#Fool's Apostate

[xmo-rmon]

Umm whats the meaning of this shit?? I feel like John Mulaney saying “and also with you” except it’s “faith, divine nature, individual worth, knowledge, choice and accountability, good works and integrity, and virtue” (the last of which was tacked on in my time bc we were all such sluts I guess)

I mean divine nature is still there but it’s pretty cool that today’s young women get to be faithless, individually worthless, ignorant, powerless and unaccountable, unproductive and dishonest and sexually active

(Actually except for the last one I don’t think that’s far off)

[nyssasims]

can’t get my sims game to work, so i started my dark urge play-through. i spent way to long working on her, but i’m so proud

named her arra (for spider… cause i though i was very smart 🤭)

[quinndjarin]

I hate to say this and it honestly hurts my shiny man loving heart to say it but, season 3 has disappointed me sooo much so far. I know we’re only 3 episodes in but the first two seasons had such amazing first eps. It’s never been this slow before and it’s struck fear into my heart that we’re never gonna get the season 1-2 din and grogu adventure vibes back 💔 all i can do is hope that it will go back to regular programming now he’s redeemed but I seriously doubt it

[vigilskeep]

re: circle mages barely remembering their home country. i imagine anders is very uncomfortable going to the anderfels. he barely remembers his own name. he jumps whenever somebody says "ander" or "anders." he's been using pseudonyms ever since kirkwall but none of them ever feel right and that frustrates him just as much as everything else because the name he was saddled with in the circle became His to his body and brain and not even he can change it now that he has the independence to

to be clear anders is not actually “from” the anderfels as such; his father was from there and left as a boy, and anders himself was born in ferelden. honestly, i think that’s just another layer of alienation. he’s never been to the anderfels, but whatever it was about him was so blatantly obvious that people nicknamed him that even when he refused to speak—which refusal in itself to me suggests the trade tongue might not be his first language. too old when taken to the circle to grow up fitting in, but too young for the memory of what he lost not to slip through his fingers. hiding a name that never even felt right in the first place because in a tower full of prying eyes it’s the only thing he can keep for himself. growing into a different one that just outright labels him a foreigner

so an outsider in ferelden from the first, but they’d instantly know him from a stranger in the anderfels all the same. if he went it’d be full of deja vu and irritating half memories, i think. it’d be super interesting as a character exploration. it’s also worth saying that they’re said to be a pious people who are half ruled by the wardens, so considering what he’s run from and the fact that his ander father was the one who gave him to the templars in the first place, i’m not sure a little childhood nostalgia would do anything but get his hackles up

his approach to nationality is interesting in da2, but definitely fereldan; he says “i didn’t think i’d give it a second thought once i was gone. what did ferelden ever do for me?” but in the same banter admits to missing it. and of course politically he’s strongly aligned with the fereldan refugees who specifically remark on what he’s done for “our people”, fear what happens to mages “in this city”, threaten those who come after him with “fereldan justice” and immediately drop their aggression when they realise the person looking for him is fereldan. ferelden is also the nation that most aligns itself with the mage rebellion

idk. remember how if hawke is a non-mage and sides with the templars because “kirkwall is my home and i intend to protect it”, he has the saddened line, “from us. from me. it would have been nice to have a home, instead of a cell or a hiding place”, but if they’re a mage it’s the much more dismissive and angry, “an apostate doesn’t have a home—just somewhere to hide”. some places might feel more like home, but he pretty directly engages with the idea of mages’ status making them stateless, and he thinks any apostate is a fool for thinking otherwise

[possessedopossum]

I didn't want to romance Solas at first bc of all the angst but the more I played the more I realized how fucked up the inquisitor Lavellan is even without romancing Solas. Especially in case of a mage...It feels like the game is punishing you for siding with mages and elves or being one yourself. Your companions don't like you, you lose your faith, your entire history is one big lie, you can even lose your entire clan. Both the mage rebellion and the dalish are constantly demonized. You have to listen to racist or pro templar bullshit. No one understands you except for Solas who leaves in the end. I gave his romance another try and oh god. This is like ultimate loneliness and isolation. I had no idea why would someone like Solas fall in love with a modern elf but now I know why. Because Lavellan is like the only one who can see a real person in him. In modern Thedas, he is nothing but another pair of pointy ears. An apostate. An elven hobo. During the days of ancient elves he was nothing but a title. The Dread Wolf. A symbol, not a real person. And literally the same thing can be applied to Lavellan who is being crushed by the weight of their title. Who is being devoured by the narrative until there is nothing left of them. They are so alike, damn. Inquisition companions mostly act like a group of coworkers and Solas doesn't trust even his own agents (hi Felassan). The game ridicules a player for certain opinions and Solas conditionally says he was called a liar, a fool, a madman by both his enemies and his allies alike for trying to share his knowledge. I used to think Solas romance was kinda empty and unsatisfying and holy shit how wrong I was. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Solavellan to me is about finally finding a person who understands you under the shittiest circumstances possible after accepting that you will probably die alone. And then...Being completely destroyed by your own sense of duty. With all the Solas hate in this fandom I kinda forgot he actually...Cares about Lavellan? It wasn't an easy decision to leave. And it was even harder for Solas to not let Lavellan join his cause. He had to get rid of his own humanity for the sake of other elves and he doesn't want his vhenan to do the same. And the most tragic thing about this, that there is not much humanity left of Lavellan anyway. They are tired and lost and alone. Inquisition has changed them, they can't go back and pretend that nothing happened. They are not the same person they used to be. Solas greatest fear is dying alone but in the end of the game my Lavellan felt like they are the one who is slowly dying alone.

Also Solas is bisexual to me I don`t care what bioware say.

[taevbears]

Magic Shop - 09

One day, when I wake up at 3:00AM, unable to sleep, I will look next to me and you will be there, Sleeping peacefully beside me. And suddenly, the world won't seem so lonely.

⤑ pairing: OT7 x witch!reader, Jimin/Yoongi focused ⤑ genre: magic au, romance, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn ⤑ rating: 18+ ⤑ word count: 6.5k ⤑ warnings: implied smut, interrupted foreplay, heavy angst, oppression against mages, jimin as a warning himself tbh ⤑ note: surprise!! i took a few months off from writing this story to pursue other story ideas, but i ended up wanting to come back to this one lol. i have another story in the works, but i do plan to start posting semi-regularly for this series again soon ^^ i hope you guys enjoy! this takes place right after the final of pt 1.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

From the distance, the haunting, sonorous tolls of church bells ring in the hour for the sleeping town of New Haven.

Once. Twice. Three times.

3:00AM. The witching hour.

Monsters and magic are most active at this time of night. Their connection to the Veil – a realm of dreams and demons – is at its strongest peak, opening a window of chaos and mayhem and spilling them into the living world.

For mortals like Park Jimin, the witching hour is dangerous. Humans become prey to these abominations. Kidnapped and sacrificed, they become targets of dark magic, tortured for a mage’s sadistic greed and pleasure.

By law, those cursed with magic are condemned to their high towers and impenetrable castles. But there are some who’ve managed to escape their confinements. Who’ve garnered sympathy from fools they’ve bewitched, and who’ve hidden their unnatural powers to inconspicuously blend in with human villagers.

That’s when the hunters come in.

While the wardens are busy keeping the monsters locked away, allowing them to practice tricks and spells deemed safe by the Devoted, and silently killing them through deadly trials like the Harrowing, it’s the hunters that protect the towns and villages from mages outside their gilded prisons. People who, without law or regulation, take matters into their own hands when facing the Wicked.

History speaks of the war between humans and mages. The human sacrifices, the stolen blood of innocents, the dark summonings, the ominous hauntings, the deals with devils. Magic, after all, is the root of all evil.

And the latest of these horrendous acts is what happened at Blackstone Castle.

Several apprentices rebelled against the teachings of the Devoted and performed a forbidden summoning. The mutiny caused mages to attack the wardens, unleash creatures beyond nightmares into the mortal realm, and escape the castle’s defenses. The leader of the apostate group is rumored to have transformed into a hideous beast that the Warden-Commander had successfully defeated, but by the time the monster was slain, it was too late. Many mages have fled from Blackstone and found refuge in nearby villages, causing fear and suspicion to strike within the communities.

Any mage, surrounded by the temptations of the mortal realm, is a dangerous threat.

Two months ago, when news of Blackstone Castle hit the capital, there was no doubt in his mind what he must do: he had to return to his hometown in New Haven, make sure there aren’t any mages infiltrating his town, and eliminate the ones he finds.

With the key to his grandmother’s floral shop and the blessings of his family from the capital, Jimin returned to town, surprised to see not much had changed since he was last there.

Except for one thing.

The unnamed shop across the street.

The one odd place in town, full of mystery and wonder. What once was ruins and a disarray of abandonment is now warm and cozy with whimsy and comfort. Colorful and mix-mashed, yet in a way that works together. Like it was made of magic. 

And, to his dismay, the cutest shop owner he’s ever seen works there. One that he’s hopelessly fallen head-over-heels with. 

Even though he highly suspects that you are, ironically, the very thing he hunts down.

Jimin reminds himself of that as he sits back on a chair and faces the bed. Under the gleam of moonlight, the dagger in his hand shines. Embedded in the blade are ancient symbols of the Devoted. Once penetrated, it will render even the strongest mage useless, temporarily paralyzing them from using their powers as the effects of the enchanted markings sink in.

An heirloom and a prized possession of the Park family. One that his father used when he became a hero of the town. One that his grandfather used to kill the mage that murdered his parents. And now, one that belongs to him.

He flips the nullifying weapon in his hand over and over. Keeping it close to him, just in case.

In case you suddenly wake – snapping your eyes wide open, the colors of your pupils turning into an eerie, bright gold – and lunge toward him in inhuman speed. In case you levitate off the bed and hurl things flying in his direction. In case the devil’s mark sears red on your skin during the witching hour and turns you into one of them.

Wicked.

Like those corrupted mages – easily trading their souls for wealth, beauty, power, and fame – that the Devoted has warned them about. Like the ones he’s seen attack humans with their unnatural strength and twisted powers. Like the ones who had surely killed his parents.

After all, magic is the root of all things evil.

And you, a mage, are a monster. A human vessel that will inevitably succumb to the darkness and unleash chaos into the world with your cursed power.

His eyebrows furrow together and a deep frown is set on his plush lips

You – the most evil, dangerous, wicked thing to ever exist – continue to sleep soundly on his bed, blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil. The black dahlia – doused with potent lavender extract – is disposed of, but it’s already done its job. Keeping you unconscious. Keeping you vulnerable. Right where he wants you.

Time ticks on and Jimin tightens his grip on the dagger. He has to act, and he has to do it fast. He’s certain once the sleeping effect wears off, you’ll attack him.

One minute passes. Then, two. Then, three more.

Abruptly, Jimin stands with the dagger at hand. The chair legs scoot back against the wooden floorboards as he steps closer to you, blinking away the drowsiness from the potent side-effects of the flower.

Was he wrong?

No, he’s certain you’re one of them. He’s certain that one or more of them in that shop are like you as well. Mages and monsters.

Yet, there’s no trace of a golden glow in your eyes. No objects suddenly falling out of shelves, no picture frames or doorknobs rattling, no unexplained knocks or whispers. No faded bite mark that a demon left as a claim on your skin.

His fingers barely touch your neck when you make a sound.

A moan.

Of someone’s name.

Jimin freezes, eyes wide as he looks at your sleeping face. He can’t be certain if you said his name or—

A chuckle of disbelief comes from his lips and he runs his fingers through his hair. This should be easy. Insultingly so.

Yet, Jimin finds himself sitting back on the chair and facing his bed for the fourth time that night. He’s had that dagger in his hand since you fell asleep hours ago. He has every intent to kill you and the others in that shop.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he silently takes you in. The distinct features of your face that he likes, the way your lips part slightly as you sleep, the slow sound of your breath and the way your eyelashes touch the top of your cheeks. The way the moonlight is cast upon your bare skin, almost making you look ethereal in the night. 

