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double-daredevil · 4 years

Text

folklore ; chapter one

din djarin x reader (no y/n)

words: 6.2k

rating: T for swearing i guess. its a slow burn there isnt anything sexii yet lol

themes: slow burn (like y’all its so SLOW lol), eventual angst, no Y/N, eventual smut, eventual EVERYTHING this is like the establishing shot of a movie its gonna be a FIC lmfao. dont get attached the end is already planned.

notes: set before the tv series. canon doesn’t exist anymore. i make the rules here pals. yes it is named after the tswift album so that gives you some fuckin HINTS

Accident.

Pretty much everything that happened to you happened by accident, but you weren't one to complain. Without much control over your life for your adolescent years, seeing as you were raised as an Imperial trooper and just followed orders, you happily let yourself float along in life whichever way the forces led you.

That doesn't mean you don't have, say, a moral guideline.

It's difficult to explain to people once they get to know you better and eventually squeeze out of you that yes, you were trained Imperial. Details are not awarded to most people, in fact— you’re not sure anyone except one of your commanding officers in the rebellion knew that you were a clone.

You have spent countless hours trying to transition from regret to simply shame. After all, how is it your fault you did what you were told? If you didn’t, you would have been executed. Tossed to the trash like a faulty toy. The greatest decision in your life was the first decision you, personally, got to make— to run. It took you a few years to plan the scheme, but you defected successfully. Your moral issues were simply too strong to subvert, and you had to leave. So you did. That's all. You don't like to talk about it much.

After you mustered up some vengeance by joining the rebellion, you had to find a living once the major fighting died down for a while. With your particular skills— too deadly to be a simple security guard, or any occupation that doesn't involve tactical warfare, you settled on hoarding money through bounties. Not quite professed in the field of bounty hunting, you would latch on to more experienced hunters and offer to split rewards 20-80 for your help. The meager money filled your pocket enough for food and lodging while you learned the ways of the trade and, subsequently, your new way of life.

That's how you met your first Mandalorian.

A mutual acquaintance from the Guild had a heavy quarry, a difficult one that he had trouble passing off. Too complex and detailed for just you, your acquaintance told you that when he found a suitable hunter to take the lead, he'd hail you to tag along. A week after the quarry was first put on the table, a renowned bounty hunter— this Mandalorian, rolled into town to collect the tracking fob. Part of the agreement was to take you along. The Mandalorian agreed. A brief encounter mediated by your mutual acquaintance and you were following the beskar-clad hunter to his ship, which you’ve come to know as the Razor Crest. A dingy, huge hunk of metal that could use a good list of upgrades, but you quickly grew accustomed to the flying garbage can.

And somehow, after that singular bounty hunt, where you actually got to assist in the capture and the shoving of the unruly quarry into the carbonite, Mando offered you constant refuge aboard his ship in return for some pay and help on his harder bounties. That conversation, so far, has been the longest exchange of words between you and him, and it only lasted maybe five minutes. That’s all. You’re not one that aches for human interaction, having been commanded all your life by others, so you almost welcome the silence.

Almost.

—

Officially, you have been a part of Mando’s crew for nearing six months.

You hear metal clanging against metal, and you glance over your shoulder to see him climbing down from the cockpit. “Are we headed to the next quarry?” You ask.

“Yes,” comes through the vocoder. “Carajam.”

“Oh lovely,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm as you focus on polishing the trigger of the blaster in your hands. “Another desert planet in the Outer Rim.”

“Our favorite,” Mando deadpans as he walks over, sitting across from you at the janky table.

Once you were an official employee of his, you spent your first few payday collections on your own blasters. In all honesty, weapons never made you nervous, as you grew up in a space station that was literally just a giant weapon, but owning your own seemed… different. Blasters are weapons made just to kill, and you are allowed to have that power again. But, anyway, most of your money goes to savings so you can buy a house to retire to one day. One day.

The Mandalorian rolls his shoulders back to adjust his cape out of the way of his hands as he starts to dismantle the blaster that’s usually holstered at his hip. Piece by piece, he sets his blaster on the table like a new jigsaw puzzle, and you’ve just finished polishing the little blaster you’ve decided to keep stashed in your boot.

“How long until we arrive?” You ask.

His visor is focused downwards, at the metal pieces on the table, his right gloved hand hovering over the pieces like an excited child in a candy shop trying to pick his favorite one. “Not long,” he replies, picking up the barrel and beginning to wipe it clean with a cloth. “We will arrive once it becomes night on the planet. Cooler temps.”

You nod, letting out an appreciative sigh. That meant you had a night’s rest before the hunt began. As he finished up with the barrel of his blaster, you removed your longer, daily use blaster and began dismantling. You two stay like that, at a dimly lit table cleaning the blasters, until the ship notified that it was about to drop out of hyperdrive.

Mando quickly reassembled his blaster, slipping the completed gun back into its holster as he stood and hustles over to the cockpit. Following suit, you dusted off any last specs of dirt on yours and planted your feet firmly against the floor, as the ship dropped out of its easy glide through the stars and into the gravity pull of Carajam. The Razor Crest isn’t the smoothest rig, but you’re still very appreciative. And, you like to think you have good balance, so it’s not a hard task to stay stable.

You want to say that Mando is a good pilot, and you really think he is, but you can’t help but miss the sheer amount of credits that the Empire was able to spend on simple luxuries to make their lives easier, like enhanced stabilization in and out of hyperdrive, cleaner hyperdrives, even, and—

The Razor Crest lands and you shake those dark thoughts out of your head, reassembling your blaster but with clearly less finesse than Mando. Stars, are weapons actually part of his religion, or was that a joke as well? It’s quite the challenge to pick up on the subtleties of somebody who wears intense armor literally every waking moment, but you’ve grown accustomed (more or less) to the separate circles of things that Mando talks about. Those circles are: one, things he says and means, two, things he says as a joke, and three, the gray, shadowy area where those two circles meet and you’re still deciphering what brief conversations and quick remarks belong there.

As the ship starts to rest, expelling various airs and sighs itself as the sheer weight settles on the landing gear, you clear off the table and slip your smaller blaster back into your boot, and your other into your holster that’s banded to your right thigh. The Mandalorian comes down the cockpit ladder soon enough and goes to stand at the main ship door. You hop up from your seat and stand next to him, as he punches something into the control pad on the archway and the large door hisses and starts to lower. The first glimpse of the planet you get is the peak of the spectacular night sky, and eventually the ramp meets the sand on the ground and you see it all. Mando struts down the ramp to go and meet the landing dock manager and pay for the spot here in this spaceport Danan Karr, but you wait aboard still, leaning against the open doorway and gazing out into the night. Planets are always easier for you at night, as they were calmer— at least, those that don’t have an avid nightlife. A few that you and Mando have stopped at have been busier in the dark hours than the light, but it was always fitting.

The breeze of the desert planet comes sifting around you, caressing your cheeks with warm air and particles of sand, but you don’t mind. Raised in space, you have an affinity for the ground and real, non-recycled air. Although it’s never any trouble for you to stay inside a ship for however long, there is always something alluring about fresh air. Plus, this planet in the Outer Rim isn’t exactly prime vacationing, so there is nearly no light pollution. It was almost hard to wrench your eyes away from the bright stars speckling the dark blanket of the sky.

You almost don’t notice when Mando comes walking back up the ramp, too busy basking in the breeze to notice the beskar-clad hunter. He stands at the top of the ramp, slightly in front of you, for a good few seconds as you look straight over his head.

“Hey,” he calls for your attention, and you look down at his face. Or, well, the specific area in the T of his visor where you’re pretty sure his eyes are. He tilts his helmet to the side and you know he’s begun to worry about you.

So you flash him a smile. “I just love the air here,” you say, and turn around to step back inside the ship. Mando walks the rest of the way up the ramp and inside, pressing a button to raise the ramp.

“Rest tonight,” he starts. “Tomorrow we go on the hunt.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, going back to sit at the janky table to clean one more blaster before retreating to your bunk.

The Mandalorian sits at the table as well, after having taken his ambam rifle out of storage for a quick clean. In silence you two work on your respective blasters, caring for them as they are just as important to the job as the tracking fob. Perhaps an hour or so went by, and as you were putting your blaster back together piece by piece, the comfortable silence was broken. But this time— not by you.

“What did you say about the air?”

You look up from your blaster and see that Mando isn’t looking at you, but still at his rifle. The fact that he’s trying to start casual conversation accidentally makes a smile appear on your face. You quickly look back down at your blaster, but your smile still remains.

“I said that I loved it,” you reply. “Because the air here is very fresh. Even though there’s like, no trees, there’s almost no people. No pollution.”

He hums in understanding and continues cleaning.

Back to the comfortable silence.

—

The Razor Crest looks large from the outside, but it’s pretty cramped inside. The majority of its bulk is for it’s engines and practical components— hyperdrive, fuel tanks, cooling systems and whatnot. It was once a gunship, and that fact does put you on edge. Ships like this used to transport troops and drop them in combat. So, there is a large portion of the ship’s cargo bay that remains unused, as Mando doesn’t usually transport large quarries. The living space, or at least that’s what you’ve called it in your head, consists of an open area with a small but sturdy table, a few stools to sit on, and various crates that contain meal rations and tools and various trinkets. You’re almost one hundred percent sure that this ship was never meant to be lived in. You estimate that maybe four or five people could stay on the ship before everyone felt claustrophobic.

There used to be only one cot hidden in the walls, you’d knocked against one of the panels and the door would swoosh away, revealing a simple bed and just enough room to roll around to attempt to be comfortable. The night after the first bounty you helped Mando with, he let you sleep some in the hidden nook as he piloted you two back to Nevarro. While you were standing outside the ramp and helping unload bounties, the Mandalorian inquired whether or not you would want to join him on future bounties. With an assurance that you would get your own cot, you obliged.

—

The bounty that you two are hunting on Carajam, the lovely desert planet, is hiding somewhere in the caves and cliffs a few klicks east of the space port that you are staying in. From the info you’ve picked up talking with a few locals, the quarry likes to hide in the sand caves because he has no friends. Well, actually it’s because he’s murdered about a person per household out of everyone who still lives on the desert planet. You thank the locals for their information with a few credits and a jug of desirable water.

