tell anyone, Harry!" Hermione insisted suddenly, and she looked visibly hurt at the insinuation that he couldn't trust them.

"It's not that I don't trust you two, I just can't risk this. It's not my secret to tell. Besides, I trusted both you and Fleur with my secret and I know that neither of you told anyone, but it still got out. I still have no idea how Skeeter found out, but that doesn't change the fact that she did."

"But Skeeter's been missing for months. It's been all over the Prophet. No one has any idea what's happened to her," Ginny said.

"True, but I'm not willing to risk that whatever method she used to spy on us isn't still available to someone else. Like I said, it's not my secret to tell. If his family opened up the Daily Prophet one morning and found out that their son was being outed to the whole bloody world and that he was being accused of dating the Boy-Who-Lived... it would... it would be bad. I just can't do that to him. You understand, don't you?" Harry said with the most sincere, pleading face he could muster.

"Oh Harry," Hermione said with her most sympathetic face. "Of course. We can help you, you know. We're your friends, we'll do whatever we can to help."

Ginny nodded her head enthusiastically.

"Thanks you guys. It really means a lot to me," Harry said with a small shy smile, while grinning internally. This could work to his advantage.

"So how long has this been going on!" Ginny asked in a hushed but excited voice.

"It's sort of been building up for a bit, but this morning was the first time we really... did anything," Harry admitted, grinning at the memory.

"That must have been a pretty hot and heavy snogging session to leave you looking like that." Ginny said, with a wicked smirk.

Harry blushed but his grin only grew wider.

"It was my first real kiss, too," He admitted, truthfully. Happy that he actually had the opportunity to tell someone about this monumental event, even if it was being sugar-coated in lies.

"Really?" Ginny exclaimed with a big grin. "That's so great, Harry. Was it good?"

Harry barked out a laugh. "Good? It was bloody brilliant. It was... it was amazing. All of it was just so far beyond anything I ever could have hoped for or imagined! I... Merlin I think I..." he cut off, stunned by what he was about to say.

"Think you what?" Hermione prodded.

"I think I love him," Harry finished in a near-whisper. Did he? Did he even know what love was? He took on a determined look and nodded his head to himself. If anything was love, this was.

"I mean... it's early and all. We really only just admitted to each other how we feel, but we've been dancing around it for months now. I really... I really do think I love him."

"Wow..." Ginny said in a hushed whisper.

Hermione just looked stunned. Finally she spoke, "you two have been meeting for months?"

Harry ducked his head and made himself look ashamed, "Yeah... I'm sorry I kept it secret from you, but you already know why. I knew I couldn't do anything that would risk him being exposed. It really has nothing to do with me not trusting you guys, I just didn't want to do anything that could risk it. It's not my secret to risk. Not my secret to tell."

Hermione looked a bit disappointed but nodded her head. "I understand, Harry. I'm hurt, I won't lie about that, but I understand. Just, please, don't feel like you have to hide these things from us. We're your friends. You can rely on us! We'll help you."

Harry grinned and looked up at them through his eyelashes. "Thank you. Both of you. I really do appreciate it. And honestly... it's kind of nice to have someone to talk to about it. Even if I can't give any specifics..

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde rewritten, Ch. 01

(A/N: I didn’t think it was necessary to include warnings for this one, except for the fact that I shamelessly rewrote the 2nd chapter from the book)