He thinks about earlier that afternoon, when you came to his shop, picking flowers to lay out a message of apology and confession. He thinks about the genuine surprise in your face when he admits that he loves you too, that you already have his heart. He thinks about how he meant what he said too.

And as the shop closes and the afternoon rolls into evening, he thinks about his hand in yours as he leads you upstairs to his room. He thinks about your shy giggles when he kisses your neck, your collarbone, and the top of your breasts until you start to remove your clothes for him. And as Jimin takes in your body, he whispers that you’re beautiful without realizing the words came out of his mouth.

This should’ve been easy. If he had known you were a mage sooner, before he caught any feelings for you, perhaps this would have been different. 

But tonight, Jimin sheaths the enchanted dagger and lets you live for one more night.

Your dreams. They always start like this.

High walls of a strong, impenetrable fortress made of dark brick and stone. Willow trees in the courtyard, and a prism of sunlight peeking through the weeping, green leaves. Rows of old books stacked together on long shelves with worn bindings and stain-aged pages. Faceless apprentices in uniformed robes, passing through the candle-lit hallways from one lecture to another, their disembodied voices echoing down the long passageways. Plated armor and concealed weapons of guards that look down at you with disdain.

Blackstone Castle.

Once upon a time, that place was all you’ve ever known. An institution where you’ve excelled too well in the classroom lessons and teachings. Where your exposure to the outside world is limited through words on paper and stories from fellow apprentices of what they could remember before coming to the castle. A so-called home where you had the promising future of becoming one of the best enchanters among your peers.

You lean back against your chair in the lecture room. Notes in your handwriting are on the desk, detailed with whatever you thought is important to note. You tilt your head, frowning a bit in confusion as your hand continues to write.

You’re … actually not sure what you’re taking notes on. The longer you look at the scribbled words, the more ineligible they appear.

The sound of giggling catches your attention. When you glance at the source of the noise, you drop the quill in shock.

Mina?

At the back of the lecture room, Hoseok and your old roommate are snuggled together. Neither of them are paying attention to the lesson, shamelessly making out and touching each other through their clothes. You see her running her hand through his hair and tugging him closer as their tongues slip in each other’s mouths. Although they’re sitting a bit far, you could hear Hoseok as if he’s right next to you. You hear him tell her, “It should’ve been you that made it out of the Harrowing instead.”

“Hoseok?” you utter, your voice pathetically soft. Why would he say that?

When you finally force yourself to look away, Namjoon stands before you. No longer are you in a lecture room, but at the library. His face is completely neutral. Guarded. He asks you, “What is it that you want?”

“I just…” you begin, but before you could answer, he pushes you down on the table.

“I’m not your boyfriend. I couldn’t care less about what we are,” Namjoon tells you as he pins you down. His hand flips up the end of your dress. “There’s only one thing I want from you.”

When you exhale, it’s shaky. Like you’re trying not to sob.

Before anything happens, Namjoon is shoved away. When you turn around, you’re in the ritual room. Seokjin has his hands full, fighting beastly creatures from the Veil with a sword and shield. He shouts for your help, and it takes you a moment to process that you’re in the middle of a battle.

You need a weapon.

The tower rumbles and debris falls from the ceiling. Your heart races as you look through the rubble for a wand, a tome, anything to help Seokjin.

But you’re too late.

An anguish scream cuts you deeper than any blade. Panic and fear seizes your entire body as you watch him slump to the ground. The battlefield is deathly quiet, and you’re sitting there, alone, cradling his head on your lap and crying apologies for what feels like hours.

“Scary.”

Through your tears, you see one other person standing in the distance. You sniffle when you recognize who it is. “Jungkook?”

“You did that to him,” Jimin says from the other side of the room, opposite of where Jungkook is. “You couldn’t save him. This is your fault.”

“I know, but—”

“Scary,” Jungkook repeats, both of them looking at you like you’re something evil. Black smoke swallows them whole, thick as clouds. It takes over the room, Seokjin, and eventually, it takes over you as well.

But once it clears, you find yourself in a séance room. Taehyung sits across from you in a black and gold cloak and a crown on his head. He shuffles tarot cards and asks you the same thing Namjoon does. “What is it that you want?”

“Love,” you answer. Exhausted. Heartbroken.

You don’t want to be seen as a monster. You don’t want to have these doubts. These insecurities. This nightmare.

He sets down one card in front of you. The Reversed Hermit.

Betrayal. Isolation. Paranoia.

As it sinks in, you realize that Taehyung has disappeared. Vanished into thin air. Truly, you are alone again.

You’re not sure how long you sit there in the deafening silence. Wax melts from the candlesticks as the fire burns down the wick. The shadows in the room stretch longer, surrounding you in darkness. But the thoughts in your head are loud, calling you loveless, weak, incompetent, never enough.

Suddenly, you hear music playing. A soft, faint melody from a piano.

You don’t want to be here anymore, so you run toward the sound. A sense of déjà vu hits you as you exit the séance room and find yourself in a long, dimly-lit hallway full of identical doors. Just like your Harrowing, each door you enter leads you to the same hallway over and over and over and over. Despite how gentle the music sounds, you feel desperate to reach it. To see him.

Relief washes over you when you finally do.

In the domain where you first saw him, Yoongi stands behind a piano, dressed head to toe in all black with silver jewelry. One hand presses the black and white keys of the grand instrument, absently playing a tune you vaguely recognized. One he’s certain would bring you right to him.

He glances at you expectantly. A faint smile tugs on the corner of his lips.

Without hesitation, you run toward him, lost and then found. Grief, fear, doubt, and anxiety melt away the moment you’re in his arms. “Yoongi!”

Your familiar pulls you close, brushing his lips against your hair, just as a sharp sting claws into your inner thigh. You whimper and gasp from the pain, squirming in his arms, but Yoongi grabs your jaw and continues to kiss you like nothing is happening.

When the pain subsides, Yoongi finally lets you go. You back away from him, breathing hard, and finally, you notice the golden color in his eyes. He doesn’t move as he peers down on you, lips tugging a bit with an arrogant smirk.

Hesitantly, you lift the bottom of your dress to look at your thigh. A strange, red mark is visible on the skin.

Yoongi merely tilts his head and reminds you, “You’re mine.”

A loud wail is what wakes Jimin from his sleep. His body jerks in reaction, and before he realizes it, he’s tumbling off the chair and onto the wooden floor.

As clumsy as he is, this isn’t unusual for him. He is, however, surprised to see your black cat glowering down at him. Its tail swishes back and forth slowly as an annoyed grumble comes from its chest.

“Sorry,” you apologize, holding a blanket over your body with one hand and shutting the window with the other. “He was crying outside.”

Jimin blinks slowly at you, and then turns his attention back to the cat, who continues to glare down at him. He squints back and whispers, “Isn’t it too early in the morning to be a menace?”

Yoongi gives a grunt of a meow. As if Jimin should’ve known better than to question it.

“I should get going anyway,” you tell him, your voice soft and sad. If Jimin wasn’t wide awake before, he certainly is now. He pushes himself up and sees the redness in your eyes and face. You’ve been crying. “I didn’t mean to stay overnight.”

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Jimin gently asks, jumping to his feet. He starts to approach you, but stops himself. His eyes linger at the blanket you have loosely around you, and how, somehow, you’re even more beautiful to him in the daylight. 

You peek at him with wet eyes. Even now, there’s not a trace of wickedness in them at all. “I’m okay. Bad dream.”

Yoongi meows and rubs himself against your legs, trying to comfort you. A wry smile touches your lips as you bend down to pet him, quietly assuring him again that you’re okay. It feels like this is something that happens every now and then.

When the connection between you and the Veil are the strongest.

It’s subtle, but it’s still proof that Jimin isn’t wrong about what you are after all. He’s never been to a Harrowing, and he knows very little about the Veil itself, but mages leave their physical forms behind to enter that dream-like realm. In order to seek truths, gain knowledge, enhance their skills, and meet both good and evil spirits that reside in that world. It shouldn’t surprise him that mages that fall into a deep sleep during the witching hour could be affected by the Veil.

Jimin crouches down to meet your eye-level. There’s a pleasant smile on his lips as he reaches over to rub your back. “Why don’t you stay a little longer?”

You feel good after a long sleep, a good cry, and dipping into the warm water of a bath. The others at the shop are worried about you, even though you’re just across the street. Yoongi tells you as much as he helps you wash up.

“I know. I meant to go home last night.”

Your memory is a bit fuzzy, but that much, you know, is true. Sometimes, when it feels like you’re dreaming in the Veil, it’s hard to distinguish reality and dreams. You look at your thigh, where you envisioned the devil’s mark to be, and see nothing out of the ordinary on your skin.

He doesn’t say anything as he continues to rub soap on your back and shoulders. It feels nice. You start to lean in on his touch and sigh with content. Then, he asks, “Did anything happen?”

“Other than the obvious? No. I just fell asleep,” you answer, almost certain that there isn’t more to the story. Wake pulled you out of sleep as gently as the nightmare ended, and as you laid on Jimin’s bed, you were overwhelmed with emotion. Every detail, every word from your dream, you remember it. But through the tears in your eyes, you saw Jimin sleeping on a single, uncomfortable chair, facing you and dressed in his clothes from the night before. He had let you sleep on his bed throughout the night, watched over you, and kept you safe. And somehow, just seeing Jimin there with you after a terrible nightmare only reassured you that you were okay. That a dream was just a dream. “I really like him, Yoongi.”

“I know you do,” is all he says. You don’t need to face him to know that he isn’t entirely happy with it. “I just want you to be careful around him.”

“I will, Yoongi. You don’t need to worry about me.”

It isn’t long until you’re out of the bath and dressed up. The two of you are relatively silent as you face a mirror and use magic to fix your hair. Then, Yoongi asks, “Do you want to talk about your dream?”

You glance at him from the reflection. He’s dressed in black clothing and silver jewelry, just as you imagined him. His eyes, however, are normal. Dark, inquisitive, and gentle. Unlike the haunting yellow from your nightmare.

“No. Not yet,” you reply, your hand twitching as you try not to touch your thigh. There’s no pain and no strange mark, but it’s the first time you’ve dreamed of it. The mark that Yoongi mentioned once in passing to further strengthen a bond between a mage and their familiar. “Soon, though.”

You’d think those kinds of dreams would’ve stopped by now, especially after hearing from the boys themselves that they loved you. It feels silly to even question it when it’s obvious that they do. Yet, the same dreams keep occurring over and over, filling your mind with doubt and insecurity.

“Okay.” Yoongi stands next to you as you finish getting ready. “You look nice today.”

You grin at him, a little shy from the compliment, but tease, “Are you saying that I look bad other days?”

“You look nice every day,” he corrects with a shy kiss on your cheek. Then, before you could retort, he’s back into his cat form. You smile at him lovingly and hold him in your arms, feeling the rumble of his purrs vibrate from his body.

Downstairs, Jimin finds himself in a bit of a dilemma.

He has nothing to eat for breakfast.

Work has him traveling out of the shop often, delivering bouquets to customers, picking up new supplies and flowers, and even stopping by local guilds to pick up any magic-related reports to take up. It doesn’t occur to him that he’s rarely home to stock up on his personal pantry.

He’s still rummaging around for something when you finally come down with Yoongi in your arms. “Jimin?”

“I’m back here!” he shouts, grabbing pieces of stale bread and a half-empty jar of strawberry jam. This will have to do for now, he supposes, though it clearly isn’t enough for both of you. When you enter the back room, he tries to bite into the hard, jam-coated piece of bread and asks, “Breakfast?”

“I think I’m good,” you tell him, looking around. It’s notably empty, you realize, as you turn your attention back to his plate. “Is that all you’re having?”

“Maybe it’s a better idea that we eat out,” Jimin agrees, pushing the half-bitten bread aside. He isn’t hungry for that anyway. If it were up to him, he’d take you right back upstairs and have you stay with him a little longer.

He takes a quick glance at the cat in your arms, who seems to hold a steady glare at him. As if daring Jimin to make a move on you while he’s around.

You smile at him. “I know a place we can go.”