You make your way to the only cantina on the planet, and by cantina you mean what is quite literally a bar top and six stools outside the shop of a local mechanic. The Mandalorian is sitting, waiting, on the last stool, facing the expanse of the desert that is a mere fifty feet from the edge of the little star port. You swiftly occupy the stool next to him.

“So,” you start, and he swivels in his stool to face you. You brace your elbows on the table. “About seven klicks east towards the main expanse of cliffs, and then about two more klicks north to the caves. One of the caves will look obviously occupied, trash and debris and whatnot. That’s what I’ve gathered.”

“Good work,” comes through the vocoder. “Are you ready to head out?”

“Yes, sir,” you smile, adjusting the straps of the small backpack you have. “After your lead.”

He swivels again and hops off his stool, and waits a moment until he hears you following him before beelining to the edge of town. You follow, obedient, as he weaves through the sparse crowd to another shop, lined with speederbikes and a few larger landcrafts. The Mandalorian walks up to the shop owner and exchanges a few words, and a few credits, and then moves to two of the speederbikes.

“You know how to ride?” He asks you, as you stand beside one and he the other.

“Yes, actually,” you say, always having a soft spot for fast land vehicles. You briefly wonder that, if you had said no, would he have made you sit behind him on one bike? The thought makes you smile, bashful, and you wait until he mounts his bike before climbing onto yours.

“Seven klicks east,” Mando says, repeating your earlier words and firing up his bike.

You turn yours on as well, and grab a pair of goggles from your backpack. You pull up the bandana you keep around your neck to cover your mouth, and then put on the goggles. You give a thumbs up to Mando, who was glancing over his shoulder to wait for your cue.

And then he zooms off. And you diligently follow.

—

You two reach the caves in a quick hour, specifically saving some hours of daylight just in case this job takes a turn. The two of you park your speederbikes about half a klick downwind of the cave, just in case. You keep your goggles on and bandana over your mouth, as the wind out here doesn’t seem to want to settle. Dust and sand weave around your feet like a clingy pet as you scale the short cliffside after your Mandalorian, following him quickly toward the cave.

You hover around the mouth of the cave as Mando stalks in, somehow still quiet despite his sturdy boots against the rock. To see down inside was near impossible, even as you took off your goggles. You hear some sort of scuffle, a few clatters, and then Mando is shoving a handcuffed quarry your direction. You reach up and steady the quarry, your hands on the man’s shoulders. Stars, he was a large man, so you assume that Mando only managed to shackle him due to surprise.

“Let go of me, you kriffing bitch,” the quarry seethes at you and aggressively shrugs his shoulders to loosen your grip. Mando takes a step towards him, you imagine he’s reacting to the derogatory term thrown your way, but you beat him to it—

You release your grip on the quarry, and while he’s stunned for a moment from it, you kick his foot out from underneath him. He falls hard on his ass and plops to the side, unable to stifle his fall due to being cuffed. With a slight smile, you watch him struggle on the ground.

“F-fuckin’ bitch,” he groans out, trying to roll over to a kneeling position. Once he manages that, Mando comes and grips the man’s shirt— lifting him inches off of the ground towards his helmet.

“Watch your mouth.”

And then Mando drops him.

The quarry gasps at the contact back on the ground and groans, almost falling over again. You go up behind him and grab the cuffs, wrenching him upwards and forcing him to stand. You grip the cuffs tightly in your left hand, and hold your blaster to the quarry’s back with your right.

“Let’s go, then,” you say.

The Mandalorian leads the way back towards the speeders.

—

After tying up the quarry to transport him on the back of Mando’s speederbike, you settle nicely back inside the Razor Crest. Mando already froze the quarry after he wouldn’t stop blubbering about how sorry he was for mindlessly murdering the people in port— he couldn’t help himself, apparently.

“Nobody is born a killer,” the Mandalorian tells the quarry before freezing him.

You avert your gaze away from him once the carbonite process is finished, allowing him to believe he had privacy with the quarry during their discussion. You had tucked yourself around a corner to avoid letting him know you like listening to the Mandalorian’s stern and assertive remarks to unruly quarries. You take mental notes on the way he talks, mostly to figure out what he believes in. A Mandalorian follows a creed, and your Mandalorian hasn’t mentioned a single thing about it since you’ve met him. By now, after half a cycle, you’ve figured out the basics. And the bottom line is that Mando is generally a good guy— a moral guy, you guess. Kind of like a vigilante who upholds his own justice, but a good guy nonetheless. If Mandalorians picked sides besides their own people, you think he would’ve joined the rebellion.

“I’ve set us on course back to Nevarro,” you offer as Mando walks back through to the main area of the ship and raises the ramp. You lean against the metal wall in one corner, watching him fulfil his routine.

“Good,” he says, appreciative in his own way that you know that he likes to be constantly on the move. “What’s the ETA?”

“Only a few hours,” you say, pushing yourself off of the wall and going to the ladder to the cockpit. The ramp closes as you grab the rungs, looking back to Mando as he shadows you at the ladder. “You should get some rest before we arrive,” you offer.

He’s silent a moment while you face back to the ladder and start ascending. You hear him mutter a ‘okay, thank you,’ through his helmet before you climb your way fully into the cockpit. Once you’ve ascended, you don’t hesitate to go and sit in the pilot’s chair. Although you’re not the best pilot, favoring studying combat and languages instead of flight and mechanics, you manage.

You settle in the seat and grab the flight controls, and hear Mando stepping onto the floor of the cockpit. You flick up a few switches and start the ship, letting her rumble to life while you look back over your shoulder at your Mandalorian.

“Sleep well,” you say with a hint of a smile.

He gives you a nod, hesitates, and then opens the door on the wall behind the cockpit, leading to the captain’s quarters. Once you hear his door swoosh close after his retreating footsteps, you let out a breath and encourage yourself, grabbing tightly onto the handles.

Just get it into the sky, and the autopilot gets you there, you tell yourself, forcing the Razor Crest into the air. She succeeds in ascending, and you raise the landing gear and disarm any land security protocols. Following a mental list, you do exactly as you’ve seen Mando, and get the ship into space in no time. A little shaky, sure, but you don’t think it was enough to stir the captain out of bed.

—

One cycle.

You two take a brief break. There aren’t any bounties worthy of your time, anyway.

The smoke crawls up your wrist, wrapping around your forearm before dissipating into the air. You hold the ornate stem of the smoking pipe to your lips, inhaling shallowly, and let your arm drop as you try to breathe the smoke in deeper. A heavy sigh and the smoke passes back out of your lungs, past your lips, forming a cloud in front of your face. You wait, still holding the pipe, and look expectantly at your hosts.

Upon landing on this planet, at what seems to be the only one semi-decent town, the Razor Crest was surrounded by the inhabitants. Seemingly human-esque, you and the Mandalorian walked out of the ship with no weapons in your hands, ready to barter for some fuel and lodging for the night. The people of the planet, through an interpreter, were more than happy to allow you to stay.

Under one condition; uphold their welcoming traditions and take a huge hit off of the pipe the dude who seemed to be the chief was eagerly thrusting towards you two.

Startled at the proposition, and more so by the growing ruckus of the onlooking crowd the longer Mando tried to deny the offer, you grabbed the pipe. The chief smiled widely and the crowd calmed, but Mando whipped his head towards you.

“Don’t smoke that,” he said. “You have no idea what it is.”

The interpreter tried to reassure you that it was safe, it was fine, a common plant that everyone on the planet enjoys. The longer you held the pipe without smoking it, the smaller the smile of the chief was and the more and more the rest of the people stirred. Eventually, it did devolve into a shouting match between Mando, the interpreter, the chief, and a few people in the crowd who were brandishing weapons.

So you smoked it.

You’ve smoked a few things before in your experience, not a lot. Drinking was always more your thing, knowing that once the liquid passes through you it will be gone from your system. Inhalants? You could never be sure. But you would be a bad sidekick to the Mandalorian if you didn’t sacrifice your lungs for ease of service.

After the first inhale, the chief smiled again, and gestured for you to smoke some more. Ignoring the verbal protest of Mando, you brought the pipe back up to your mouth and puffed again. A bit bigger of a hit this time.

Well, much bigger, judging by the size of the cloud you just breathed out. Surprised, you let out a chuckle, but the irritation in your throat causes your laugh to turn into a hearty cough.

And the crowd cheered.

The chief took the pipe from you and draped his arm over your shoulders, guiding you and Mando behind you into the town. It’s a little town tucked into a small clearing beside a freshwater river and a thick grove of forest, tall and green trees that seem to tower over everything— perhaps the tallest trees you think you have ever seen. On this planet, there are three suns, and they are constantly setting in succession. So, it’s never really nighttime.

And it seems like these people take advantage of that.

As the chief leads you and your Mandalorian through the stone streets lined with dark, muddy brick houses, your head starts to get light. Like, the tension in your neck loosens and your shoulders go slack. It’s nice— well, it would be, if you didn’t quickly associate it with whatever the chief insisted you smoke. The chief’s arm was still draped over your shoulders and he excitedly explained, in his native tongue, what you assume to be a detailed history of the town. All you could do was feign a smile, probably looking a bit dumb considered you don’t know if your cheeks are numb or just used to your wide grin by now, and nod in fake understanding. The Mandalorian is exactly three and a half paces behind you.

The interpreter is walking beside Mando, re-explaining everything the chief is saying. You aren’t able to listen to both the chief and the interpreter, somehow lacking the mental capacity to focus back and forth between the two, now. The crowd of people disappeared once you smoked from the fancy pipe, save for a handful that you assume are the chief’s servants, so the little troop led by you and the chief eventually hits the end of the main street.

The chief removes his arm from your shoulders and gives you a nice, hard slap on the back. He says something, while gesturing to a small cottage that bookends the houses lining the road. You’re too busy staring off in the distance, past the green grass that traces the treeline and river. One of the suns is setting, casting a mesmerizing red haze over the tips of the trees, painting the freshwater of the river golden.

You hear the Mandalorian call your name, and turn to face him.

And he’s standing there, at the door of the cottage the chief is letting you two use for the night, practically glowing with how the setting sun is glinting off of his beskar.

“Are you okay?” He asks, a second time, but you didn’t hear the first.

You cannot help the unabashed grin that swallows your face, and stumble over to the door. “Never better. Everything is great. You should’ve smoked that shit, too.”