1. Searching for Mr. Hyde Gabriel John Utterson was, as a lawyer, not someone who could easily be startled. But the incident his cousin Richard Enfield had told him about was nagging at him. No, nagging at him was an understatement. Ever since he had heard the story, he had been plagued for nightmares. They were always the same. His dear friend, Henry Jekyll, being haunted by dark shadows, usually in the shape of a man. Or a replay of the occurrence Enfield had told him about. The man was always faceless, which in itself was uncanny enough. And every time he awoke from his nightmares in cold sweat, he was compelled to go to his safe and read the will of his friend Dr. Jekyll over and over. The good doctor had declared a certain Mr. Edward Hyde to be the sole heir to his fortune. And that very man had trampled over a little girl without even a shred of sympathy, cold as ice. What was compelling Jekyll to leave his fortune to such a creature? Did he even know? In what kind of relation did Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde stand with each other? Who on earth was this Mr. Hyde? A visit to Jekyll's former friend, Dr. Hastie Lanyon, didn't bring any answers. Utterson couldn't stop pondering about it, no matter how hard he tried. So often he tried to calm himself down, that he was just being unhealthily obsessed with the matter and that this was nothing a good night's sleep couldn't solve. But he never got one. After several nights without sleep and an incident that involved him dozing off in his own office (luckily with no one around), he decided that this state of perpetual unrest was unsustainable.