Across the street, the aroma of baked bread and brewed coffee welcomes you into the little shop. Seokjin is up bright and early, humming quietly to himself as he carefully puts pastries on a display case. Hoseok pours coffee into several mugs and adds cream and sugar to everyone’s preferred taste. Namjoon is doing an inventory check with Taehyung and Jungkook, writing down what he needs to shop for when he goes to the market later that morning. But as soon as the bell chimes from the front door and you step through the threshold, a sweeter welcome awaits you.

“You’re home!” Taehyung exclaims with a big, boxy smile and pulls you and Yoongi into a tight hug. The cat meows in protest in your arms, but it’s muffled when Jungkook giggles and joins in the group hug as well.

“We were worried about you, pretty girl,” Hoseok comments, holding two mugs for you and Yoongi in his hands, though he seems relieved to see you.

“Yeah, you didn’t come home last night,” Namjoon agrees as he and Seokjin come into the entrance together.

“Sorry, that’s my fault,” Jimin says from behind you. He steps into the shop with a sheepish smile on his face, seeing that he’s faced with the very over-protective men you live with.

Seokjin scoffs under his breath. “That explains a lot.”

“Is it okay if he stays for breakfast?” you ask them, hopeful. There’s a bit of hesitance, as if they’re not really sure what to make of you and Jimin still.

“Yeah, why not? The more the merrier,” Namjoon quotes with a shrug.

Your heart feels warm at their acceptance. Seeing the boys all together in one room, all seven of them, it feels right. It feels complete.

Both Hoseok and Namjoon look at you with so much care in their eyes, scolding you lightly for making them worry. Seokjin smiles at you, alive and well, before he takes Yoongi from your arms to help him in the kitchen. Taehyung and Jungkook refuse to leave your side, still keeping you in their hold until Seokjin bats them away.

If this is all a dream, it’s the cruelest one yet.

Hoseok hands you your coffee and smiles brightly at their guest. “I’ll get another mug. Do you like cream and sugar in your coffee, Jimin?”

Breakfast goes surprisingly well. Laid out on the table are sunny-side eggs, crispy pork belly, toasted bread with butter and jam, a bowl of fresh fruits, vegetable pancakes, and leftover stew from the night before. It’s a feast compared to what Jimin tried to eat at his own shop earlier that morning.

Everyone sits together on the long table, happily chatting and eating. Hoseok feeds Taehyung and Jungkook food from his plate before he eats himself. Seokjin tries to fish for compliments from you and Namjoon for working so hard in the kitchen. Even Yoongi – who strangely appears when the cat disappears – takes a seat beside you and immediately reaches into the fruit bowl for tangerines. 

It’s a little strange, but Jimin seems to fit in really well. Both Hoseok and Taehyung include him in their conversations, asking him what his opinions are about if tigers or bears are the superior animal or the types of cool dances that they’ve seen at the town square. Namjoon and Seokjin make him laugh at their witty banter, and how they bring out the goofiest sides of each other. Even Jungkook is excitedly clapping his hands and giggling at their antics before cutely asking Jimin if there’s any pork belly left on his side of the table. And while he���s certain that Yoongi hates him, he’s surprised when he is offered a piece of his peeled tangerine.

There’s a sense of belonging that Jimin can’t really describe when he’s around you guys. Something that he hasn’t really felt anywhere else.

It’s a stark difference to when he returns to his lonely flower shop afterwards.

Floral fragrances greet him as he walks in the door instead of the aroma of baked good and brewed coffee. There’s a notable silence that fills the room when there aren’t any customers around, unlike at the lively shop across the street, where there’s always music playing and people talking. It feels cold and empty, far from the warm and homey feelings of yours.

Running a shop by himself keeps him busy. It’s hard work and long days, but he likes the smile on people’s faces when they find exactly what they’re looking for, or when he delivers things he’s made to his customers.

Today isn’t any different. Except, it is.

Because just across the street, you’re there. He can see you welcoming curious people inside, checking on the plants outside the shop that Jimin helped you garden with a raven perched on your shoulder, going to the market as Namjoon holds your waist and Jungkook holds your hand, and coming back to the shop less than an hour later and being showered with affectionate greetings from the others upon your return.

Because Jimin can’t stop thinking about how you and the others across the street are supposed to be wicked, evil, vile creatures that feast on the blood of innocents and animal sacrifices instead of tangerines, coffee, and bread. That you must’ve bewitched humans to do your bidding, even though it clearly seems that Seokjin has a mind of his own and wants to be with you all. That you’d use your power to bring chaos and destruction to the world instead of love and comfort in your shop.

Because Jimin realizes that he can’t kill you because he loves you. Even though he shouldn’t. Even though it’s his job to eradicate people like you from his town. 

Yet, here he is, thinking about how concerned he was when you woke up crying. How troubled he felt when he wasn’t able to make breakfast for you. The way he felt a bit nervous entering your shop and facing your other lovers. How they all tried to make him feel welcomed anyway, even if there’s some uncertainty with how they feel toward him. How the morning after with you was nice until he had to return to his shop alone.

The enchanted dagger upstairs is locked away in his room, waiting to be used. Eager for that next opportunity when you’re alone with him. But Jimin, who watches you from his shop’s window with a forlorn sadness, wants to keep you with him a little longer.

And that, truly, is a problem.

“We need to talk.”

Your heart stutters nervously at the words. Silently, you exchange looks with Seokjin, who is washing dirty dishes next to you. But you know why Namjoon is suddenly summoning you all for a family meeting.

At the market, you noticed it. You’re certain Namjoon and Jungkook did too with the way they tightened their hold around you.

In the town square, they were there.

Hunters.

Many of them are talking about Blackstone Castle and the mages that have escaped. They’re asking townsfolk if they’ve noticed anything suspicious, advising people to stay indoors at night, taking notes of any clues they find through their investigations. The three of you manage to avoid them on the way to the market, but it’s clear that their very presence is a threat: the hunters are here, and they’re looking for you.

“It’s too dangerous now,” Seokjin whispers, worried. His thumb caresses the back of your hand as you sit beside him. “We’ll be safer if we get out of town.”

“Where would we go?” Namjoon questions, a bit frustrated. You can tell he’s trying not to raise his voice. “This is our home. We’ve just started to settle down.”

“All the rooms aren’t filled yet,” Taehyung points out as his eyes lock with yours. He’s been certain that Jimin is the last one. That the final room in the shop belongs to him.

Jungkook sighs heavily. “What do we do?”

Running away isn’t an option. You guys already did that, and you don’t want to leave this place behind. Fighting them would only bring more unwanted attention toward you and the shop. Even you’re a bit stumped with what to do next.

“More and more of those hunters are coming into the town,” Hoseok says with a frown. “We have to be careful. We have to look out for each other.”

Namjoon nods his head. “Just as we always do.”

Yoongi catches your eye this time. “Are you sure we can trust him?”

The others look at you as well. Yoongi doesn’t have to say his name for you to know who he’s talking about. You’re the one who knows Jimin the most. They trust your judgment, despite any divination readings Taehyung has on him.

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation. “I trust him.”

By the late afternoon, as things begin to wind down, you return to the flower shop with containers of food from your shop. “I don’t know if you ate your dinner already, but we made these for you.”

He smiles fondly at you, touched by the sweet gesture as he takes the containers from you. “Thank you, baby. I’ll eat it well.”

As he leaves to put the food away in the back for later, you take a walk around. His shop is empty of customers. Various flowers in full bloom sit prettily on display in arrangements and in pots. Everything is beautiful and pleasing to look at.

Though, you notice that there aren't really any personal touches in Jimin’s shop at all. No family pictures, despite his father being a hometown hero or that his grandmother had owned this shop prior. No food that he keeps in stock with favorite dishes and snacks. Even his bedroom feels minimalistic compared to what you’re used to at one of the boys’ rooms. 

If he ever decides to live with you, in that empty room on the second floor, what would his room look like? Would it be like this shop? Would it be something different?

As you lose yourself to your train of thoughts, you nearly trip over something.

A bucket of lavenders.

It sits innocently near a painted cart among other buckets of bouquets. Its calming fragrance is masked by the other floral scents in the shop. But it makes you back away from it as if you just saw something truly horrifying.

Arms suddenly wrap around your midsection and pull you into their chest. You nearly scream, wiggling to get free, until you hear Jimin’s infectious laughter behind you. “What’s wrong? Did I scare you?”

“Yes! How dare you!” you playfully shout, relieved it’s just him. He chuckles and starts to kiss your cheek and neck in apology. His lips feel soft against your skin, and your hand reaches back to touch his neck, turning a bit to kiss him back.

It’s easy to be swept up in him. To get lost in the heat of the moment and not think about anything or anyone else. To push your worries about bad dreams, hunters, and the other boys aside and just melt in his arms. You trust him. You know you can.

But something is bothering you. His mouth moves away from your lips to kiss your jaw and the spot just below your ear, and as you turn your head and sigh in content, you notice the bucket of lavenders again. 

“Stay tonight?” he asks against your skin, eyes hazy with lust. 

You’re tempted. But you answer, “I can’t, Jimin. Not tonight.”

With the hunters in town, you have to make sure that the shop is safe. Hoseok and Namjoon have prepared to sage the entire shop to ward off any harmful intentions to you and your family. And you need to cast added protection spells on the doors and windows so that your shop won’t be easy for them to find.

He hums but places another kiss on your face. “We got a bit carried away last night, didn’t we?”

You glance away from the lavenders and meet his gaze. Again, you remind yourself that you love this man. You can trust him.

“Jimin, about last night…” you begin. His smile fades a little as he arches an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue. “Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m having a hard time remembering how the night ended.”

No matter how hard you try, you can’t remember how you ended up falling asleep in Jimin’s room. The last thing you remember is telling him you had to go back home. That Yoongi would be upset, and Jimin said—

“You just fell asleep, babe. Nothing happened.”

“I see.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“It's not that,” you tell him, not sure how to state this without sounding accusatory. You glance over at the lavenders again and quietly admit, “I just feel like I’m missing something. I don’t know. Did… Did something more happen?”

His hands cup your face, warm and a bit calloused. They contract a bit with the cold, silver rings around his fingers.

“What makes you think I’d do something to hurt you?” he questions, trying to sound a bit offended. But for a split second, you could’ve sworn he almost looked amused.

“I don’t know.” Your eyes flutter close as he tilts your face up, greeting you with soft kisses again. His thumb gently caresses your cheeks, hands slowly gliding down your neck, fingers tracing your collarbone. Despite the light touches, your heart pounds hard in your chest, and you feel yourself chasing after his lips. 

“Should I remind you then? About last night?” he asks, nose bumping against yours and a hand against the back of your neck.

“I can’t stay,” you remind him, eyes fluttering close. But his lips feel so full and soft when he kisses you. Each kiss entices you for more, and he chuckles when he feels you tug on his bottom lip.

“Then should we stop?”

He pulls away from you a bit, teasing you, but you don’t allow him. Your arms wrap around his neck as you needily answer, “No. Don’t stop.”

“Good girl,” Jimin praises and rewards you with another heated kiss. You could only moan in agreement, far too distracted to pay attention to anything but the way his tongue slips into your mouth or the way his touch warms your skin, igniting memories of last night with the way his hands roam your body.

With Jimin, it feels easy to love. It feels easy to simply be. Whether as friends, lovers, or something else you can’t quite place, it feels easy to get caught up in the moment with him. Without overthinking of what this all means, without the worry of what you are to him, without caring when the dream ends.

Your back hits the counter, but it doesn’t break the kiss. He feels you over your clothes, and your hands tug him closer.

“Jimin…” you gasp, panting hard when he finally pulls away. He spins you around so your back is against his chest again. Vaguely, through the lust-filled haze, you’re reminded of the night before.

Visiting the flower shop, an apology and a confession, a night spent together. You were trying to get home. Yoongi was upset. The tattoo on Jimin’s chest. A black dahlia.

“Don’t think about it,” Jimin whispers against your skin. He starts to push you down over the counter. Had you been able to see his face, a chill would’ve run down your spine from the way he looks at you in that very moment – like a predator to prey. “Just trust me.”