You hear him sigh and he opens the door for you, stepping back so you can walk in first. So you meander in, hand lightly following the wall because you’re suddenly doubting your balance. You find a seat at the small table that’s placed in the middle of the room, and you still can’t stop yourself from smiling.

The Mandalorian drops a bag at the foot of one of the cots that he must’ve gone back to the Crest to get, but you don’t remember him doing that. And then he drops your night bag at the foot of the other cot, and you wonder when he went and got your bag.

“Thanks,” you croak out, still smiley, and brace your elbows on the table. “D’you have any idea what I smoked?”

“No,” he admits, voice monotone as usual through the vocoder. He pulls out the second chair and sits across from you. The cottage, small but spacious enough for two people to not knock elbows, was alight with soft sunshine filtering in through the numerous windows. Who needs light on a planet that is constantly day?

“How do you feel?” He asks, visor intent on staring you down.

“Spectacular,” you reply, staring back at the visor. You used to wear a gaudy helmet when you were a trooper, so you’re pretty damn sure you know exactly where his eyes are behind that mask.

“You look drunk.”

Your smile, instead of faltering, is drawn a little wider and your elbows slip forward on the table until your chest is pressed up against the wood, your chin almost touching the tabletop but your cheeks are squished by your hands, keeping your head up. “I feel like it, too. But, different at the same time, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know,” the Mandalorian says as he leans back in his chair. His hands are flat against his thighs, and you’re 99% sure he is simply watching you. Out of worry or annoyance, of course you can’t tell, but you’re leaning towards annoyance.

So you tilt your head to the side, staring back, trying your fucking hardest to stifle the stupid smile on your face but you just can’t. “Want me to tell you what you’re missin’?”

Surprisingly, the Mandalorian tilts his head as well, mimicking you. “Enlighten me.”

“Have y’ever got so drunk that you just had to sit there and wait ‘til the booze gets filtered out of your system?” You start, letting your head— so heavy— fall further to the side and land on the table, a nice foundation to ground you. You’re so slumped in your chair your legs are straight, sticking out of the sides underneath the table as you stretch your arms to dangle off of the table. “And yet it’s like, the best part of bein’ sloshed is comin’ up so you don’t want to sober up and y’just— just— sit there, stewing.”

He lets out a hum, letting you know he’s still politely listening to your ramblings.

Any thoughts in your head blur, images and words swishing around behind your eyes as you try to focus on what you were saying. “And nothin’ hurts or aches and you get to forget ‘bout everything bad you did that day and just look at the stars. Y’get to look at them, and for the first time you see them, see the life they hold and foster and you feel special knowin’ you’re a part of it all.”

There is a moment of silence, or— you think so, but your breathing is a little heavier than usual. The moment draws out, longer, and you’re beginning to wonder if you actually said that stuff out loud or if you simply thought it.

You bolt upright in your chair, cheeks red with embarrassment— but the fucking smile is still on your stupid face.

“I don’t know what’s up with me right now,” you admit, eyes focused on one of the windowsills off near the door, so you don’t have to look at that helmet and feel the stare behind it. “The chief said that they smoke this stuff all the time and don’t sleep a wink, but I feel super tired.”

In your peripheral vision you see the dreaded helmet glint in the sunlight. He’s looking at you, quizzically. “What do you mean?” He asks. “The interpreter didn’t say that.”

“No,” you agree, looking back at him. You try to focus where you know a face is behind the helmet, but you can’t get the image to clear in your head. It’s all a little blurry at the edges, and your Mandalorian is all edges. “I said the chief said that.”

“He didn’t speak any Galactic Basic. When did you hear him say that?”

The edges blur some more. “He said it when we were all walking, I dunno. He just said it.”

The Mandalorian looks toward the door, thinking.

“It must be the ganja,” you offer.

He looks back. “The what?”

“The offering. That’s what the chief called it. But, well, I dunno if that’s what it’s actually named or what they call it,” you say, unable to look at the sharpness and crisp lines that make up the beskar armor. What’s going on with you? You weren’t concerned until now, reaching a hand up to trace your bottom lip and finding that you have control over your face again. No more creepy smiling. “I feel fine, though. From smoking.”

You steal a glance at him and find that he is still, predictably, staring at you. Your cheeks grow hot again, suddenly feeling like a burden to your employer. He is not a babysitter, and you don’t want him to feel like he has to watch over you as you ride this high.

“Really,” you add. “I feel fine. Things look weird, right now, and my head is fuzzy, but it feels good.”

He stares, and you bitterly wonder if that’s all he’s good for.

So you stand up, eyes scanning the room and you notice the heavy curtains tied neatly above each window. “Guess we should sleep,” you say, stepping towards one of the windows to let the curtains down to block out the never-ending sunlight.

But, your ankles feel a little weak, and your balance falters.

Before your hazy head even registers that you’ve lost your footing, the Mandalorian is at your side, his right arm tucked behind your back, his right hand firmly on your right hip. His left hand is grasping your left upper arm tight enough to bruise, but without his strong grip, you would have crumbled to the floor like a tossed blanket.

“Are you okay?” He asks immediately, and holds you tighter and hauls you up back onto your unsteady feet. Once the words finally registered in your brain, you briefly thought that he really did sound concerned— masked voice a little higher in pitch than usual.

Your fuzzy head decides the best thing to do in response is laugh as you stood up back on your own. “I’m okay,” you assure, a hint of laughter still in your voice, and you raise your hand to lightly shove him away, not needing his support anymore.

But, since he’s solid as a fucking rock, your hand just brushes against the beskar chestplate uselessly. That causes you to laugh a little more, and he lets go of you once he’s sure you can stand solidly on your own.

“Are you sure?” He asks, still with that higher pitch that the vocoder almost hides. He’s hovering close to your side, ready to catch you again if he has to.

Curious, you raise your hand and tap your knuckles against his chestplate, and the resounding thud thud makes you smile. “Fuckin’ hardcore, Mando. I’m so jealous of your armor.”

“Yeah, you’re not okay,” he says, but you swear you hear a lilt in his voice, as though he finds you amusing. “You should try to sleep it off.”

He gestures towards one of the beds but you don’t look over to it. Instead, you tap your knuckles against one of his pauldrons. Tink tink.

“Really,” he insists, and you for sure hear the smile on his face in that one word. “You need some sleep.” He grabs your shoulders and turns you around, slowly, so that you’re facing the bed.

“Would you close the blinds?” You ask, stumbling forward to the bed. You flounce on top of the blanket, as this planet is quite comfortably warm— or are you just warm? — and let out a heavy sigh. A real bed.

“Of course,” Mando replies, strutting to each of the five windows in this small, quaint cottage and letting down each of the curtains. In the back of your hazy mind, you know he can see in the dark with the HUD in his helmet. The thought makes you slightly jealous, and you wonder if, as you turn to lay on your back in the blackness, if he may be looking at you. You blame the ganja for the fuzziness that overtakes you at the thought.

“Thank you,” you call into the darkness.

You hear his friendly hum somewhere in the room, and hear him sit down at the table again. Truly, the inhabitants of this planet know how to utilize the sun, and how to hide from it, as you open your eyes to stare at the ceiling and see nothing. It is completely pitch black, and you’re impressed.

The feeling of the mattress underneath you is almost too soft. You can’t remember the last time you were able to sleep on a real bed— if you ever had the pleasure. It reminds you of floating in deep salt water, the effort of staying afloat taken away from you as you just let it happen. Currently, you’re not sure if your eyes are open or closed, as it makes no difference. Your breathing is stable, and the haze in your head is tolerable. You must be coming down from the peak, and it’s making you tired.

Quietly, you hear the Mandalorian’s gloved hands grasp metal, but you’re not sure what. You hear something slightly heavy placed on the table.

He calls your name, softly, and unfiltered.

“Yes?” You reply, breathless. Did he take his helmet off?

“Go to sleep,” he says. His usually gruff voice sounds gentle without the vocoder.

“Okay,” you say, and you do indeed need to close your eyes. The blackness behind your eyelids seems almost darker than the darkness of the room. Unbeknownst to you, you must’ve been extremely tired, because you pass out almost immediately.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin #reader scenario #din djarin scenario #mandalorian scenario #well i guess we're doing this pals #hmu with any feedback PLEASE #also yes i have this fic planned #and it will not be happy so dont ask LOL #or do #yes i did NOT have a title until taylor swift dropped her album #have fun #my writing #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader

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girlsluvbot · 4 years

Text

MATCHMAKER pt.1

pairing: roseanne park × fem! reader

genre: fluff, angst

about:

matchmaker /ˈmatʃmeɪkə/

noun

a person who arranges marriages or initiates romantic relationships between others.

"an enthusiastic matchmaker who continually tried to pair off the difficult bachelor with unattached ladies"

a/n: i'm back!!! hehe this goddamn thing took so long to write, i both despise and adore it with every fibre of my being. enjoy my blood, sweat and tears in the form of a fic.

You loved your job. Very few people are lucky enough to be able to relate to that statement, and you were thankfully one of them. Hell, not only did you love your job, you were extremely good at it.

Since you were a little kid, writing nas always been your biggest passion. Wether it was writing short stories, poems or essays about the french revolution, you were always happy when you were able to put your feelings and thoughts onto paper. This was the main reason why you became the manager of your local newspaper during middle school, high school and eventually even university.

You've won multiple writing contests and even people who had no idea what your name was knew one thing about you: you were an amazing writer.

Years of practice, your impeccable set of skills and a recommendation letter from your university professor secured you a job at Vogue almost immediately. After all this hard work, you finally achieved everything you were looking for. You were truly happy.

Until this very moment.

"Well, I don't know," the woman sitting in front of you made a disgusted grimace, "it just lacks any emotion whatsoever. I've quite literally never read something so stiff and akward."

And here they were. The first words of criticism you have ever recieved. You were so used to everyone praising your work, you didn't know how to react or respond.

Three months ago, you would have never gotten into a similar situation: simply because there was nothing about your work to critize. But a lot has changed in the past few weeks, and not exactly in the good kind of way.

When you first joined Vogue, you were the head editor and journalist of the spread dedicated almost entirely to interviews. Thats what you did, talked to celebrities and wrote about them. And that's what you were good at, almost too good.