He was convinced that the only way to end this was to face the source of his nightmares. He wanted to look this Mr. Hyde in the eye, if only to either confirm or shatter his suspicions. He wanted to see the man in person, hoping that just one look at this peculiar face would answer his questions. What was so repulsive about it, that his calm and collected younger cousin felt such an irrational loathing just at the very sight of it? So it came that every evening from then on, Mr. Utterson went to the street where the scene had happened, stood in his chosen post and waited. He was aware of how creepy this seemed to be, but for the sake of his own rest and the well-being of his friend, this had to be done. If he be Mr. Hyde, I shall be Mr. Seek. After what seemed endless nights of waiting, his patience was finally rewarded. One frosty, clear winter night, when he had just assumed his usual – uhm, watching duty, as he would have loved to shamefully call it, but couldn't bring himself to – well, his spot, he was alerted by hasty, oddly light steps coming down the lonely road. They were coming closer and for some reason, Utterson felt an inexplicable sense of triumph and quietly hid in the shadows of the court entry. When the footsteps came around the corner, their owner came into view. The lawyer sneaked a glance to see what kind of man he would be dealing with. He was small and plainly dressed, but that alone wouldn't have been too noteworthy. However, there was something about him, a dark aura, that made the beholder uncomfortable even from a distance. The man hurried down the street, crossed the road and purposefully made his way across the courtyard. The lawyer could faintly see him take out a key, as if approaching his own home. Then Utterson decided to step forward and tapped the smaller man on the shoulder. “Mr. Hyde, I think?” The other started rather violently, with a hissing intake of breath. But he collected himself quickly. Despite avoiding to look Utterson in the eye, he finally answered coolly: “That is my name. What do you want?” To know why my best friend would leave his fortune to a man like you, Utterson thought, but what he said instead was: “I see you're going in. I'm an old friend of Dr. Jekyll's – Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street – you must have heard my name; and meeting you so conveniently, I thought you might admit me.” “You won't find Dr. Jekyll; he is from home”, Mr. Hyde replied, blowing the key. He's using every excuse to avoid eye contact with me, isn't he? How would he know that the doctor is from home anyway, when he himself has been out until now? Suddenly the smaller man startled him by asking suspiciously (but still without looking up): “How did you know me?” “On your side, will you do me a favour?”, the lawyer countered. This seemed to surprise Hyde in return, before he recovered and guardedly replied: “With pleasure. What shall it be?” This is my chance! “Will you let me see your face?” For a moment, Mr. Hyde seemed to hesitate, like he was considering whether he should do it or not. Then, as if making up his mind, he turned around with an air of defiance, lifting his top hat far enough to show his eyes. A few agonizingly long seconds of silence followed, as the two men fixedly stared at each other. Then the lawyer nodded politely and said: “Now I will know you again. It may be useful in the future.” “Yes”, returned Mr. Hyde and the way he smiled back sent shivers down the older man's spine. “It is fortunate that we have met; and apropos, you should have my address.” And he gave him the number of a street in Soho. Good God! Could he be thinking of the will? But Utterson didn't voice what he was thinking and simply grunted to show his acknowledgement of the given address. “And now”, Hyde continued, obviously getting agitated, “How. Did. You. Know. Me?” I must be careful with what I'm saying. “By description.” “Whose description?”, the smaller man inquired suspiciously. “We have common friends”, the lawyer said vaguely. For the sake of his cousin's safety, he chose not to give any names. “'Common friends'?”, the other echoed incredulously and rather hoarsely, “Who would that be?” “Jekyll, for instance”, Utterson offered. “He never told you!”, Hyde blew up, red with anger, “I didn't expect you to lie to me!” “Come!”, Utterson cried with a frown, “That is not fitting language.” To that Hyde reacted by bursting into a savage laughter that was even more disturbing than his smile. Then, before the older man knew what was happening, the younger one had unlocked the door and disappeared into the house without so much as a goodbye, slamming the door shut. For a few minutes Utterson stood there, shaken to the bone from the meeting. Then he left the street and went home. Every few steps, he stopped to take a deep breath. Come on!, he scolded himself, Pull yourself together! You're being hysterical! But it didn't help. What is wrong with me? He had a feeling that this question would never be answered. Mr. Hyde sure wasn't like any man Utterson had ever seen. He was ghostly pale and dwarfish, definitely a lot smaller and younger than Dr. Jekyll. There was no sign of malformation about him and yet, he gave off an inexplicable air of deformity. He had dark hair, in the darkness of the street Utterson hadn't been able to tell if it was black or dark brown. But determining the colour of his eyes was just the easier: they were of such a startling green that they almost seemed to glow in the dark. He had a displeasing smile – no, displeasing didn't describe it. No smile had ever been this cold. The man had borne himself with a murderous mixture of timidity and boldness and spoke with a husky, whispering and somewhat broken voice that didn't sound remotely pleasant. All this in its own made him repulsive enough, but even all these traits combined couldn't explain the deep aversion Utterson was feeling towards the young man. There is something else – there must be more! If only I could name it. God help me, this man seems hardly human! Maybe it was that strange, dark aura that had made him uncomfortable even from a distance earlier. Perhaps the evil of that man's soul was leaking through and that was what … yes, that had to be it. Oh god … for such a man to be acquainted with Jekyll … if I have ever seen a monster, it's him! Now he felt even more uneasy. He had to see Jekyll right now and confront him about – wait, Hyde had said that Jekyll wasn't home. But how would that demon spawn know, if he himself had just been returning from god knew where? The lawyer gritted his teeth and made his way around a few corner into a nearby street full of formerly grand houses. Most of them were now in decay and inhabited by all kinds of people, but there was