The chime of a bell snaps both of you out of it.

“What the hell?” a last-minute customer exclaims, unable to open the door all the way to get through. As if, somehow, the door got stuck. “Jimin? Are you there?”

Immediately, Jimin backs off and clears his throat.

“Yes, I’ll be right with you!” he answers, running his fingers through his hair. He stands over you for a moment, protectively shielding you from anyone coming in. When he glances over at you, however, you’re already smoothing over the front of your clothes. Your face is a bit flustered, but not a single hair is out of place. “Are you okay, love?”

“I’m fine, Jimin. I should get going anyway,” you tell him bashfully. He kisses you one last time before he finally lets you go.

With ease, you pull open the front door as the customer nearly stumbles inside. 

When you look back at Jimin, he seems to be staring at you and the door curiously. Then, his eyes lock with yours, and he gives you that same, knowing smile from last night.

The kind of smile where he knows something you don’t. A secret he isn’t meant to find out.

And it dawns to you, just then, that his smile was the last thing you saw yesterday before your world turned black.

Thank you for reading ♡ Comments & reviews are greatly appreciated!

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[draculasfavoritewife]

Was Blind, But Now I See

Summary: An eventful night planetside turns into something far deeper than your usual passionate embrace.

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Warnings: Sexual tension in every direction. Much angst. Possessive! Din. Reader might have a bit of a gambling problem. I use several long paragraphs to describe how beautiful I find Din Djarin. Religious trauma, Din being a bit of a soft dom here and there, implied smut at the end.

Din Djarin is truly at his best when he has someone to claim as HIS, and I really think we need to see more of that *I have spoken* Also, although my fics are not necessarily fully canon-compliant, this piece does take place pre-season-3 because he is still an apostate, for anyone who was wondering :)

*Translations of less common words/phrases in Mando'a at the end

You idly swirl your half-empty glass and wonder if it would be worth the pointed glare from your partner to ask him again if he wants a taste.

"I know what you're thinking," he grumbles from his seat beside you.

Immediately you affect a pose of dramatic injury. "You can't possibly accuse me of --"

"And no, I don't want a taste of your drink," he steamrolls over your protest. "I'm no closer to betraying my creed than I was an hour ago."

"Lucky guess," you smirk.

He snorts, a faint crackling of his vocal modulator. "Hardly."

You swivel around on the bar stool with a stifled groan, gaze flitting over the diverse crowd in the cantina. "Where's your contact?"

"They'll get here when they get here." His voice is even, nearly a drawl. You're not fooled by his apparent relaxed demeanor, though; long hours spent together in silence in the cockpit have clued you in to his minuscule tells. The alert focus of his helmet's visor, the tautness in his spine that means he could spring to his feet in an instant, the way his right hand almost absently brushes past his holster. Tiny things that would escape the eye of most, but you see, and know that he's ready for anything.

He's always ready for anything.

You wish, as you so often do, that there was somewhere he could truly drop his eternal vigilance and be free of his shadows for a time.

"Don't you give me that look."

You shake out of your reverie. "I wasn't even looking at you!"

"You were in your head, and that's worse," he observes matter-of-factly. "This is not the time, nor the place. Go play a round of sabacc if you need a way to pass the time." He jabs a nod in the direction of the corner table, where a motley group is arguing loudly over house rules.

It's very tempting. You haven't hustled a game table in a long time, and you might even come away with a handsome win, if you remember to quit while you're ahead.

"Come watch me?" You lean closer to him. "I promise you a good time, it looks like a real group of nerf herders over there."

"Pass." There's finally a note of something like annoyance in his tone. "We can't both be distracted."

"Alright! I can take a hint." You drain your glass and rise, sauntering away to the table. "I'm not responsible for any brawls, though."

"Sure. Feel like I've heard that one before." The Mandalorian tears his gaze away from your retreating figure and turns his attention back to scanning the crowd. Normally you're as patient as he is, and normally he wouldn't encourage you to indulge your recovering sabacc habit, but whether it's the fault of a recent hunt that ran longer than expected or the rough flight to reach this system, he knows you're both on edge.

After all, whether on the job or with the both of you taking shifts in the pilot's chair through a particularly harrowing debris field, little time has been left for the pair of you to spend together recently.

Though he may not be well-versed in the ways of your adopted culture's kinetic communication, he definitely recognized that look in your eyes. It's the look when you start fantasizing about finally getting him out of all that beskar and into a much more...personal setting.

And he can't have you keep staring at him like that, or he starts thinking about it too.

"It's better this way," he mutters under his breath, consciously avoiding the game table with his searching gaze.

His man had better show up soon.

The group at the card table is finally starting to catch on that you just might know a bit more about sabacc than you said earlier. The heap of credits in front of you has grown substantially in the hour since you joined their circle, and the Nikto across from you is beginning to get agitated.

Still, that's preferable to the Zabrak next to you, who's been making increasingly obvious passes at you with each win you take.

"Come on, Boys, one more round," you urge as you sweep more credits into your pile and begin stacking them neatly. "I swear, it's beginner's luck, I can't possibly keep winning forever."

There's a general grumbling as some leave the table, having had enough for the night.

The Nikto asks in Huttese what could possibly sweeten the deal.

So, high on the rush of winning, you make the ill-advised decision to throw your Corellian Jiang necklace into the pot, and end up somehow losing to the protocol droid.

"That's not possible!" you protest, throwing down your cards. "I had full sabacc! The odds of an Idiot's Array are astronomically low! Something's not adding up."

But the droid adamantly defends itself, so you leave in a huff, more torn up about the loss of the necklace than you'd care to admit. It was the only thing you had left of an old friend during a stint on Corellia a long time ago, and meant a good deal more to you than just its rarity and value.

You find your way back to your seat next to Din and bark at the bartender for a hot caf.

"Kriff. That bad?" he asks, and you could swear you hear the hint of a grin teasing at the edges of his voice.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You always get a Fire Dancer when you win," he observes. "Caf is your sad drink."

"I've made some bad choices," you lament over the edge of the steaming mug. "But I'll live."

"Glad to hear it." He falls silent again as the Zabrak from the game table approaches to sit on your other side. You strike up a polite conversation, more as something to distract you from your recent losses than anything else. You certainly have no intention of entertaining any extra notions he might have.

Din's already possessive instincts, however, are quickly ratcheting up into overdrive, and it takes you by surprise when his gloved hand suddenly appears on your upper thigh. It's a bold move for him, in public at least, and you can't deny that a slight shiver runs through your entire body at your armored warrior staking his claim in front of another man like this.

The Zabrak, to his credit, looks put off for a brief moment and then tries one last tactic. "What do you say to getting out of this place for a bit, huh? I can always bring you back before it gets too late. The city's beautiful this time of evening."

The hand on your thigh tightens its grip, making your own fingers convulsively curl around the edge of the bar as his dig into your soft flesh. His mere touch is driving you wild; it hits with sudden weight just how long it's been since he's touched you like this.

How utterly unfair that gleaming beskar helmet seems now.

At least HE can hide whatever is going on in his head.

When you gather yourself enough to reply, your voice, thank the Maker, is under control if nothing else. "You'd have to ask my escort," you hum, indicating the Mandalorian, whose focus is now trained on the unwelcome interloper with all the disintegrating intensity of his pulse rifle.

"I don't. Share."

It's his "Try me, pal, I know twenty different ways to kill you" voice, and the crazy part of you wants nothing more than for him to throw you down on this counter and --

Well, better stop that thought quick before it leaves your tongue.

The Zabrak gets the message and sulks away, leaving the pair of you in a tense, brittle quiet spell. His hand is still resting on you, fingers thoughtfully rubbing the crease where your thigh joins your hip.

"This is getting old," he mutters.

You roll your eyes. "Guys like him come to the cantinas to pick up ladies, Mando. It's not personal."

"They should know better."

"They're all dumb as shaaks, Cyare." You toss back the rest of your caf, grimacing now that it's gone cold. "It's not like I walk around wearing a sign that says 'Back off, I'm with Shiny'."

He doesn't answer, but is on his feet now, reaching for your hand. "Come on."

You frown. "Your contact?"

"Can wait. They've kept me waiting too long already. Outside. Now."

Dusk has fallen outside the cantina. The suns have disappeared and the breeze is starting to grow chilly. Shadows lay thick and indigo in the narrow alleyways, and you unconsciously rub your arms against the cooling air, wondering what could possibly have driven your partner to drag you out here.

"Can you see?" he questions.

You scoff. "Maybe. If I squint real hard."

"Good." There's a sharp metallic sound in the gloom, and then suddenly his mouth is attacking your neck, right underneath your jaw, and all your breath comes out in a low whine.

He's merciless, and you're defenseless in his grasp, only the fact that you're biting your tongue keeping you from gasping his real name out loud.

Finally he lets you breathe again, resting his forehead against yours so your noses touch.

"Jate, Mesh'la. You've never stayed so quiet before," he teases softly.

"You've never done that just outside a crowded cantina before!" you huff.

He kisses you, far too briefly, and replaces the helmet. "Think that'll do the trick?" he growls, running his thumb over the love bite he left behind.

It must be a good one, for how thorough he was.

"I imagine the message is clear." You lean into him, pretending for a moment that the hard edges of his beskar are gone and all you can feel is him.

"I'll finish the transaction as quickly as possible," he promises in your ear.

"Good. I might do something desperate if we're stuck in this scughole much longer." You pull away from his embrace.

"If you need something to take your mind off of...us, for a bit, go get your necklace back," he suggests. "That piece of scrap and the Nikto hut'uun were cheating. Slipped the droid a card under the table."

You bang your fist into the wall. "I knew it!"

"I know I technically got thrown out on my ass, but you gotta admit, it was a good end to that disaster." You sweep your hair out of the way and fasten your Jiang pendant around your throat again with satisfaction. Smacking the full bag of credits at your belt, you add, "And I brought income! I'm gonna buy some quality seafood at the next market we hit. The Kid will appreciate that, I'm sure."

Aside from noncommittal grunts of acknowledgement, Din is strangely quiet as you board the ship and prepare everything to take off in the morning. You're not sure exactly what's bothering him -- his deal went through and all seemed well, so it must be an internal problem he's solving. Determined not to let his change in attitude get to you, and knowing you'd ask too much of him for now if you hung around him, you escape to the cockpit and lounge in his chair, staring out at the thousands of stars that are beginning to glow in the darkness beyond.

What killed the mood?

You hear him approach eventually, hauling himself up the ladder behind you. Heavy footsteps ring through the small space as he arrives beside the chair, where he pauses.

"You should have at least turned around to check that it was me." Even the stern reproach sounds halfhearted. Something's eating at him.

"Who else would it have been, Din? The Kid wearing your armor?"

You take his silence as a concession of your point.

When it stretches on, however, you decide to try and make some conversation. Maker knows how long he'll just stand there staring out at the view otherwise. "She look good for takeoff tomorrow? Or do I need to give anything a once-over?" Maybe he's just waiting for his chair back and being too polite about it.

You rise and make to slip past him.

"How long have we been doing this?" he suddenly asks, a solid wall of beskar preventing you from getting anywhere.

"Hell, Din, I don't know. What even is 'this'?" You don't know where the sudden impatience has come from, aren't even sure if you and he are referring to the same thing.

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum," he murmurs, one of those multi-talented hands rising to tip your chin up towards his helmet. "That's all I know, ner'kar'ta. Whatever we are...I know that I love you. And have for however long we've been traveling this lonely way together."

You soften, letting him pull you to his chest, wrapping your arms around him. "I love you, Din Djarin. Have for a very long time. And will continue to do so for however long we are given."

There's a slight quiver to his hand now, betrayed as he presses his palm flat against your back. "I was...thinking, tonight."

You remain silent, waiting for him to go on.

"You know most of the story, Cyar'ika. How the Armorer told me I am dar'manda. Grogu has seen...has looked upon my face. Because I wanted him to know that we are...aliit."