Just a year after working in the magazine you got promoted. You were still the head editor, but now of a completely different part of the journal: one dedicated to a single topic. Love. This was bad news, very bad news.

Why, you ask? The reason was fairly simple but no less embarrassing. Even as the head editor of a spread all about love, you've never experienced it yourself. In other words, you've never been in love. And how are you supposed to write about something you know nothing about?

Your boss looks at you and shakes her head. She reaches for the stack of papers on the table in front of her and starts reading, "For example; 'His lips brushed against mine. They were soft. The kiss was short but sweet. I loved it.' What the actual heck? I kiss my cat more passionately than this." she took off her glasses and started massaging the crook of her nose.

"Listen, Y/N, I've read your previous pieces and they were simply wonderful. But this? I don't even know what else to say without hurting your feelings."

"I'm so sorry. I know, it's just that I dont have much experience in said area." you don't finish the sentence, hoping she somehow gets the memo. She doesn't.

"What area?"

"Love. I dont have much experience with love." you blurt out the words that have been on your mind nonstop since the day of your promotion.

"Oh, you poor thing" she leans back in her chair, her eyes scanning your every move, "Isn't that unfortunate."

You nod your head slowly, trying not to get offended at her words full of pity.

"How are you supposed to write romance stories then? This won't work." the woman grabs a post-it note

"Are," your voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, "Are you firing me?"

"Are you crazy? Of course I'm not," she hands you the piece of paper with a phone number, "We just have to improvise for the time being. Do you know Roseanne Park? She's the manager of our Matchmaker spread. You can be her assistant for the next few months, help her around, learn a thing or two. Hopefully your writing wont be so...bland after."

To be completely honest, you didn't handle changes well. Maybe that's why you were standing in front of your new, and hopefully temporary, bosses office, trying to build up the courage to knock on her door.

One of the reasons why you were so nervous was that Roseanne Park, the manager of the Vogue Matchmaker was insanely attractive. Admittedly, you did some online stalking the night before- okay, a lot of it. Here's the thing; you were a planner. Whether it came to your career, writing or even relationships, you liked to beprepared.

That's why after a few hours spent on the internet, you knew everything. The name of her sister (Alice Park), if the had a pet (yes, a fish named Joohwangie) and who her favorite band was (The 1975).

You weren't usually like this, so head over heels for a girl you haven't even met. But your writing, the reason you were here in the first place, didn't usually suck so after all, some things really do change easily.

Just as you reached for the dark wooden door in front of you, it opened before your hand could even touch it's sleek surface.

"Oh!" the tall woman stopped in her tracks. Thanks to your thorough internet digging, you instantly recognized her. Roseanne Park. Your new boss. A 'matchmaker' if you will.

"You must be Y/N! I've heard that you're going to be my assistant for a bit." your cheeks heated up for no apparent reason. Did she know the reason why you got transferred here so quickly? Every molecule in your body wished and prayed to every possible god out there that she didn't.

"Yeah, that's me!" you finally composed yourself enough to speak, but that didn't mean your voice didn't sound like one of a twelve year old boy going through puberty- high pitched and squeaky.

You examined her face more in depth, and realized quite a few things:

She was somehow even prettier in real life. How? you had no idea. Some people just really won the genetics lottery, you thought.

Her hair was red. Like undeniably, undoubtedly red. In all of the pictures you found yesterday it was either brown or black, so this change caught you off guard. You couldn't complain though, because this girl looked like a hotter version of Ariel with a much better sense in fashion (and music).

"Have you been standing out here for too long?"

"Oh no, I just arrived." lying has never been so easy.

"Great! I'm gonna go downstairs to grab a package but you can look around the office while I'm gone," she opened the door a bit to let you walk in.

You did as she told you and entered the room. The door closed behind you without you noticing, the only thing you could focus on was this girl's office. It looked just like you would imagine heaven to look like- full of light, white furniture and expensive looking leather couches.

There were pictures everywhere: a dozen of four young girls (one of them being Roseanne), a few more of her with famous celebrities and one of a familiar looking face- her sister.

You carefully walked towards the table in the middle of the room, not wanting to damage anything. You noticed quite a bit of unexpected clutter, and above everything a print of the brand new Vogue issue. A woman on the cover flashed you a beautiful smile as you picked it up. The headline stated: Kim Jisoo talks acting, NYFW and love.

You flipped the glossy magazine pages to find the spread dedicated to said interview and noticed just what you were looking for: the author of the article. The credits at the bottom of the page revealed a nice surprise- Author; Roseanne Park.

"Well what do you think? Is it a good article?" your soul almost left your body when you realized who was standing next to you. You quickly put the magazine down, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to touch your stuff. I just saw the cover and..."

"Oh my gosh, are you kidding? That's completely okay, I don't mind." she pointed to the journal, "That interview is actually one of the favorite pieces I ever wrote, and not just because it's about Jisoo. Plus, my friend took the pictures, so it was extra fun." She opened the spread again and pointed to a name credited right next to hers, Photographer; Lalisa Manoban.

"Oh wow. I've seen her pictures before, they're really good. I with I could take photos like that. Seriously."

Here's one thing to note: when you're nervous, you ramble. Like a lot. Some people would say its better than staying silent, but let's be honest- it's like stepping into a puddle instead of mud. Not a disaster, but there's still plenty to complain about.

Thankfully, Roseanne only giggled, "I know exactly what you mean. I hope you'll get to work with her someday."

You both stared at the magazine spread for a second before Roseanne broke the silence.

"But now, let's get to bussines. Sit down please, this might take a while," she pointed tkwards one of the leather couches you noticed earlier and took a seat at the other side of the table.

"So, as you probably already know, my name is Roseanne Park. As a manager of Matchmaker, my job is to read these letters," she grabben a handful of papers for emphasis, "and respond to them, give advixe basically. The title 'Matchmaker' comes from the fact that the majority of the letters talk about love. Any questions so far?"

When you shook your head no, she continued, "As my assistant, your job is fairly simple. You're going to sort and read through the hundreds of letters I recieve weekly and pick the most interesting ones for me to feature. And occasionally, you might accompany me to a few interviews. Sounds good?"

You slowly nodded, processing all the new information. Letters, answers, interviews and a hot boss. That doesn't sound so bad.

"Great. So Y/N," she suddenly stood up, "Would you mind going with me to Subway? I'm starving."

By the time you were finished with lunch, you had a new point to add to your list of realizations about your new boss:

She loves food, and by loves I mean LOVES.

The moment you arrived at the restaurant, food was the only thing she would talk about. She told you about what she had for dinner and breakfast, what kind of snacks she hid in the office and what kind of salad she was getting alongside a baguette.

After she actually managed to get a bit of calories into her system (thanks to a foot-long chicken turkey sandwich) the conversation finally got more interesting.

Don't get me wrong, you could listen to this girl talk for hours, no matter the topic. But after listening to a thirty minute long monologue about why pineapple pizza is the best thing ever invented, even you have reached your limit.

"So," you start, in an effort to break the ice, "how long have you been working at Vogue?"

She squints at the toast in front of her, trying to remember, "About five years? Yeah, it's gonna be five years in May."

"Oh wow, that's impressive."

She tilts her head, "Is it? I mean, when you work as often as I do, time just goes by. I don't even remember the last time I went out with my friends to discuss something that wasn't work related."

You pout, regretting the choice to ask her about work.

"But at the same time, I love what I do so I can't really complain. What about you though? Why did you decide to become a journalist?"

"Oh, I started just a year ago. And I studied literature, so I guess becoming a journalist made sense."

"Why did you study literature then? There's so many other better paying jobs out there."

"I don't think anyone works in such a field for money, that's for sure," you try to lighten the atmosphere, "Well, my mom wanted to become a writer, but she got pregnant before she could finish her book and she's been pretty much busy ever since. I guess her love for books kind of rubbed off on me."

Roseanne nods, to let you know she's listening. "I'm glad you and your mom have such an important aspect of your lives in common. My mother wanted me to become a lawyer, I doubt she's ever read even a single fiction book in her entire life."

"What does she think about your job now?"

Her lips tighten and she crosses her arms. "I don't know. I haven't talked to her since," her eyes seem empty, their signature spark gone. You can tell you struck a nerve. "I haven't talked to her since I moved out."

"Well, I'm sure that she's proud of you," you can't help but add.

Rosie lets out a dry laugh, "You don't know my mother then," she slowly pushes her plate away, "I think I'm full so I'm gonna head back to the office."

Sometimes it's better to keep your mouth shut. You learned this the hard way.

You head back after your lunch break ends, alone. Even though Roseanne walked you through everything she expects you to help around with, you know that your job doesn't start and end with sorting through letters.

You softly knock on the office door before heading in. She's already sitting there, behind her desk. Without looking up from her laptop, she scoffs, "You're late."

"It's just five minutes," you shrug, not taking her tone seriously. Finally, she raises her sight to meet yours. Even without her saying anything, you understand. Do not play around with fire.

You mumble an apology and quickly run to the small hallway at the other side of the room which leads to your own (significantly smaller) office.

"What makes you think I'm done?" Turning around, you notice that her eyes are piercing through your back. Unsure of what she expects you to do, you walk back in front of her.

"While you were out there doing god knows what for two hours," you resist the urge to roll your eyes, "I already did your job and sorted through the letters. You're welcome."

She walks around the table and pushes a thick stack of papers against your chest, "That means you'll be doing my job and write replies to them. Can you handle that?"

You try not to show her how terrified you are. You? Giving relationship advice? Sounds like a recipe for a royal disaster. Instead, you rise your chin and smile, "Yes ma'am."

She visibly winces at the formal title, but still nods and returns to her seat. You take this as a sign to head back to your spot and do your job. Well, her job for now.

You sit down calmly and shuffle through the papers, trying not to look too freaked out. What the heck are you going to do now?

A quick peek at your boss reveals that she's either busy with work or just flat out ignoring you.

Trying to remain collected, you pick out the top letter from the pile. The first paragraph reads:

Hi Rosie! I'm a huge fan of your Matchmaker spread :) I never thought I'd be the one writing you a message but here we are hahaha. (Let's hope this gets featured!)

You roll your eyes but continue reading,

Me and my boyfriend have been dating for just about two months and I would describe our relationship as 'lowkey'. We first met at a bar a last year but we surprisingly didn't immediately hit it off.