one house that was splendid and beautiful and still inhabited, although now the lights were off. But still he knew that someone was awake. So he knocked. The door was opened by a well-dressed, elderly servant. Utterson asked immediately: “Is Doctor Jekyll at home, Poole?” “I will see, Mr. Utterson”, the old butler replied, letting him in. He guided the lawyer into a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall paved with flagstone, warmed by a large, open fire and furnished with expensive oak cabinets. It was the doctor's pride and Utterson was quite sure that this room was the most pleasant one in London. But not even this place, where he usually felt at peace and at home, could calm him down tonight. As he waited, he tried to get rid of his inner unrest, but the shadows that the light of the fire threw onto the wall seemed to make it only worse. The demonic, ghostly visage of Hyde was branded into his mind like a burn scar and it made him feel horrible. Why do I suddenly feel so sick … so averse to life … what is wrong with me! He was ashamed of the relief he felt when the butler came back and announced that Jekyll wasn't home. When Utterson inquired about Mr. Hyde entering the house from the back door just like that, Poole informed him (to his horror) that, not only did Hyde have a key, but that also Jekyll trusted him enough to order his servants to obey him in everything. And when Utterson asked why he had never met Hyde before, the butler explained that the young man was rarely seen in this part of the house. This put the middle-aged lawyer even more on edge and he politely wished the butler a good night, before going home. He couldn't recall when or even if he had ever been as depressed as he was feeling right now. Memories flooded through his head, of when Henry Jekyll and he had been young. Digging in his own memories, he couldn't find anything that could be put against him. And still he felt tainted, like he had committed an unforgivable crime. Jekyll on the other hand … he hadn't exactly been a paragon of virtue in his youth either. In fact, he had been a rather wild youth. Only Utterson and Lanyon still knew about the adventures he had been up to. Oh my god … what if Hyde knows and is blackmailing him! What does he have that he could put against my friend? What is he doing to him?! How do they know each other? When did they even meet? What does Henry see in him! He is … he is … Utterson shook his head. Sure, it was perfectly normal to be concerned for your friend, but this was just ridiculous! He was thinking like a jealous wife, when there wasn't even– The black-haired man groaned and gripped his head. So much for there being nothing that could be put against me. I thought I was over that! And the thought, that he might have something in common with someone like Hyde, made it even more nauseating. Knowing that he would get no rest for the night and desperate to confide in someone who wouldn't judge him, he opened one of the drawers of his desk, got out a visiting card and crept into the next room to the telephone. There, as quietly as possible, he dialled a number on the telephone and listened intently. Finally, someone picked up and Utterson was relieved to hear the sleepy voice of the person he was wishing to talk to right now. “…Hello?” “Good evening, this is Utterson speaking-” “Ah, Mr. Utterson! You mean good morning, it's almost one o'clock. I hope you have a good reason for calling me at this hour. It's not exactly becoming for a gentleman like you”, the voice remarked with a light German accent. Utterson sighed. Of course, what had he been thinking? Of course she would have been sleeping. He really had to be out of his mind, calling someone in the middle of the night, tearing them out of their slumber. Some fine gentleman he was! Luckily the voice spoke up again, tearing him out of his self-loathing thoughts. “Mr. Utterson? Are you still there?” He blinked. “A-ah! Y-yes, I'm still here. I'm truly sorry, Madam. What am I thinking, waking you up at almost one in the morning.” “Don't mention it. But tell me why you're calling me in the first place. It must be something really disturbing, if you're desperate enough to call me at this ungodly time.” “It is. It truly is”, Utterson admitted. The voice at the other end of the line sounded concerned. “You sound like you're crying, Mr. Utterson. What happened?” “I …” He wanted to tell her, he really did. But now was not the time. He would just … wait, had she said that he sounded like crying? It was only now that he noticed that his sight was blurred with tears and that his voice was hoarse and choking. No wonder the other person was concerned. “… Never mind. I owe you a million apologies for disturbing your rest, Madam. I will consult you later at five in the afternoon.” “Are you sure? Are you sure you don't want to get it off your chest now? You dialled my number, after all.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. How could a person as open-hearted and empathetic as the woman he was talking to possibly be German? That was incomprehensible! “No, it's fine. But thank you. It's good to have someone who's willing to listen no matter what time it is.” He could practically hear the smile in her voice, as she answered: “Please, that's what I'm there for. And God knows, you really need someone to confide into. Just one thing: I already have a visitor at five in the afternoon. But I am free at eleven o'clock. And you would even have more time, since the client I had at noon cancelled her appointment. So come then and feel free to pour your heart out. You know that I will listen to you.” That answer made him smile as well. “Yes, of course. Thank you. Good night, Madam.” “Good night, Mr. Utterson.” Utterson hung up the telephone. He might not have been able to tell what was ailing him just yet, but knowing that someone was willing to listen to his problems even at this hour, had made him feel so much better. 

(A/N: Yup, I rewrote the second chapter from the book here. Utterson is a bit OOC, I apologise. And we also get a glimpse at my first OC in the story. And just in case you're wondering why I'm talking so negatively of my own country - this story is supposed to be written from the POV of Victorian people in the 1880s and at that time the British and German empire had a ... complicated relationship (that is, it was starting to get complicated). So I'm going to employ some of the stereotypes about Germans (and Prussians in particular), as tough as it is for me. Btw, if you're wondering about the telephone - yes, telephones and cameras were already a thing in the 1880s, even though they were more primitive of course. Just like phonographs (the predecessors of recorders). Hope you like this chapter anyways.