"I know." Those had been long nights, the first few after your reunion, when the pain of excommunication was still a freshly bleeding wound. Those nights, kisses tasted like the salt of his silent tears, and more often than not he simply desired to be held by you, for someone who understood to remind him that all was not over. You will always remember those nights, when you wondered in terror if he would finally, truly fall apart if you ever let go.

"I am not bound by the creed until I am redeemed," he muses softly. "And I realized tonight...we are committed to each other. There is no reason for me to wonder if you will leave anymore, is there?"

You shake your head. "I've told you, my love. Even the stars themselves couldn't keep me from finding my way back to you."

He releases a long breath.

"Would you want to see me, if I were to show you?"

Your own breath seems to have met a hitch.

"Din...it's a dream of mine. I've always wanted to see all of you." You tentatively rest your fingertips against the cool surface of the helmet. "But only if you truly want to show me."

"I do, Mesh'la. I want us to finally see each other eye-to-eye. Even for just a moment."

You can only nod in answer. This moment is all at once too sacred and too sacrilegious for anything you could possibly think to say. So instead you draw back, waiting for him to move when he's ready.

His hand slowly pushes the helmet up and back, and for the very first time, you are actually gazing into the face of the man who captured your heart.

Finally, all of the small details you have discovered over time in the dark tie together. The rugged facial hair framing a broad jawline, the slope of his regal nose and the artful curves of his full lips. His hair, thick and tousled by the helmet, is a rich brown, streaked here and there with a strand of silver.

He's beautiful.

But those eyes.

His eyes are the one feature you've never been able to guess at. You have imagined them sparking with anger or softening with affection, but nothing could have prepared you for what lovely eyes they are. Darkest brown, endlessly deep, the eyes of a world-weary and yet somehow still hopeful man. Eyes that overflow with sensitivity and uncertainty, eyes that have unerringly marked a thousand targets for death.

Sharp, sad eyes, that now stare into yours as if seeking out a hidden truth that only you can give him.

He's beautiful.

"You're...crying," he notes with curiosity, a gentle gloved hand brushing the tears from your cheek.

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, Din Djarin," you whisper, unable to look away from those spellbinding eyes. "Thank you, for letting me finally see you. I love you."

He kisses you, first your lips, then the shining tracks of your tears, ending on the same dark smudge where he marked you as his earlier.

"I've been wanting to, for a long time," he confesses quietly. "You have no idea how much I've struggled with it."

You stretch up to kiss his forehead, reveling in the fact that you have finally done so in the light. "I don't think I've ever loved you more."

He reaches around you, dims the lights in the cockpit until you're both shrouded in shadows again. "Well, I have an idea of how I can make it even better."

You smirk, pushing him down into the pilot's seat. "Oh? Do tell."

He pulls you forward so you're suddenly in his lap. "I haven't forgotten the way you were devouring me with your eyes back there, Mesh'la. I think you and I are long overdue for this."

"So long," you agree, settling into a comfortable position on top of him so you can begin the lengthy process of lovingly divesting him of his armor. Your yearning from earlier has returned in full force, coupled with the glowing intimacy of finally having set eyes on your lover's face.

"I need you, Din. And I'm going to make you pay for not letting me reciprocate in the alley."

"You still mad at me over that?" His raspy chuckle sounds close to your ear as his deft fingers undo the fastenings of your jacket.

"You know me, my hunter." You work his undershirt off, letting your hands trail down his chest and grinning at the startled catch in his throat. "I hold a grudge."

His hand snakes around to rest at the back of your neck, a tender gesture that also swiftly reminds you of his possessiveness and makes your heart skip.

"Well, then," and his voice goes smooth, "allow me to amend for my earlier actions."

You can almost imagine his eyes -- those dark, dark eyes -- sparkling with heated mischief.

"After all, you did behave so nicely for me. I think someone deserves a reward."

Jate = Good

Hut'uun = Coward

Ner'kar'ta = My heart

Dar'manda = Not Mandalorian

Aliit = Family/Clan

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

gabriel ultrakill?

STUPID IDIOT MOTHERFUCKING GABRIEL ULTRAKILL GOD DAMN FOOL SOUL COLLECTING DUST EATING RAT OLD BASTARD SHITHEAD IDIOT APOSTATE OF THE WHORE BIGGEST CLOWN IN THE CIRCUS LAUGHED OUT OF TOWN COWBOY MOTHERFUCKING GABRIEL ULTRAKILL

STOP PINNING ME WHEN I TALK ABOUT GABRIEL ULTRAKILL I HATE HIM SO MUCH WHY DOES HE HAVE SO MANY FUCKED UP HUSKS WHY DID HE DECIDE TO FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT JUST SET THEM LOOSE IS HE DEAD IS HE A BASTARD MAN HAS SUCH A VISCERAL AFFECT ON ME NOT EVEN IN THE ROOM NEVER SEEN THIS MANS FACE AND I KNOW HE HAS THE WORLDS SHITTIEST HELMET GET AWAY FROM ME

if i wanted to get into heaven and the council said gabriel ultrakills waiting inside i would piss on the councils feet for the sole purpose of getting sent back down

if i have to deal with gabriel ultrakill speaking one word in person on voice ingame not only will i exit the mission i will uninstall from my steam library out of spite and have to replay the entire game again for the experience of being able to skip all the times when he is mentioned or alive

i dont even know why i hate him so much. he judges souls but i am just mad because i am angy

he better have some fucked up backstory to explain this if hes just some divine shithead whos a fan of devil may cry and wanted the irl version ill go ham

BETTER have had an angel make him kill a man cuz if he didnt Im going to make him

paypal.com/IFuckingHateGabrielUltrakill

missions not even about him. vaguely mention what is supposed to maybe be his actioms and I lost it

where the fuck is gabriel ultrakill if hes still alive im going to so deeply wish he wasnt

crusty old angel

ill punch gabruek and his sad frail old angel twig bones will simply flake apart under my epic huge robot fist and he will disintegrate until all thats left is one final sword he kept on him at all times simply named Idiocy

im not breathing im hyperventilating at this point

i hope theres a time given for when Gabriel died or will die so i can make it a reminder on my phone

everyday i will see it and do anything but pay respects to the angel who had so many fucked up if true layers of hell

[athingofvikings]

I really want to say to people who don't think cultural Christianity is a thing to come to Ireland and breathe in the cultural Catholicism. The 6pm news is at 6:01 because the Angelus (now officially a non-denominational moment of reflection but you're fooling no-one) is played on the national broadcaster. There are statues of Mary of Lourdes at a lot of country crossroads. Schools could ask for a baptism cert until 4 years ago. Sacramental preparation takes place in class time. 1/2

2/2 I literally can't grasp how a majority religion would not have a cultural impact on how your society behaves. Even if you are non-religious or of the non-majority religion you are going to be living in it like a fish lives in water, e.g. Irish funerals are held much sooner after death than ones even in England.I hope this is coming over not in a condescending way, but just a chip in and agreement that "Yes, I see what you are saying and I agree that is definitely a thing that happens"

Oh, it totally comes across as supportive, and yes, it's that exactly, and it goes deeper than those things, too. Like, for example, their binary view on "Being Christian", because they were raised in religious societies that insisted that the only way to be a True Christian was to not only worship Jesus, but to engage in said worship in that community's specific ways. So from their perspective, as apostates who have rejected Jesus, it's done. They've done The Thing that makes them No Longer Christian. It's a binary, strict insider-vs-outsider perspective.

Is it any wonder that they get upset when the rest of us point out that those upbringings left deeper marks on them, and they still have more deprogramming and introspection to do? I would feel sorry for them... except for the fact that they are violent, abusive, and cruel, just like the communities which created them, and, just like those communities, their only solution to hearing perspectives they do not like and do not want to hear is to demand silence and conformity with their perspective.

[broodwolf221]

for dadwc, could i request “Hold my hand for a second. It won’t kill you.” for morrigan/leliana? bonus if smutty :p

okay this one was fun uwu im love them @dadrunkwriting 1249 words cws: none very smutty. much smut.

“Morrigan.” She bit back a sigh, straightening up from where she'd been tending to an herb bed to face Leliana. She had been expecting this.

“Leliana,” she replied simply. The other woman was… transformed. The lighthearted young bard Morrigan had traveled alongside, somehow bold and gentle at once, was now wary and analytical. The years had hardened her, an armor that had settled across her skin.

“What are you really doing here?” Wary, indeed. Though she supposed it was quite understandable.

“As you can see, I am tending to the garden.” She knew it was not the answer Leliana sought but was curious about her response to the deflection, eyes narrowing.

“That is not what I mean and you know it.” Her voice had a brittle quality to it now, where once she would have been fondly exasperated.

“No?” She tilted her head and blinked before smiling, done playing the part. “It appears not. Very well, I shall answer your questions, should you ask them plainly.”

“Why did you join the Inquisition?”

“If you will recall, I was handed over to the Inquisition,” Morrigan answered simply. Leliana scoffed, unconvinced.

“Naturally. And clearly you had to follow orders, could not have left of your own free will. In chains you were given to us, and in chains brought to Skyhold, is that it?”

She shrugged. “Where else should I have gone? Back to my mother? Or perhaps you imagined me building my own hut, raising my son in secrecy as she did? I was no longer welcome in the Orlesian court, nor would any other part of Orlais care to harbor an apostate.”

“All mages are apostates now,” Leliana pointed out flatly and Morrigan couldn't help but laugh, earning a faint scowl from the spymaster.

“‘Tis true, but of those ‘apostates,’ how many still wear Circle robes, hold themselves to Circle values? No, I am an apostate in a way that will never be tolerated in polite company. The Inquisition is as much refuge as it is opportunity.”

“‘Opportunity’?”

“Indeed. Think what you will of me, of my reasons, but there is nothing to be gained by letting a would-be god claim dominion over our world.” She took a step nearer and Leliana did not back away. “There was a time when you trusted me to do what was right,” she said softly. 

“And then you left,” Leliana's voice was quiet enough to not carry, but no less venomous for it.

“I did,” she admitted. “But… ‘twas you who left first.” For the first time, Leliana looked away. “Why come to my fire so many nights? Why ask me for tales, share your own, only to leave when I finally invited you to my tent?”

“I… could not join you.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Ah, yes, more the fool I. Failing to understand that the ways of flesh would shift your Maker's gaze from you.” Morrigan was surprised by the hurt in her own voice—she had thought this particular pain long since past. Leliana's poise seemed to falter for a moment.

“I was naive,” she admitted softly, still not meeting Morrigan's gaze. “And arrogant, believing myself to be His chosen. But He did not choose me. I have learned to accept that.”

“Pity ‘twas not in time,” she said acerbically, Leliana wincing. But a moment later she straightened, meeting Morrigan's eyes pointedly.

“There is time yet,” she said. It was quite the unbelievable statement. “Should you still will it.”

“You are full of surprises, no? Is this your new way to spy on recent acquisitions?” Leliana smiled at the question, the bright, mischievous smile Morrigan recognized from years past.

“Only those who catch my eye,” she teased, voice low. “Have you time now?”

“Ah-”

“Take my hand,” she continued, “it won't kill you.” Her smile remained the same, Morrigan swallowing before taking the offered hand.

Their fingers laced together and Leliana led her through the keep to a simple room. Morrigan glanced around the spartan decor, faintly surprised to be brought to the other woman's chambers directly, although she supposed there was nowhere else fitting.

With the door shut and bolted behind them Leliana turned to face her, pulling her hood back to reveal the vivid shade of her hair, slightly mussed. They were still holding hands, Morrigan letting herself be pushed against the cold wall.

Then Leliana kissed her.

At first it was gentle, searching, curious—but it quickly became heated and demanding, her free hand slipping between them to stroke across Morrigan's bare stomach. She pulled back just enough to speak: “do you want this?” The question made her laugh again.

“Only for years. You are late enough as it is, do not stop now.” She pressed into Leliana's touch, watching as the woman smiled before kissing her again, her hand shifting up until it grazed the simple top Morrigan wore. It took no effort for her to slip under the scant fabric, holding her breast while her thumb dragged back and forth across her nipple. She shivered under the ministrations, gasping into the kiss as Leliana slotted their legs together.