With a raised eyebrow you skip over a page full of sappy descriptions and relationship stories, before getting to the end of the letter.

So what should I do? He's really sweet but I'm not sure if I'm ready to meet his family just yet.... please help! Love, Courtney.

You fold the paper back to it's original state with a quiet gulp. What on earth did you get yourself into?

#blackpink #blackpink scenarios #park chaeyoung #rosé #rosé fluff #rosé angst #rosé smut #rosé x reader #girlfriend rosé #blackpink rosé #blackpink rose #rose angst #rose fluff #blckpink fluff #blackpink angst #blackpink smut #roseanne park #rosé park

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txdoroki · 3 years

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welcome

greetings, y/n, i’m glad you’ve decided to take a look at our rules. they help keep the enchanted forest a safe, happy, and comfortable place.

-this blog is a mha and haikyuu (and a few other sources every now and then) writing blog, and although i do take requests it is not centered around them. if you bug me about writing your request with more than a simple “hey did you get it?”, i will delete the request.

-for more haikyuu/avatar writing — check out my retired other acc @kittysugawara

-to join my taglist fill this out pls and ty

-comment somewhere if you wish to be mutuals!

-do not bring up topics of religion

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-if you don’t like my writing, don’t say anything. scroll and move on with your life.

-i include warnings on general things, like suicide, sexual content, and other things. please message me if there is a trigger you have that you’d like me to include in warnings, and i most definitely can!

-i’m just as human as you are, don’t be rude

-please dont include me in your drama unless it has to do with me or you need advice.

-this is a purely sfw blog.

-i believe others can write what they want, so, do not come to me to complain about what others are doing. this includes dark content. i do NOT create dark content, but i think others can do what they want. i don’t bother them, they don’t bother me. it’s balanced.

-respect other people’s writings on my page, don’t compare mine to others (unless there is a problem with plagiarism)

-please do not say i’m better than you or something of that nature, although the intentions might be good i do not take it as a compliment! it’s pretty guilt trippy

dni if:

-you’re an antimasker/antivaxxer/homophobe/transphobe/racist/ableist/misogynist or just a shit person in general

-you send more than one person the same exact request

-you don’t believe mental health issues are real

-you blatantly ignore science

-you are below the age of 13. i do not think that children should be on tumblr, so please, for your own wellbeing, do not interact. i do not post nsfw stuff, it is just me being uncomfortable with someone below 13 interacting.

-you judge ppl for something you couldn’t even pull off

-you send anon hate (ง'̀-'́)ง

requesting guidelines

requests are opened as of 7/1/2021

disclaimer: i only do the requests i want to. if you bother me about writing yours, i’ll tell you to write it yourself and delete the request :)

rules

-i prefer if you add as much detail as necessary, it’s alright if it’s just an idea though.

-please identify if you would like a scenario or headcanons, as well as if you want angst, fluff comfort, crack, or whatever else!

-patience please!( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

-you can either request in a post i make SPECIFICALLY about requests (you can search the “taking requests” tag on my profile to find it) or do it in my asks area! i prefer it in the asks area, but either is fine

-for headcanons, you can request up to 5 characters. if you do more than 5, i will choose the 5 i want to do the most

-if you have constructive criticism don’t be rude about it

-usually requests aren’t fulfilled as fast as possible, and i only do the ones i have ideas for.

-do NOT send me the same request that you sent someone else, it’ll cause unnecessary drama with “stealing ideas” and it’s disrespectful anyways

the fandoms i take requests for are:

-my hero academia

-haikyuu

more to come

things you can request:

-matchups

-headcanons

-drabbles

-scenarios

-oneshots (usually 1-3k words)

-small things like a moodboard, songs theyd like, etc

-AUs

- fluff, crack, angst

things you can’t request

-nsfw (why? this is a sfw blog and i’m a minor)

-full fics (why? i do not have the time for that, and requests aren’t my blog’s main focus anyways)

-dark content ( why? it makes me uncomfy, and i’m a minor. while i respect writers who do write it, i will not be. do not ask me to write dark content.)

-character x character(why? this is a character x reader writing blog)

-poly relationships (why? i don’t think i’m educated on it enough to write)

-health issues (why? i wouldn’t want to say anything out of lack of knowledge!)

#mha todoroki #taking requests

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

(I Can Still Recall) Our Last Summer - Chapter One (Group Fic) - pureCAMP

A/N - this is a re-upload bc it apparently disappeared! I hope everyone enjoys it this time lol, let��s pray it doesn’t go missing again

A/N 2 - Here’s the surprise that absolutely no one knew about! A prequel of sorts to HIGA, my Mamma Mia! au featuring trixya and shalaska which you can read here on AQ before this for context

As before, this was pre-written so the rest is ready to go. Let me know if weekly submissions are fine or if you would prefer anything sooner!

(dont lose hope shalaska stans bc chapter two is coming sooner than soon and it’s chock full - and did i mention 8.5k words)

“Sharon, are you ready to go yet? The deacon wanted us here early so you can help to mind the kids before the service!”

Sharon stared into the mirror at a face that didn’t feel like hers. It was free of makeup, the pallidity emphasising the dark circles beneath her eyes and her uneven skin tone. Her blonde hair was pulled back into one long plait, and not a single hair dared to break the strict mold she had been forced into, even from last night’s previous sexy curls. Even her clothes felt uncomfortable, the floral dress of her mother’s choosing hanging loosely from her frame.

Demure. Sensible. Her shoes were patent and shiny, with a thick rubber sole.

Sighing, Sharon started down the stairs. Just once more, she would’ve liked to have slept in a little on a Sunday, but that would never be. Missing church was a sin, and Sharon’s almost obsessively Catholic mother would never allow such a thing to happen in her household - even though it had before. For Sharon, it wasn’t worth the screaming. As she traipsed down the stairs, she ran her slender fingers along the many embellished crosses on the wall, serving as a reminder that she would never be good enough. Above her, the depiction of Jesus on the cross glared judgmentally at her.

I died for your sins, he seemed to be saying. I died on a cross for your sins, and you’re turning up to church hungover.

Everything Sharon spent her weekends doing, it seemed, was wrong or bad or sinful in some way. She knew drinking was against the rules. Her mother, practically Puritan in some of her opinions, insisted that the popular music of the time was sinful too, as was the dancing. Sharon knew her mother would have an aneurysm if she knew how her daughter had looked and behaved the night before; a vision in bright makeup and skin-tight sparkles, grinding against other dancers as she sang. The woman would have been seconds from a heart attack if she had seen Sharon just that morning, silently making her way up the stairs and frantically wiping all traces of sultry makeup and stage attire from her body. There hadn’t been any time to sleep or recover from her night of partying - not if she wanted to look presentable.

The skirt of Sharon’s dress reached just below her knees. She was the picture of a respectful Catholic girl.

“Ah, you look decent for once,” Her mother appraised her. “Not like that awful Gina. She’s about your age, isn’t she? What a dreadful girl.”

In Sharon’s mother’s eyes, Gina was dreadful mostly due to her clothes, which were scandalous as they dipped below her collarbones and above her knees. Sharon, however, had once caught her with a boy, and Gina had once caught Sharon performing on a weekend. They had a silent pact to never spill the other’s secret.

“Yeah…” Sharon murmured, her mind elsewhere.

Her mother paused. “Here. Don’t forget your cross, for goodness sake.” She placed the rosary around her daughter’s neck. “There. Now, remember, you’re helping out at Sunday school and then attending the service with me. And no complaining, not like last time. I raised you to be a good, God-fearing girl. Or else you know what.”

Sharon nodded meekly. “Of course.”

As they walked, Sharon’s mind wandered to her friends, yearning to get away. Raja, no doubt, was lying fast asleep on the island somewhere, curled around some naked guy with hickeys all over his neck. They’d been gyrating over each other all night, and Raja was never one to shy away from male attention. Jinkx would be asleep too, most likely with Dorito crumbs in her hair, drooling from her hangover, perhaps accompanied with some young woman tucked under her arm. And then there was Sharon, on her way to church.

It had been an incredible night, like always. Her outfit - safely tucked away in the taverna’s dressing room so that her mother would never stumble upon it - was everything she knew she wasn’t allowed, tight sequined lycra that clung to her body and was perfect for dancing in. Her makeup was dark and smokey, and her spirits were high, fuelled by the alcohol and the roaring of the crowd dancing beneath them. The Supermodels had been formed a year ago, and they’d amassed quite a following on the little island they performed on.

Would anyone’s opinion of her change if they could see her now? She was the star of their show, the main attraction; she was the one everyone lauded as the lead singer, the funniest, the favourite. Yet she was the one who caught the early morning boat across back to the mainland, hurrying to scrub her makeup off and dress herself up as a good daughter.

But that was just how things were. Despite Raja and Jinkx’s encouragement, she knew it was just going to stay that way.

It was inescapable, really. As she’d been told, ever since she was a child, Jesus was watching. Some unseen forces had their eyes on her, judging her every move. Despite her lack of belief, the threat was real enough to force her into keeping up pretenses, much to her friends’ dismay. But she couldn’t help it. Disappointing her mother only ever ended in disaster.

Sharon wasn’t sure what she disliked more, in all honesty - the chilling silence that hung around the pews in the church or the ungodly screaming of the children at the Sunday school. The actual leader of the group had fucked off twenty minutes ago to make a cup of tea and hadn’t come back, leaving Sharon alone with the screaming under-tens as she attempted to teach them about the Last Supper.

She was sat on an uncomfortably low chair, made for the children, as she attempted to continue their lesson to no avail. They were running amok, screeching and screaming as she tried to maintain some level of control. She was seventeen, for fuck’s sake - it was cruel that they’d put her on babysitting duty.

“And- And Jesus…” She tried, holding up the obscenely large book as she tried to command their attention. “And Jesus told his disciples- oh, fuck this.”

She flung the book onto the floor, ignoring how the smooth pages crumpled beneath the foot of a little boy. She had never liked that stupid shiny book anyway. Bread and wine seemed like a crap dinner.

“You just said a bad word! I’m going to tell the priest!” An obnoxious kid of maybe seven declared, crossing her arms across her chest.