They finally broke the kiss as they started to grind against each other, Morrigan pulling her hand free so she could use both to explore Leliana's curves before settling on her ass, dragging her forward into every thrust. 

She didn't think this would feel so good, although part of it may simply be that it'd been a very long time. But Leliana's shaky moans and sighs were thrilling and Morrigan was already soaking wet, each thrust against the other woman's leg driving her that much closer to the edge. Despite this, it was Leliana who came first, thrusting fast and hard before suddenly stilling, her hips stuttering forward a few times as she gasped. “Don't you dare stop,” she growled, using her grip on Leliana's ass to continue dragging her forward, rutting shamelessly against her leg.

After a few moments of that she sighed, frustrated, and pushed Leliana gently away. “Lay down on the ground.” The woman frowned before doing as she was bid, watching as Morrigan settled atop her. “Now raise your knee like—yes,” she gasped as Leliana's tense thigh pressed against her groin, each thrust dragging her wet smallclothes across her cunt, a slick tension that just brought her that much closer. “Just like that,” she managed as she ground hard against the other woman, sometimes slipping down to press her clit against the clothed spur of Leliana's hip.

After some time Leliana reached back and abruptly pulled Morrigan's one leg higher up, grinding against it again. “Greedy little bard,” she teased, feeling Leliana shiver under her. A moment later she gasped as she was forced onto her side, both of them moving desperately against each other, until finally that sweet edge approached and Morrigan let herself fall, arching against Leliana as she rode through the orgasm, shivering as she slowly came down only to find Leliana still seeking her own finish. “That's right,” she whispered, “show me how much you've wanted this. Spill against me again. I want to hear you cry out my name as you come.”

“Morrigan,” she barely managed, sounding utterly shocked and needy as she jerked hard against Morrigan's thigh.

They laid tangled together while they slowly caught their breaths. Then Leliana rolled away with a giggle, Morrigan arching a brow. “Well. Maybe next time we’ll actually manage to get undressed first.” Now she smiled, too.

“That would be preferable, yes.”

[wantonlywindswept]

Good Dad Paz ficlet

i;’m fukkin. sobbing. apparently all i needed to write was an episode of mandalorians being DADS and loving their kids who knew

Post 3.1 canon divergence, Paz decides to go after Din on his epic roadtrip to Mandalore. din is sir not appearing in this ficlet

Mando’a I decided didn’t have an acceptable substitute in English that vibed:

alor: title indicating a leader

---

The day after Din left, when the Armorer reminded them that redemption could only be achieved through the Living Waters, Paz's first thought was, 'What kind of fool would go to a poisoned planet?'

His second thought was the horrifying realization that Din was absolutely that kind of fool.

Then Paz immediately started packing, because apparently so was he.

"Do you go to aid him, or to dissuade him?" the Armorer asked, standing on the landing pad below as he shoved supplies into the battered Z-95 Headhunter. It had taken another day just to requisition the ship, waiting for its return from offworld while Din's trail grew ever colder. The covert only had a few ships available and most were constantly in use; Paz's decision to requisition the starfighter had not been looked upon kindly.

"When has he ever done anything but what he wanted?" he grunted, wedging his assault cannon into the space behind the Headhunter's seat. He'd scrounged together enough supplies to last him a week, pulled mostly from his own reserves, and had items for barter stowed away should he make landfall on a populated planet. 

"He is an apostate," the Armorer pointed out, "Which makes him no longer our concern."

"He's an idiot," Paz countered, "And he'll get both himself and his child killed if he goes to that cursed planet."

He finished stowing the last of his supplies and jumped down, landing heavily in front of her. She regarded him silently as he straightened.

"Do I have permission to leave, alor?" he asked stiffly. 

Paz wasn't sure what he would do if she said no. He hadn't really thought that far ahead: a common failing of his, to do things without first thinking them through. He approached life fists first and blasters second, and most problems were solved through judicial application of one or the other.

That method never had really worked on Din, though, no matter how much they tried it with each other.

The Armorer considered him a few moments longer before inclining her head, and Paz felt just a moment of relief before she spoke again.

"Do you agree with Din Djarin's choice?"

He blinked.

"Alor?"

"Had it been your child in danger," the Armorer enunciated, "Would you have removed your helmet as he did?"

Paz stiffened. His gaze darted past her, to the edge of the landing pad, where Ragnar waited patiently to say goodbye.

Paz hadn't known, on Glavis, why Din had removed his helmet. All he'd felt was anger - not unusual, when it came to Din - and stomach-churning envy - also not unusual - from seeing the Darksaber finally returned to Mandalorian hands. Hands that weren't a Vizsla's, for all that Paz thought the damned thing was cursed. Hands that didn't understand what they held; hands that were, in the end, not Mandalorian at all.

And that had been the sharpest cut, a grieving wound reopened: to realize that one of his brothers, returned from the dead, hadn't actually been returned to him at all. 

Paz now owed Din a life debt; that was not in question. Din had saved his son, and Paz would repay that a hundred times over, a thousand times over, knowing that Ragnar lived because of his actions. He would protect Din's child or protect the fool himself, would walk on the surface of a death-trap of a planet and follow Din wherever he needed to go, because that was the least the man was owed for saving his child.

What wouldn't Paz do for his son?

The Armorer waited for his response, hands clasped in front of her. 

Paz looked away.

"I think," he said quietly, "That neither of us would like the answer to that question."

The Armorer said nothing. After a moment she turned to walk back into the caves; Paz let out a low breath and wondered if he, too, might need the absolution of the Living Waters.

Ragnar scampered over once it was clear that departure was imminent, and Paz didn't have to force a smile as he knelt down, gathering the boy into his arms as he barreled into him. 

"You're leaving now?" Ragnar asked, only a hint of a pout in his voice. He'd come a long way from the shaking, anxious boy that Paz had found, blossoming in the safety of the covert's care and Paz's own gentle guidance. "To find the Hunter?"

"To fulfill a debt," Paz agreed. 

Ragnar made an unhappy noise.

"It should be mine," he said, not for the first time. "It's my life that was saved, I should be the one with the life debt. I can pay it!"

Paz chuckled, leaning down to press their foreheads together, beskar connecting in a quiet singing note.

"You're still too young, and unless I go after him now, there will be no Hunter to repay. You are my foundling, and it is my place and privilege to take care of you. Understand?"

Ragnar sighed, and grumbled, and leaned back just so that he could tap their helmets together again.

"This is the Way," he agreed morosely.

Paz smiled and chucked him gently under the chin.

"This is the Way."

--

pt 2

[bestworstcase]

Well, it could've been another Jadis, how would I know?

(Also, yeah, last survivor of a dead world, I forget sometimes...)

hfgfhd entirely fair!

the thing abt jadis is—ough

now of course narnia is many things but textually interested in ethical nuance is not one of them—as a textual matter, jadis is purely evil, and it is not at all ambiguous that she is meant to be interpreted as such—however. sometimes being countertextual on purpose because you’re an evangelical apostate and TMN gave jadis a really interesting backstory is fun.

i will try to be brief.

charn—charn is the name of her city but lacking a name for her world i’m going to use it in reference to the planet as well—charn orbits an old and dying star.

Low down and near the horizon hung a great, red sun, far bigger than our sun. Digory felt at once that it was also older than ours: a sun near the end of its life, weary of looking down upon that world. To the left of the sun, and higher up, there was a single star, big and bright. Those were the only two things to be seen in the dark sky; they made a dismal group.

charn (the city) was once a vast, thriving, powerful city-state ruled by jadis’ family, but when she reflects on its history—when she recounts her memories of what it was—she tells the story of a horrifically violent state: these are the dungeons, there is the way to the principal torture chambers, in this banquet hall my great-grandfather slaughtered seven hundred disloyal nobles at a feast; she tells the children to look well on the magnificent view of her once-great home, and then she tells them i remember the cracking of whips and the cries of our slaves, i remember sacrifices in the temples, i remember when brutal war made the rivers run red.

and then, after a moment’s thought, she adds, and one woman blotted it out forever. i, jadis, the last queen.

and then, into the children’s horrified silence, she says this:

“It was my sister’s fault,” said the Queen. “She drove me to it. May the curse of all the Powers rest upon her forever! At any moment I was ready to make peace—yes and to spare her life too, if only she would yield me the throne. But she would not. Her pride has destroyed the whole world. Even after the war had begun, there was a solemn promise that neither side would use Magic. But when she broke her promise, what could I do? Fool! As if she did not know that I had more Magic than she! She even knew that I had the secret of the Deplorable Word. Did she think—she was always a weakling—that I would not use it?”

[…]

“That was the secret of secrets,” said the Queen Jadis. “It had long been known to the great kings of our race that there was a word which, if spoken with the proper ceremonies, would destroy all living things except the one who spoke it. But the ancient kings were weak and soft-hearted and bound themselves and all who should come after them with great oaths never even to seek after the knowledge of that word. But I learned it in a secret place and paid a terrible price to learn it. I did not use it until she forced me to it. I fought to overcome her by every other means. I poured out the blood of my armies like water—”

[…]

“The last great battle,” said the Queen, “raged for three days here in Charn itself. For three days I looked down upon it from this very spot. I did not use my power till the last of my soldiers had fallen, and the accursed woman, my sister, at the head of her rebels was halfway up those great stairs that lead up from the city to the terrace. Then I waited till we were so close that we could see one another’s faces. She flashed her horrible, wicked eyes upon me and said, ‘Victory.’ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘Victory, but not yours.’ Then I spoke the Deplorable Word. A moment later I was the only living thing beneath the sun.”

“But the people?” gasped Digory.

“What people, boy?” asked the Queen.

“All the ordinary people,” said Polly, “who’d never done you any harm. And the women, and the children, and the animals.”

“Don’t you understand?” said the Queen (still speaking to Digory). “I was the Queen. They were all my people. What else were they there for but to do my will?”

“It was rather hard luck on them, all the same,” said he.

“I had forgotten that you are only a common boy. How should you understand reasons of State? You must learn, child, that what would be wrong for you or for any of the common people is not wrong in a great Queen such as I. The weight of the world is on our shoulders. We must be freed from all rules. Ours is a high and lonely destiny.”

AND THEN. a little bit later, digory asks her if the deplorable word is what made charn’s sun so strange and cold, and she tells him it has been so for hundreds of thousands of years.

“[…] Have you a different sort of sun in your world?”

“Yes, it’s smaller and yellower. And it gives a good deal more heat.”

The Queen gave a long drawn “A-a-ah!” And Digory saw on her face that same hungry and greedy look which he had lately seen on Uncle Andrew’s. “So,” she said, “yours is a younger world.”

She paused for a moment to look once more at the deserted city—and if she was sorry for all the evil she had done there, she certainly didn’t show it—and then said:

“Now, let us be going. It is cold here at the end of all the ages.”