She was the kind of brat Sharon’s mother had always hoped Sharon would be. Her gaze was accusatory, her clothes disgustingly pristine, and she probably had some kind of stupid name like Mary-Ann. Undoubtedly, she’d grow up to be another suffocating church mom.

Sharon scowled. “Oh yeah? How about I tell your mommy that you said you don’t believe in God, and you don’t even want to do your stupid Holy Communion? Hmm?”

The little girl burst into tears. Sharon rolled her eyes, anger bubbling in her chest as she rose from the ridiculously tiny chair and stormed out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her, attracting the attention of the volunteer who was supposed to be taking care of the Sunday school. He looked up in surprise.

“They’re all yours.” She snarled. “Little fucking angels, the lot of them.”

With that, she stormed into the nave, cursing under her breath as she let the door slam shut behind her.

It seemed her outburst had not gone unnoticed, however, as the priest had ceased his dismal preaching, and the churchgoers were staring in horror at her entrance. It didn’t take long for Sharon to spot her mother, in that ludicrous hat with her murderous glare, so she walked with her head high towards the pew, slipping onto the end and bowing her head to blend in.

“Is everything quite alright with the children?” The priest inquired. Someone snickered.

“Just fucking peachy.” She replied, eliciting a shocked gasp. “Continue, Father John.”

Listening to the priest was no better, really, than the meltdown-inducing chaos of the Sunday school children, but it was something. At least his dull, unrelenting voice could allow her to zone out a little. She could just go into autopilot, saying ‘Amen’ when necessary and singing the words to hymns that she had practically been breastfed since birth.

As usual, she just obeyed. Sit down, stand up, pass money into the collection dish, sit down, sing the hymns, stand up. It was liturgical and structured, they told her. Just the way that God wanted it to be. Just the way she would never be able to be.

Suffocating. That was how it really was. Sharon felt trapped. A foot out of line, a hair out of place, a word misspoken - that was enough to feel as though she had let everyone down. She was a disgrace to the church and one day, she knew everyone would know about it. It felt like she was living a lie, almost. She’d go as far as saying that she had never believed in God, even as a child, and so attended the services in disbelief. She lived a lie, whilst still feeling the pressure and judgement under His watchful eye with her every thought and action. Sharon’s life was essentially planned out for her, all thanks to the church, and she hated it. She would never be able to be that perfect little wife they wanted her to be.

Raja and Jinkx were lucky. Raja’s family were Hindu, but Raja herself wasn’t, and Jinkx seemed as free as the wind that blew over the shore, devoid of any preconceived notions of how she should behave. Raja and Jinkx were able to just be. Sharon didn’t have that luxury.

The service ended all too soon, filling Sharon with a sense of impending dread. Most of her rebellion was away from her mother, as a way to feel as though she was silently taking control of her own life and her own fate. Rarely, she dared to be as bold as she had in talking back to the priest and the volunteer, and it always landed her in boiling hot water. Private rebellion felt safer, and as the priest talked, she could feel the looming horror of her punishment growing closer and closer, like the telling chill of a devastating winter blizzard. Although she hated it, she wished the service could go on for longer.

Mere seconds after it had ended, Sharon’s mother had taken her arm in a vice-like grip, and was frogmarching her outside. Her face was stony, rigidly set in a mask of pure anger that told Sharon she was going to pay dearly for her actions, at some point.

“What on God’s green earth do you think you’re doing?!” She bellowed, Sharon instinctively flinching. “How dare you swear at a man of God? How dare you embarrass me and our family in the holy place?”

Sharon swallowed. “I- I didn’t mean to, I-”

“Oh, yes, of course, now is the perfect time to repent from your sins. Sharon, dearest, do you remember your parables? How Jesus forgave the adulterous woman and made her promise to never do it again?”

She had no other option but to nod. “Yes, mom.”

“You aren’t just running out of chances, you vile brat. You ran out a long time ago.” Sharon’s mother paused, straightening her awful hat and glaring at Sharon, her face pinched. “Through Jesus, we find the way and the light. But you, young lady? You will never find His light. You will not be welcomed into the arms of Heaven when Judgement Day arrives. You’ll burn in Hell’s fires.”

She turned on her heel, marching away from the church and leaving Sharon with no choice in following her, a few paces behind so that she couldn’t see the tears glistening in her eyes. It didn’t matter if Sharon didn’t believe. Her mother did, and her mother truly believed she’d be suffering in eternal damnation. She would never be good enough.

It stung the entire way home. Sharon walked slowly, mulling over her mother’s words obsessively and growing more and more worked up as she thought. It wasn’t fair - it wasn’t fucking fair. She needed to get out. She needed to get away.

Of course, it would take careful planning, but Sharon was perfectly adjusted to finding illicit ways to get what she wanted. Sneaking out was practically second nature, having been raised in a Catholic prison since birth. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was hide away.

As quickly as she could, she changed out of her nauseating church garb, letting her hair fall back into its natural waves and applying the makeup that her mother so heavily frowned upon. She knew that she would be reading by now, poring over her favourite Bible verses in order to distract and soothe her from the travesty that was her daughter, which meant Sharon had a short window of time to escape in.

Like a pro, she managed it, positioning each foot carefully on the stairs to avoid creaking and edging the door open inch by inch until she could slip through it. Once out, she ran, pelting at full-tilt through the twisting market streets into the wealthier part of town. At just after midday, she knew Raja would be home by now, and more than anything, she needed the company of her best friends.

Unlike Sharon’s respectable little home, Raja and her family were on the more extravagant side of the spectrum. Their house was gleaming white, adorned with colonnades and statues of centuries-worshipped gods that spurted water across the courtyard. It was essentially a mansion in the middle of town, and as stifling as it may have looked, it was like a second home. Even just approaching the house made her feel calmer, the anger dissipating a little. Her spirits felt lifted.

She only had to knock once before she received an answer.

“Hey!” Raja greeted as the door swung open. Jinkx stood behind her, the both of them dressed and awake for once. “You coming in?”

“Nope. You’re coming out.” Sharon grinned, spreading her arms wide to allow the sunshine to embrace her. “We’re going back to paradise and you’re coming with me.”

When in desperation, the island was Sharon’s solace. It was where The Supermodels performed on weekends, but it was also the perfect escape away from her mother’s hawk eyes that always seemed to watch her. Hardly anyone even knew about it, other than those who lived there, and those who did know about it didn’t have any interest. After all, there wasn’t much there besides the houses, a small marketplace for the residents, the taverna and some abandoned buildings. It was so secluded that it felt safe and adventurous all at the same time. Of course, it was party central for any teens, thanks to the taverna’s staging and outdoor dance floor, but that was a secret from any prying adults.

Within minutes, the girls had rushed out, dragging Raja’s boat onto the shore so they could sail away to safety. Sharon closed her eyes and let the salty air refresh her, letting the breeze blow her hair back as the sea spray flicked her skin. This was comfort and safety. Out in the open, surrounded by the blue of the ocean and the blue of the sky, nothing could hurt her. God couldn’t judge her here. She was untouchable.

They disembarked at the dock, taking each other’s hands and running all the way up, fraught with giggles. Something about the island just filled them with a sense of joy. It was only when they climbed to the highest point on the island, a sandy cliff-face that had only rocks and flowers, that they calmed down.

Sharon sat onto one of the rocks. “I can’t take this anymore. I’m going insane, girls.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jinkx replied, squatting in a decidedly unladylike manner over another rock. “It’s the same every time.”

“I mean, what’s the point?” Sharon asked. “I don’t care about what happens when I die, and whether I get into some fictional fucking Heaven. I care about now, in the moment. But nothing is happening in the moment because I’m so fucking restricted! By her, and that stupid fucking God!”

Raja nodded. “We gotta get you out of this shit before she brainwashes you. Keep rebelling and keep holding on, girl.”

Sharon sighed. “The stupid bint just keeps getting worse and worse, which just drives me to do more. I didn’t get back this morning until half an hour before we needed to leave. Plus she found those vodka bottles I hid the other week and went fucking berserk at me. Fuck her and fuck her stupid-ass rules.”

“Yes!” Raja and Jinkx cheered in unison. “Fuck her!”

“And fuck my dad for going off to Spain to be a fucking missionary. Fuck the entire fucking religion.”

Sharon took a deep breath. “Okay, it’s out of my system. So, what’s happening tomorrow? Same set?”

Jinkx shrugged. “I’d say so. With any luck, those hot siblings will be there again.”

She and Raja exchanged a knowing look.

“Shut up!” Sharon squealed, bursting into laughter. “You did not fuck a sibling each! You did not!”

“WE DID!” Raja screeched, giggling. “We really did!”

“You’re so bad!” Sharon laughed, wiping a stray tear from her eye. “I can’t believe you. That’s amazing.”

Jinkx snorted, which set them all off again into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“You know, that’s the next step. To piss off your mom.” Raja observed.

Sharon frowned. “Huh?”

“Thou shalt not commit adultery.” Raja recited solemnly, her hand on her chest in a mockery of a promise. “Girl, commit some fucking adultery and discover the wonderful world of premarital sex.”

Sharon grinned. “I’m not gonna fuck just to piss my mom off! When I find the right guy or girl I’ll do it, but not for her. She’s not worth that much.”

“Atta girl!” Jinkx reached over for a high five. “And when you do choose to lose your virginity, do tell us all the details. I miss being pure.”

“Aww, you think I’m pure?” Sharon teased, cupping her hands in prayer. “A little angel?”

“Not with those dance moves last night, sweetheart.” Raja butted in, standing up to do a horrifically inaccurate impression. “Sexy as hell!”

The three collapsed into peals of giggles once again.

When the sun began to sink towards the horizon, painting the island in beautiful shades of copper, the girls made their way back to the boat, ready to sail away from their bubble of paradise. Sharon felt her heart tugging as they left, wanting nothing more than to stay and bask in the beginnings of the warm summer evenings. At home, a strict schedule and disappointment awaited her. Her heart sank like the sun beneath the waves as they moored, stepping back onto the mainland.

“Let’s take the long way round,” Sharon said softly, her friends catching on immediately. In silent solidarity, they each wrapped an arm around her as they walked, browsing leisurely through the market stalls to waste as much time as they could.

Familiar faces went past like always, driving Sharon insane with the repetition. Her life needed something new, desperately.

I wasn’t made for this, she thought, eyeing the unwavering structure of the world around her. I was never meant to do what everyone else is doing.