ALRIGHT. SO

it, of course, goes without saying that jadis is not a nice person, or anything like a good one; evidently she was the crown heir to a regime of staggering cruelty and she rose to the occasion with devastating passion.

but: yours is a younger world. and it is cold here at the end of all ages.

now imagine this—imagine that you are the eldest scion of royalty in a dying world. the sun burns low and cold and the only other light in the unrelenting darkness of the sky is a single star, brilliant and terribly far away. you know, and everyone knows, that your world is doomed. the sun is dying. the sun has been dying for hundreds of thousands of years, each generation more despairing than the last, and the closest thing anyone has to hope is the preservation of an ancient memory of a time when the sky was filled with stars and the sun shone bright and warm.

your lineage is old and powerful and rich in magic and in the span of all the thousands of years of your dynastic rule you have accomplished nothing that matters: you have found no way of rekindling the stars or breathing new life into the sun, and no manner of escape. your great-grandfather slit the throats of seven hundred guests on suspicion that they had entertained rebellious thoughts. your home is a dungeon ringing with the screams of tortured prisoners. your city is blood running down the steps of temples to indifferent gods and slaves crying out for mercy that will never come. your whole world is death and pain.

all you have ever known is violence and power. and there is the smallest part of you, the faintest glimmer of instinct, that recognizes that this Should Not Be. you gaze back across countless generations of your family’s history and you find gazing back at you the hideous and unavoidable truth that something has gone profoundly, irreparably wrong; but all you have ever known is violence and power, and so greater violence, and greater power, are the only means you can imagine to undo centuries of wrong. you look back on your ancestors and think: they were weak and afraid. they refused to do what was needed. i will not be like them.

so you violate the sacred oaths of your forefathers and take the deplorable word into your mouth. you do not speak it (you do not want to speak it) but the mere knowledge is enough to damn you, invite the wrath of the gods and your kingdom. your sister leads your people in revolt and you cling to your power with everything you have because that is the only thing you know how to do, but you beg her for peace while the word that will end every life on this planet but your own remains silent under your tongue. you do not know how to yield any more than she, and your world rips itself apart around you.

think about

what it means

to speak a word that will extinguish every life in the world except your own. to feel the whole world die in an instant by your hand, except for you, because whether by curse or conscience you have no choice but to live in the emptiness you spoke into being. you are the last queen of a dead and dying world and you, alone, will endure until even the sun turns black.

in every way that matters you are already dead, but the mercy of a swift death is not for you; yours is to bear witness to the end of all ages. a high and lonely destiny indeed.

and then two children from another world—a younger world, a living world—come to (as you understand it, from what you piece together of their confused answers to your questions) rescue you from this fate.

you do not lie to them. you tell them what you are, of the violence that made you and the terrible things that you did. you tell them directly of your intention to conquer their world, and (because this is the only kindness you have ever known how to give) you reassure them that you will not harm them, nor wage war against the kingdom you imagine the boy’s magician uncle must possess. you do not understand why this should horrify them: it is how the world is and has always been. how could you imagine anything different?

and in their world you are nothing. the sun is warm and you cannot properly remember how you came to be here and you are so strange and so wrong in this place that your magic fails; because their world is not an ever-turning wheel of violence and power, and it is not a place where magic and blood matter above all else. it is a world where those ideas are subject to mockery, because it is a world run by the weak and the worthless. (you don’t know it, but you are seeing the answer that you missed so long ago, before you learnt the deplorable word, when you looked back upon your family’s legacy and found it wanting.)

could you have recognized that, given time? could this world without magic where the little people matter have taught you a better way to live? you’ll never know, because scarcely have you grasped that this world is profoundly different from your own than you are dragged out of it and into narnia at the very, very beginning.

and there you find the lion, singing of kindness and beauty and joy at the dawning of the world. you, jadis, the last queen of charn; you who bore witness to the bloody death throes of a cruel, brutal, hopeless world before you burnt it to the ground and waited alone in the ashes to die—you watch the lion sing a perfect new world out of nothing.

is it any wonder the only thing you feel is rage?

[liocto]

Rue, Mint and Weeds posted on AO3

Categories: F/M Gen Tags: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Pre-Canon, original owners of brennenburg castle, ayandra the apostate (not alexander yet), Angst, Master & Servant

Summary:

"I'm not a servant." Ayandra's voice sounded as hoarse as last time, and he chose every word with great difficulty, as if it was incredibly difficult for him to pronounce ordinary sounds. "Not a servant, then?" The Baroness took his chin in her hand again. "Good. Since you're not a servant, you're going to be a fool."

[thatboreddrake]

Final Parting:

So, was thinking about my hc on how Yura and Eleonora's fight went down and wanted to get it down on paper. Dragonhearted canon, but no spoilers for that story as far as I know. So yeah, here we go:

Eleonora twisted her blade, and her opponent’s labored breathing drowning into a murmur as he began to choke on his own blood. She planted one foot in the small of his back and kicked him to the ground, withdrawing her blade in one stroke. She looked down in disgust as he crawled forward, desperate to reclaim his bloody mace. She knew the Beast’s Claw would not bleed out from his many wounds; her blade’s enchantment of flame saw to that. Nonetheless, she had pierced his heart and the damage was done. Surely, he could not last much longer. His pathetic struggle was interrupted by a coughing fit that left the brown hood which concealed his face stained red with his own blood. Eleonora jabbed her poleblade into his foot, pinning it to the ground. Instead of a cry of pain, the man grunted and continued pulling himself forward, even as the blade seared his flesh.

Eleonora scowled. “Why continue to fight, dog? Your goddess cannot hear your cries for help. Your Golden Order has fallen. Truly, would you not find peace in the release of death?”

Magnus scoffed, and his body was wracked with another coughing fit. “You bloody heretics see naught past your own hedonistic desires. I seek not redemption, nor peace, nor the pity of some far-off deity. I wish only to guard what good is left in this world by purging you and your traitorous ilk.”

Eleonora roared a retort, her voice deepened by draconic might. “CALL ME A TRAITOR, WOULD YOU?! SHORT-SIGHTED FOOL! I WAS A KNIGHT OF THE GOLDEN ORDER! I FOUGHT THEIR WARS! KILLED THEIR ENEMIES! AND WHEN WE HAD OUTLIVED OUR USEFULNESS, THE GOLDEN ORDER CAST US ASIDE! BRANDED US AS VILE APOSTATES, FIT ONLY TO BE HUNTED DOWN AND EXTERMINATED! IT WAS THE GOLDEN ORDER WHICH BETRAYED ME!”

In her rage, Eleonora pulled her blade from the ground, giving her opponent a crucial opening. Bringing the claw seal to his lips, Magnus whispered a short incantation. Stones from the floor of the church rose from the ground and flew towards the Drake Knight’s helmet. Instinctively, she brought her arm up to shield her eyes. In that moment, Magnus seized his blood-stained morningstar.

“You know not how deceived you have been. May the Erdtree have mercy on you in the next life, for I shall show none in this one.”

With that, Magnus gripped his weapon in both hands and swung for his adversary’s helm, hoping to end the fight in one final strike. Unfortunately for him, he misjudged how quickly she would recover from his diversion. Eleonora sidestepped and spun her poleblade in a wide arc, severing Magnus’ hands at the wrists. They, along with his mace, fell harmlessly to the ground, and the stoic cleric screamed. It was a horrendous sound, more akin to the dying roar of some great beast than the pained cries of a man. Eleonora betrayed no reaction to the sound, for she had seen more than her share of bloodshed in her lifetime. In any case, it wouldn’t do to draw so much attention, especially so close to Leyndell’s outer walls. She stepped forward and ended his suffering in one clean stroke that separated his head from his shoulders. Eleonora sighed.

That’s another one of Varre’s messes taken care of.

Rumor was that a certain Blue Sentinel was wreaking havoc on the whole operation. Nerijus was missing in action. Varre hadn’t heard from Konrad in more than a month. Not that a lack of communication was odd for the solitary raven, but this was too long even for him. Of course Okina checked in occasionally, but he wasn’t exactly the most cooperative sort. So, of course, the job of sorting out Varre’s issues fell to her. She knew full well who the source of the trouble was, but she wasn’t exactly keen on seeing him again. Not yet anyway. Something drew her vision to the statue at the head of the church. The marble white statue of the Golden Order’s goddess would’ve towered over any congregation. The spray from Eleonora’s most recent kill had stained the lower portions red with blood, yet it had not nearly reached to the statue’s outstretched arms.

Flaming typical. You wade through the blood of enemies and sycophants but refuse to get your own hands dirty. Easier to cast aside a tool than atone for one’s own sins, eh?

A footstep crunched on leaves at the temple’s entrance. Eleonora wheeled around, anticipating some unfortunate Lordsworn. The sight that greeted her eyes instead instantly drained all color from her face.

No. Not him. Not now. I need more time. I’m so close!

The wanderer kept his sword sheathed as he approached. His brown cloak billowed in the breeze, and an iron basket concealed his face. It was him, no doubt about it. The specter from her past, come back to haunt her. A righteous blade, come to judge her for her transgressions. Her foe. Her friend. Her curse. Her love. Her greatest regret. Her only comfort.

“Yura. Why have you come?”

He continued walking. “I have come to bring you home, Nora.”

Unbidden, tears began to stream from her eyes. How long had it been since she had heard that name? “That’s not possible. I can’t go back. You don’t know the things I’ve done. How could you ever forgive what I have become?”

Yura stopped, mere yards away from the woman he had once called his wife. “I know well the path which you have walked. I knew it from the day you left to walk it. But please, Nora, I don’t have much time left. I feel as though I am being eaten from the inside. Allow me to make this right. Let me help you cleanse the cessblood!”

Yura withdrew a red orb from within his robe. Though Eleonora knew not its nature, she recognized it as a crystal tear of the Erdtree.

Eleonora choked back her sobs, anger creeping into her voice. “And if I do? If I take this prospective cure, what then? The lives I’ve taken would have been for naught! I am still no closer to purging the dragon. Would you spare the lives of strangers, just to watch me die as a true monster? For that is what your ‘cure’ would condemn me to!”

Yura sighed. “I feared that you would answer as such. Then you leave me no choice. If you will not allow me to purge your cessblood, then I will do what I must.”

In one motion, Yura stowed the crystal tear and drew the Nagakiba from its scabbard.

Eleonora looked at him in shock. “You would draw your weapon on me, my love? Years ago I begged you to kill me, that I might be free of this burden! Yet you refused! And now, when all I need is for you to forget me, you would take my life instead?”

Yura assumed a fighting stance, his sword level over his head. “I seek not the death of you, the woman I love, but the death of the monster you have become.”

Eleonora scowled. “Well then, I shall fight for the right to survive, as I always have! Have at you.”

Yura lunged forward, his sword sweeping a downward arc towards her sword hand. Eleonora deftly dodged backwards, answering with a strike of her own. Yura kept his feet planted and parried her poleblade to the side. Rather than exploiting the opening to strike at her side, he instead retreated two steps, using his slightly greater reach as a natural guard. Roaring, Eleonora charged at him, her blade sweeping long arcs on either side of her body to guard against a counterattack. The two exchanged blow after blow, neither able to gain the upper hand over the other. The warriors had fought side by side for decades, and each knew the other’s fighting style by heart. So long as Yura maintained his distance, Eleonora knew she would be unable to end the fight. However, utilizing her greater strength to her advantage, she forced Yura to be constantly on the defense.

Something is off about his style. He’s being far more defensive than usual.

Eleonora taunted her opponent. “Looking to end the fight in one blow, are you? You would do well to not underestimate so, Yu.”

Yura maintained his composure, keeping his distance. “On the contrary, Nora. I do not wish to inflict unnecessary suffering. One blow is all I shall need.”

The Drake Knight roared back. “Such unwarranted arrogance! Or do your old eyes not perceive that it is you being driven back?”

Yura continued to calmly parry his opponent’s vicious flurry. “Look not to individual battles for the result of a war. If the leader is removed, will not an army collapse?”

The head then, or the heart. You’ve given yourself away, Yu.

Eleonora redoubled her assault, certain to keep a close guard over the more vital areas. While she couldn’t rule out that he may try to end the fight via decapitation, she guessed that the former Loremaster would not risk triggering a wyrm transformation. Thus, logically, he would seek to pierce her heart, killing her and her dragons in one fell swoop. Eleonora determined she was not going to let that happen. She had given up too much in the pursuit of life to simply lay down and die now. Besides, if she died, then she had no guarantee that Varre would keep his promise. She had to stay alive.

Flame of Irassax, come forth!

The dragon’s head grew from the small of her back, enveloping her own helmet. The flames burned grass and scorched brick as they poured forth, but Yura rolled underneath the worst of it. Eleonora scowled and came at Yura with a renewed fury.

“I’m giving you this one last chance, Yu. Walk away, please. Forget me and leave me to my fate.”

Even under the iron kasa, Eleonora could see the pain in his eyes. “I cannot do that, Eleonora. Your slaughter cannot continue unabated. As your comrade, your husband, your friend, I cannot allow you to continue in this way.”

Tears once more flowed down her face even as she struck to kill the one she loved most. “Then you shall die, as have all the others who have challenged me. Would that you had chosen a different course.”