Sharon wondered, briefly, if the out-of-place feeling would ever stop, until she saw him.

He was stood alone at the tourist information stall, purchasing a map. His hair was dark, slightly curly, in a tousled mess atop his head. Though she couldn’t see all of him, Sharon could tell he was lean and muscular, and she was mesmerised by the movement of his pink lips as he spoke in a husky voice.

“Fuck me, he is gorgeous.” She breathed, turning to Raja and Jinkx and then back to him.

He turned, offering her a crooked, mischievous smile and a cocked eyebrow. “Was that you?”

“Might’ve been.” Sharon responded coyly. “What’s it to you?”

He chuckled, the sound like music to Sharon’s ears, and offered his hand. “You little minx. I’m Justin, I’m here on vacation. I thought I’d get out and see all the hidden wonders of the world.”

She took it. “Sharon. How’s that going for you? I live here on the mainland and I haven’t found any hidden wonders.”

Justin shrugged, a flirtatious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m looking at one right now. Maybe you could show me some more?”

In spite of herself, Sharon blushed. This handsome stranger was doing all kinds of crazy things to her mind, and yet they were only flirting. She had never felt this way before.

“You ever been to that little island over there?” She asked, pointing towards the landmass in the near distance. Justin shook his head.

“You’re in luck.” Sharon smiled. “Meet me there, six in the evening tomorrow. There’s a fantastic show at the taverna that I’m sure you’ll love”

Justin nodded slowly, impossibly suave. “With you, I’d go anywhere.”

#rpdr fanfiction #purecamp #our last summer #shalaska #sharon needles #alaska thunderfuck #raja gemini #jinkx monsoon #group fic #submission #m/f au #mamma mia au

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missjackil · 6 years

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Sam, Dean & Sera Gamble

It’s been my feeling since I watched Seasons 6 and 7 that they were different than all other seasons. I didn’t hate them, but I didn’t necessarilly like them either. They were Sera Gamble’s era, and though Im sure it’s hard to stay true to Kripke’s vision, and yet add your own vision to it, I don’t think she did a very good job. I was speaking with a friend recently, who told me it’s a common opinion that Gamble was a Sam girl, the last show runner to “take care” of Sam’s character, and the last one to understand the brothers’ relationship. I nearly spit my coffee on my laptop! Now, this isnt to wank on my friend, I wont name her, but she’ll know who she is if she reads this. She’s a sweety and I respect her, so friend.... this isnt against you :) Now me, personally, I do tend to see things completely opposite of how most of the fandom sees it, I dont know why that is, but I do. This time is no different, because Im going to go outside the box and explain why I think Gamble was a Dean girl, and maybe even secretly hated Sam. I dont know why she got fired, if any of you do, please enlighten me, because it would seem to me that she got fired for favoring Dean too much and nearly destroying Sam’s character, and Im going to explain why.

To start, she wasn’t the head hancho yet in S4, but she was the one who insisted that Sam sleep with Ruby and Dean sleep with Anna. Now I understand how intriguing it was to think of one brother sleeps with a demon while the other sleeps with an angel, but if you read these conditions in a fan fic, youd scream “Dean girl!” and complain about the Sam hate in the fact that Sam slept not only with a demon, but with a dead meat suit, while Dean’s angel conveniently had her own body and not someone elses vessle. Anyone who wasnt a Sam fan before hand, certainly didnt become one after that. Now I know it was hard to redeem Sam after the events of S4, and I wont blame Gamble for that completely, but the end of S5 brought back the brave, sweet, selfless Sam we know and love. The one who only wants to do the right thing, has unlimited love and faith in Dean, is willing to take responsibility of his actions, will give up his life to save the world, and the love for his brother is strong enough to overpower the Devil himself.<sniff> but Gamble got the show for season 6 and what happened? The very first thing, is reward Sam’s courageous act of S5 with coming back soulless. And for a while. at least 5 episodes, all that meant was Sam was Sam minus his good qualities. His compassion, kindness, and love for Dean. Sure, Soulless Sam was sexy and funnier than normal Sam, but for the most part, he was just cold. Again, if you werent a Sam fan up till now, you werent becoming one during this arc. The arc itself, though it seemed to be about Sam, was really about Dean and his reaction to Soulless Sam. What it did to him, how Sam let a vamp turn him, how Dean hated being in the same room with him and very little about how it affected Sam other than for him to say he doesnt care about anything, even about Dean, which made us all hurt for Dean, not Sam. One of the biggest traits in the WInchester bromance, is that Sam and Dean will go over and above the call of duty for each other, and are self destructively co dependent, and yet the only time in s6 and 7 that Gamble showed this was when Dean went to get Sam’s soul back and died to talk to Death. We see Dean laying his life down for Sam, because he loves him so much, meanwhile.Sam is trying to kill Bobby. Still not winning Sam fans here. Also Sam was trying to kill Bobby to make it impossible to get his soul back, because he was afraid of what would happen to him, which is inconsistant with being soulless, because Soulless Sam (and other soulless people) had no fear, so to me it looks like a plot device to keep Sam unlikable, it had even been stated by Bobby, that Dean was his favorite, not something a “Sam girl” would put in the mouth of the man Sam loves as a father, is it? Then Sam gets his soul back and with all the talk about how much damage it could do, one would think Sam would be the focus of s6b but he wasnt really, not even in the episode that he got his soul back. We did get an awesome bro hug then, and Im thankful, but the episode turned quickly to a filler/monster hunt, that pushed Sam to the side while Dean went to get that dragon killing sword and do a little physical comedy. After that, we got a couple hell visions, but no real bromance or happiness that Dean had Sam back, it was just business as usual. We had a lot of comedy though with French Mistake, Fronteir Land, The Heart Will Go On, and Mommy Dearest. Keep in mind we have Dean looking all sexy in his cowboy outfit, and Sam just dresses like Sam with a cowboy hat. Clear signs of a Dean girl Season 6 wraps up with 3 episodes, The Man who Would Be King, that is very Cas heavy even though he’s a side character. He doesnt share this story with Sam or Dean, they just support it. Let it Bleed, which is Dean heavy, Sam isnt in much of it, and Cas is in even less. It’s primarily all Dean, Lisa and Ben, and then The Man Who Knew Too Much, which is actually one of my favorites, Its Sam heavy-ish, even though his hell wall just collapsed, and a fantastic story is unfolding, but he has to share the episode with Cas’s story independent of his own. and of course, Dean has things going on with Bobby. This is not a sign of a Sam girl.

In the real SPN world, Dean would have stood down with the threat that Sam wouldnt be fixed if he didnt. As we saw him easily give up Anna for Sam, and how he let Lucifer/Sam beat the crap out of him just to keep Sam above ground and give him time to take over. Dean didnt even have a plan to that could help Cas’s problem, but he was willing to let Sam suffer and maybe die, just to stop Cas’s plan that he had no idea if it would fail or not? That’s definitely not “understanding the brothers’ relationship” Now we move on to S7. The first 2 episodes are pretty heavy for Sam. It looks like he might get a good solid storyline this season. But what does a Sam girl think will help the already painful flood of Hell memories? I know, lets highly imply that Sam was raped by Lucifer!!! YEAH!! This goes great in a show that only gets a pg14 raiting, that emphisizes in love and family. it really NEEDS to have a lead hero raped by the devil for 180 years! How about we also add insult to injury and make Lucifer charming and humorous so the audience will like him! Not like Alistaire that the audience couldnt wait to kill. I had hoped for the return of the Winchester bromance when Hello Cruel World had some wonderful moments of it. Dean waking Sam for breakfast, and tending to his hand wound, and listening to him about the hallucinations. The scene in the warehouse where Dean showed Sam to press on his wound to keep focus on whats real was one of the best bromantic moments of the series, and then Dean panicking with Sam unconscious in the ambulance. But it was sadly short lived. The next episode is mainly taking place weeks later, Sams issues are touched on for a minute, but he goes out on a hunt by himself, which pisses off Dean who still has a broken leg and cant drive.

And then Leviathans, and DIck Roman and Samgirl Gamble for some reason thinks it would be such a riot for Sam who has been hallucinating Lucifer and the cage, to get roofied, married, and tied up naked by a stalker fan!! WTF????? And then Bobby dies, and then Sam gets kidnapped by Vetalla for 3 days while Dean was sleeping, and while Sam is bleeding out, Dean is trying to be friends with an annoying teenage girl. and then Dean gets to travel back in time and look smokin hot while he hangs out with Elliot Ness, then Dean fathers a monster daughter, and Sam kills her, and LETS CHASE SAM AROUND WITH CLOWNS!!! Oh wait, is he still having hellucinations? Hmmm I forget, and this is about the time I think Gamble had gotten fired because I have no idea what she was thinking to this point. Sam’s hallucinations had been put on the back burner so much that I wonder if her intentions were to keep him in that state for a long time. To maybe throw into the mix every now and then, that Sam isnt stable. so he might not be strong enough to handle this thing, or he might not be in his right mind, so Dean will REALLY be the main hero and the most credible of the 2. Because Dean even used Sam’s mental state as a reason why he lied to him about Amy, and Sam just accepted it. Repoman brought Sam’s hallucinations back to the surface, and i think Carver may have taken over by then because Sam was frantic to find his kidnapped brother, much more than Dean was to find his a few episodes before. Carver had to have been back by The Born Again Identity because Cas came back. I wont say I like the way Sam’s mental health was handled, it was just over by Cas taking on the pain, but at least it got attention and SOME form of closure. Now Carver isnt without some pretty epic sins, but he definitely wasnt afraid of bromance, and the Winchester co-dependency. I wonder if Gamble gets such support simply because she is a female and women tend to want to support women in business full of men, and I understand that, but Ill still call out the woman if she does a crap job, which I really think she did in this case. She did a better job at taking care of Dean than Sam, and she did nothing to help their relationship.

#supernatural #gamble critical #my opinion

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lairofsentinel · 7 years

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Looming truths 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 10 11 12 13 14 15

Loomingtruths - answers as long as the fic XD

1:What inspired you to write the fic this way?

The game,the chars, and my depression back then.

2:What scene did you first put down?