Eleonora feinted towards his head, then redirected to strike towards his midsection. Yura ignored the feint. But instead of keeping his guard up, he swept his sword downwards so as to disarm her. The Drake Knight was the quicker blade, however, and the air was once again filled with a pungent odor as her blade burned through flesh, blood, and cloth alike. Yura grunted and dropped the Nagakiba, all strength gone in his arms. Eleonora instantly dropped her weapon and caught Yura underneath the arms. She removed both of their helmets, for she wished to look him in the eye one last time.

She saw that his cheeks mirrored hers, stained with tears as they were. “Why? Why must you be so obstinate? Why sacrifice so much for the life of those you would never meet? Would it not have been better had you simply killed me when I requested it?”

Yura cupped her cheek with his left hand, and she placed her right hand on top of it. He felt he could enjoy this sight for all eternity, for her skin was clear of scales and her eyes were once more a piercing blue. “I will tell you now as I told you then. I could never harm you, dragon of my heart.”

Before Eleonora could process what he meant by that, he grabbed her right hand with his left. He pulled it into the space between them, as his right hand unsheathed a concealed wakizashi from his cloak. In one motion, he severed the finger which marked her as a Pureblood Knight, otherwise known as a Bloody Finger. Eleonora looked down, too shocked to speak or even cry in pain. Of course, blood magic combined with draconic power had already closed the wound, but the ramifications of such an act went beyond personal injury.

“Yu, do you have any idea what you’ve just done?!”

Yura coughed up a mouthful of blood. Deep within his pupils, Eleonora swore she saw a glimmer of yellow. “I’ve sliced the finger off. Please, please, Eleonora, yield to the cessblood no longer. Do not stain the immaculacy of your sword, your flesh, your fire…”

[thelampisaflashlight]

Alrighty, let’s go! Below the cut, because this is gonna be a lot.

-Mountain and the ghoulettes (AKA Cirrus, Cumulus, and Sunshine)-

It goes without saying that mountains reach towards the sky, and the same can be said in regards to Mountains bond with these three. He loves and adores them each individually, and even took to Sunshine after only knowing her for a short time.

Cirrus likes to tease Mountain for being a bit silly at times, and Cumulus is good at listening to his oftentimes bizarre thoughts on the world around them.

-Dew and Sunshine x2-

There’s something about multi ghouls that seems to drive Dew up a wall, because while he is undeniably close with Sunshine, she makes him absolutely bonkers at times with her antics.

She once headbutted him to say “Hi” and sent him tumbling backwards with the force of it much to his embarrassment.

To Dew, having Sunshine around is a lot like having a sister.

An annoying, but well meaning sister.

Don’t let the grimace fool you, he calls her “Sunny” when she’s not around.

-Rain and Sunshine x2-

Imagine having a younger sibling.

Now give that younger sibling a twin.

Albeit polar opposites, these two are as thick as thieves and twice as mischievous. 

Copia honestly doesn’t know how it happened, considering Rain can be a gentle sweetheart when he wants to be, and Sunshine is generally well mannered, bit something about leaving the two of them alone together breeds chaos.

As such, Copia has implemented a toddler rule: If it’s quiet, it’s probably not a good thing.

-Dewdrop and Cirrus x2-

Do they roast people together? Yes. Do they tease each other? Oh absolutely.

But would they defend the other life and limb if someone ever insulted the other?

Damn straight they would.

It’s older sister-middle child solidarity honestly. 

They can be immensely catty towards others when they’re together, but it’s all in good fun, and they’re pretty good at pulling back and apologizing when they go too far, which is surprisingly rare.

-Rain and Dewdrop x2-

Have you ever met someone who just... got it? Like saw you and went, “I know what you’re really like”?

That’s these two through and through.

Maybe it’s because they went through similar situations growing up, or maybe it’s just chance, but Rain and Dew understand each other in a way the others don’t, and that’s saying something.

Rain is good at drawing out Dew’s sillier, less emotionally encumbered side, and something about that makes Rain... oddly protective of Dew.

While most of the other ghouls see Dew as aggressive in some way, Rain just sees someone who is strong, but in need of a gentle hand and he thinks, perhaps, he could be that for him.

Although it is fun to antagonize him...

-Swiss and Sunshine-

These two are both the light of their friends’ lives and the very bane of their existence at the same time, but they’re especially bad when they’re together.

There’s just something about multi ghouls that makes them two parts sugar, one part vinegar, and a whole jug of what we’re presuming is vodka with how wild these two can get.

Throw Rain into the mix and Copia is going to seriously consider becoming an apostate.

-Cirrus and Rain-

Left hand, meet right.

Together, these two get shit done at a rate that is almost alarming, and if something goes down, you’d better believe these two are going to fix it... barring, of course, the situations in which they are the problem...

Sometimes they are, in fact, the problem.

Okay, often enough...

And lastly;

-Dew and Swiss-

Your best, whom you hate, but actually...

These two were almost constantly at each others throats when they first met, and, truth be told? Both of them were at fault for that.

Dew’s immovability vs Swiss’ unstoppable force personalities clashed many a times before resolving into a friendship that is nothing short of a miracle.

Swiss’ need to have strong connections with the people around him pairs well with Dew’s need for reassurance, even if neither of them will admit that they need/want such things due to their own issues, but what matters is they get along now.

[boliv-jenta]

For @mandoloriancookie sorry it took so long.

Din Djarin x reader

Warnings: None. Fluff. Mentions of minor injury.

WC:1.6k

Summary: A rough trek on a backwater planet leads to Din helping to heal you and, in turn, himself.

Safe

"Mando!" The word was lost on the wind as you hurried to keep up with him. The wind kicked up all sorts of debris and dust, it swirled in your vision. Thankfully, you brought your goggles from the ship. With your eyes protected you could just about make out the glimmer of beskar in front of you as you desperately tried to keep up. "Mando!"

Unbeknownst to you, The Mandalorian was just as desperate as you were. The storm was just behind you. Any prolonged exposure to the rain would be harmful especially for you. He scanned the mountains either side of you for any signs of a cave or even an outcrop to shelter under.

The set of his shoulders had you thinking he was furious with you. Was he mad that your ship had failed? Did he think that you were responsible? That you hadn't maintained it properly to survive the trip?

You were right, he was furious but not with you. He'd brought you along on this fool's errand. He knew how dangerous this trip was. He'd thought he could handle it with you by his side. He thought he could navigate through the thick ash clouds without them damaging your ship. He'd been wrong. The vessel had plummeted to the ground halfway into the descent. By some miracle he'd managed to land with the two of you in one piece. He could hear you struggling to keep up. You'd tripped numerous times behind him. Unable to see as well as he could through his visor. Each distressed sound as you braced yourself on a nearby tree or rock stabbed at him. He wanted to stop to help you but the best way he could help right now was finding you shelter.

When he did he wasted no time in dragging you in behind him. The suddenness and roughness of his movements caught you off guard. He'd wedged the two of you in a small opening in the rock face. His body was pressed up against yours. His hard edged armour dug into your soft curves. Confusion painted your face. You stared at him until the sound of rain falling caught your attention.

"It's acidic. You wouldn't have been able to walk in it for too long." He gave, by way of an explanation. "The cave opens up ahead." He shuffled sideways to lead you. Your body chased after him, missing him.

When you tripped again it had nothing to do with visibility. The light on Din's helmet lit up the whole space you found yourself in. The stumble had been caused by the pain you felt. Being on the move for so long, your boots had seen better days. They afforded you little protection from the terrain.

"You're hurt." He observed before taking your hand, tugging it gently until you sat on a rock close to him. "Let me see."

Wincing you removed your boots. Din took over to take off your socks and push up the thick leggings you wore. A hiss echoed in the small space as he took in the damage. He should have slowed his pace, but then you would have been hurt in the rain. Hell, he should have picked you up and carried you. He shouldn't have let his poor choices hurt you.

The orange tips of his gloves, that you had seen gently squeeze the trigger of his blaster many times, now squeezed your leg with the same delicate touch. He traced the rapidly forming bruises tentatively, examining them.

"I need a better look." With that, he removed his helmet and placed it on a nearby rock. Your leg was brought up closer to his eyes. The warm brown ones you remember from the brief glimpse you had of him when Grogu left. The ones you thought of often. Now with them there for you to look into, you had to look anywhere but.

Din felt your apprehension. "Relax. I can't become more of an apostate." The laugh he let out was deep with a bitter twist. "But this can become worse if it's not treated properly."

"Thank you…" you took a pause. The next word seemed intimate enough under usual circumstances, with his helmet gone it almost seemed too intimate, like he had revealed far too much of himself. "... Din."

The twitch of his moustache betrayed the tug of a smile on his lips.

The intimacy wasn't lost on him. It was something he'd longed for. All these months he'd toyed with the idea of removing his helmet for you. He turned it over and over in his mind. You are Mandalorian no more. You must bathe in the living waters. The waters that were destroyed. It was a near impossible task. Part of him believed he could do it because he had no other choice. He had been Mandalorian longer than he had been anything else in his life. He didn't know any other way to be. It wasn't just his religion, it was his identity, his connection to the world. The Mandalorians were his people. His family. For a while, he saw Grogu as family. As time passed with him away training it looked less and less like they were going to be together again. It has broken his heart and allowed you to slip through the cracks.

From the moment he met you, running after a bounty on a backwater planet, he'd been taken by you. He'd brushed it off as admiration, you were good at your job. Then when Grogu had saved your life and you in turn pledged to protect him until your debt to him was paid, he admired your moral code. When tucked the child close to your chest, rocking him until he slept soundly, Din admired your maternal instincts. He admired your wit, your smarts, your smile, your beauty. He admired everything about you. It was far easier for him to use the word admire than the actual, the more fitting word. If he used that word he'd leave himself open to hurt, to loss. He couldn't lose you if he didn't have you in the first place. He kept you at arm's length. Mentally and, most of the time physically. There was the odd occasion when he would let you near, not out of necessity, like when he would shield you with his body but out of want. When his body was wary from a hard day's work and Grogu just would not sleep, he'd let you curl up close to him. The two of you providing a soothing presence for Grogu, and each other.

The rain fell heavier outside once Din arrived back inside the cave. He was lucky to be able to dart out and gather what he needed while the storm had lulled. Night was fast approaching, the temperature would drop for the few hours of darkness they had. Din was able to gather some firewood and rocks. After some fashioning and a blast from his flamethrower, a healthy fire roared to life. It provided enough warmth to keep the chill of the cave at bay and to suitably heat some rocks. The rocks were then wrapped in his cape before being applied to your feet. The heat helped with the circulation and relieved the tension there. It did nothing for the tension between the two of you as Din settled down next to you. His handsome profile was almost enough to distract you from the pain. "Hopefully that will help a little then I can strap them up. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault that this planet sucks." You tried to lighten the mood.

"I should have slowed down to help you. I just didn't want to let you down again."

"Again?"

"I nearly killed us landing here."

"No. The engine failed. If you couldn't have controlled our descent you would have gotten me out of there with that pack of yours. I was safe with you. I'm always safe with you."

Something in his mindset shifted. You were safe with him. You were tough and able to fend for yourself. You were a survivor. His parents weren't fighters. They couldn't protect themselves. Grogu was away to learn how to protect himself. You were here, capable of protecting yourself no matter where he took you. With his protection, you were just even more likely to be safe. He could keep you safe. He could keep you.

"You'd be safe without me, too." His voice was low, he didn't need to raise it, he was so close to you now.

"I know but I don't want to be. Without you, I mean." Your confession warmed the air faster than the fire had.

"Me neither."

A breath shakily filled his lungs as your skin touched his, your head now nestled into his neck. "Good. I'm glad we settled that."

It took a moment for the casualness of your response to dawn on him. "You knew didn't you?"

"That you're crazy about me? It would take a lot more than head to toe beskar to hide that from me. Even with it, I could see the love between us every time I looked at you. It was reflected back in my stare."

The storm had long passed when you finally emerged from the cave. Neither of you were in a rush to pull yourself from the other's embrace. Finishing what he came all this way for and getting your ship fixed was going to be arduous but Din felt he could do anything now, with you safe at his side.