It's hardto remember. The first ones were with Lang. Another of the firstones was the scene in which Phoenix tells Miles to stop behaving likea child, that they looked like actors in a opera soap. It was meantto be a parody/criticism of my own ridiculous scene lol.

Anotherone was the first scene in which Phoenix is depressed, laying on bed,unable to get up, sitting a bit but then falling again on the bed, wanting toforget his life, struggling with his bisexuality.

Also the 2possible Endings: the one in which Miles died (that turned out to be a scenein middle of the fic), and the solution of the whole plot about thecase of faceless bodies. You can't write police-like texts without doing them backwards: solve the crime and then, start splitting theparts that form the crime and making them fade out into thecharacter's doubts, assumptions, and lack of info.

3:What's your favorite line of narration?

Milesmonologues in front of graves. He got all my existential shit there.XD

AlsoLang's.

“Kay.Once again, her image appearedon his mind, and like his father's, it gave him some kind of vaguesafety, that only those pastprotective figures could provide in the world of the living ones. Maybeafter all this time he had found a sense to that strange habit ofvisiting old stones. The uselessneed to talk with those who were gone. Those who would never, everreturn.

“Everycase I read, now more than ever,scares me by foreseeing the image of the most terrifying hellawaiting us. The madness that humanscan reach frightens me. There are no rules for what is waiting foryou when human creativity,the disrupted one, is challenged. There is not even a kind of naturalrewarding system afterlong periods of suffering. It's more of the same. Uncertainty, chaosand nonsense. It's all you have.So unpredictable. That's why my father lies here. And also, that'swhy I'm here, alive. This universeworks in such fearful, chaotic ways. If humans can't put order toit... an order that could givesome kind of consolation to those who are lost in this storm...what's the point of being humansand be proud of it? What's the point of Justice and Law?”

“What?!”Klavier opened his eyes wide for a second. That was the mostrevolting suspicion he hadreceived in years. He was angry, but also tired. Putting his hands onhis head, he shook it slightlyover the desk and his voice started to get louder. “I can't believethe kind of image you haveabout me... all of you. I've done everything by the book. Myprosecution skills were perfect afterthat unfortunate first case. I've tried my best to do everythingright since then. But people are moreconcerned about my leather pants than the amount of cases I'vesolved. Yes, I don't wear a damnsuit, or glasses, and I work on my tan. But I'm a fair man. I'm notmy brother! I don't care aboutthe Gavins' legal fame!. Stop thinking of me as if I were him! He isdead! I pushed forthat tohappen!” Klavier sighed, calming himself down while straighteningon his seat. “Don't you dareto treat me as the twisted man he was.

4:What's your favorite line of dialogue?

Thereare many. One that comes to my mind is the one with Lang and Kayabout idealism:

“Iknow, but at least this will stop it. So many deaths weren’t invain” [said Kay]

“Iwouldn’t be so sure... but I let it go”, defeated emotionsplastered in his voice, in his eyes, in his soul.

Curious,Kay raised an eyebrow and smiled as if what Lang had just said was amere joke. “are youserious?”

“Let'sbe honest. You can't be serious believing this willfix the world, don't you think?”

Kay'ssmile was wiped out of her face. “So, you are doing things withoutbelieving they would changeanything?.”

Heshrugged, “Hmph, who knows.”

“Well,you should. It’s you I’m asking. You. You should know, it's yourown fucking mind.”

Bothof them looked at each other, defying, aggressively provocative. Anold tired wolf fighting againstthe Master. A little crow too smart for a savage predating world. “Ihave no time for over-thinking those things so much, like certainpeople could. I need to watch thosecriminals and sink my fangs in their throats. That's all my father,my whole family, my ancestorshave been doing through the years. But when your so long-lastingheritage has been doingthe same you do, century after century, and things never change onebit, you start to doubt if whatyou are doing right now will be the same useless thing they have donebefore.”

“Youare a bit pessimistic, Wolfie...” her face darkened. “I want tobelieve my father's ideals will beaccomplished, some day. A world that doesn't need the Yatagarasu. Hedied for this... you can't beaccomplished, some day. A world that doesn't need the Yatagarasu. Hedied for this... you can't sayit was useless....”

“Ofcourse it was not completely useless.Some people could have been saved with all this. I'll giveyou that, but... let's be serious. “

“Ican't believe that”. Kay looked at a screen, but her eyes were notwatching any of the lines displayedon it. A cold silence tensed the atmosphere.

“Forwhat it's worth, believe what you want, crow girl.” Lang threw histired body on the bed and sighedagain. A glimpse of Tyrell's image crossed his mind, remembering howmuch the old man usedto complain about the youngsters' enthusiasm. Probably time hadgotten to Lang as well, too oldfor interacting with young people in the same way he used to

5:What part was hardest to write?

Apollo'ssubplot. All about Apollo was always hard to write for me.

6:What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

Thefandom. I usually write one fic in each fandom, and that's all what Ido. I put all my passion, all what I want and I like in that singlefic. That's why my fics are... ridiculously long. The topics maychange according to the fandom. In Ace Attorney I try to focus a loton topics such as Justice, Power, corruption of the powerful ones,the loneliness, depression, several existential shit, love hard todeal (I mean, romance in Looming Truths is more about romance thatsometimes cross toxic limits and the couple tries to come back to ahealthy way). It's far from pinky romance, I guess. And of course,sexuality in a non-smut way. I read all my life fics with such smutin them, that I'm unable to write better things than that, so I tryto show the others things that may happen in sexual situations that Ididn't read in fics often.

7:Where did the title come from?

It'sthe common thing of all chars: truths that are there, hard to find or to see, that lurk aroundthem, like looming threats. It also applies to the case of facelessbodies, the main plot of the fic.

8:Did any real people or events inspire any part of it?

Hohoho.Like... Sure. There is a mix between the characterization of the gamechars and how I relate them to some people I've met in my life. Tosay the least, Phoenix is unbelievably similar to one of my ex, theone I had a long relationship as wonderful as you can read in the ficwith a person so hard to deal with due to their lack of emotionalintelligence like me.

Allthe stress and the conflict that Phoenix lives related to hisbisexuality, realising that he is bisexual when he was almost thirty,the shock it gave him is basically all the struggle one of my exlived, and I was close her to see all the process and how her mindwas deeply conflicted to this.

Klavier'sweird emotions and doubts for his brother are basically thestrangeness I feel when I think of my relationship with my father.

Theconcept of “let it flow” with Miles' stress and lack ofunderstanding?, Franziska dealing with all the shit around men, abouthaving to be much better than all of them because otherwise she willbe not recognized at all? And all her walls of rudeness around hereven though she was destroyed about Andrew's death? Because beingseen as a woman in a masculine environment makes surviving hard toaccomplish?. That's all different sides of myself in my real life translated into AA situations.

MyAura? it’s basically the friend I dedicated this fic: noir. I wroteAura always thinking in her.

10:Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

Narumitsu:because I love the pair. It will sound lame but I had a relationship like this once, and I know this is the kind of relationship I want to have. Writing about this gave me a lot of nostalgia. They look such a healthy couple, despitetheir weakness and flaws and fears. Their brutal honesty is what makes themkeep going on.

Klapollo:Well, I was not planning to do this pair, but considering how Klavierwas portrayed, I wanted a bit of good things in his life, same forApollo, so I tried to do what I did: a toxic relationship trying totake away the toxic part.

Franziska/Andrew:I wanted to write a lesbian, and Francy has that type ofpersonality that usually is only portrayed on male chars, so that'swhy I tried to write as much as possible about her, andI wanted her lesbian as fuck. But, to be honest, Andrew and Franziskaare not a pair I like. I simply see them too toxic in the game,that's why I changed a bit Andrew's personality. I did not want toshow co-dependant relationships as “good” relationships, but Idid not want to show the only lesbian couple in the fic as anunhealthy one, so I played a bit far away from the “in-char”field there. Sadly, I dont have lesbian pairs in AA. :( it hurts me. I can’t ship Francy with anyone, because she needs someone like Phoenix: tender, but that also has enough personality to calm her down. Ema is too aggressive and bitter for that. Maya is too naive and too “out of Francy’s field” (I mean, Laws. They dont have common ground from where to build the cound), Andrew doesn’t have a personality that could make Francy behave. I see that a “no” from Andrew is always too weak for the storm that Francy is. Lang’s personality is really good for her, but again, I want her lesbian as fuck, sorry.

Lang-Miles:Not my pair, but my friend's (Noir). I wrote half of this fic due to her,because she wanted to read a fic about lang-miles relationship in-char without rape, and well...Looming truths turned out like this.

11:What do you like best about this fic?

Thecharacters interactions and their existential shits.

12:What do you like least about this fic?

It'sgrammar, the words I used, the way I wrote it. English not being mynative language makes some sentences hard to write. In Spanish I cancraft a really good fitting sentence, but then it goes clumsy inEnglish, with less intense emotion or simply weird. But well, thisfic was, in part, written as a way to force me learn English. And Itdid it in a marvellous way.

Stillyet, I resent a lot its grammar issues, and some weird descriptions.Sigh.

13:What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writingthis story? Or if you didn't listen to anything, what do you thinkreaders should listen to to accompany us while reading?

Myplaylist. It's immense. It's full of OST from videogames, classicalmusic such as Vivaldi or Mozart, Jrock, Jpop, electronic music, tango,electro-tango, enka, celtic music, Irish music. Uff. It's a looong list.

Theonly song I think readers should listen while reading is the one Ilinked in the Epilogue.

14:Is there anything you wanted readers to learn from reading this fic?

Alot of things. But I leave that up to the readers. Every readerlearns or takes from the text what they want/need in that moment.That's all what I expect from the writer-reader relationship.Also, I’m always too obsessed with people developing their own critical thinking. I always try to stimulate that on my fics, to make situations that force readers keep thinking, and taking positions. If that happens, that’s all I want from my readers. That, and comments helping me to improve my grammar XD but those never came.

15:What did you learn from writing this fic?

English,lol. A loooot.

AndIt helped me to overcome my deep depression in that moment. It helpedme to survive really bad times. Like I said to one of my ex once: ifI write, it means I'm really bad. If I'm feeling happy and ok, Idon't have wishes for writing. But when I feel myself eaten bydepression, I learnt that writing helped me to kill me, to hurt me, toforgive me, to guide myself. Writing is for me a healing process thatno therapy can match.

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