#I WROTE A THING

[la-muerta]

Title: again and again we look up to the moon // 细算浮生千万绪

Fandoms: 莲花楼 Mysterious Lotus Casebook (TV)

Warnings: Rated E.

Relationships: 笛飞声 Di Feisheng / 李相夷 Li Xiangyi

Summary:  One different decision, and the bicha poison in Li Xiangyi's body flares up just before he is supposed to meet Di Feisheng on the ship in the East Ocean.

Everything unravels.

[Written for sweetspicybingo's Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2024 and Finish What You Started 2024 Fall Event]

--

Chapter Nine: 你我皆是有缘人 Di Feisheng was no stranger to nightmares, and he knew that this was just a nightmare as well. But it didn't make it feel any less real, or make him feel any less helpless as it had when it had actually happened. In this nightmare version of his memory, ten years after it happened, he could still smell the smoke from the fire and the metallic tang of blood from the dead and wounded; he could still hear Jiao Liqiao's laugh just before he slashed his blade across her throat, the flickering fire reflected in her eyes making her finally look as insane as she was. [Read on Ao3; completed at 41,454 words]

[regicide1997]

"No more Mr Niceguy!" —Ms Niceguy, coming out as trans

Give me your money:

[sailorkamino]

obi-wan wondered what jango fett could possibly gain by making an army for the enemy.

then he held a dying clone for the first time. so young his armor was still unpainted. and he realized.

this is how you destroy a jedi.

– empaths do not belong in war zones.

[nonasuch]

Did you ever write more to the "vader finds out that leia I'd his daughter" story?

No but it’s been percolating in my head for a while so let’s go

(continuing from this)

The first thing Vader does is cover his tracks. Wipes the security cameras for the whole cell block, wipes the prisoner logs, makes sure that no trace of Leia’s capture or escape will be in the files synced daily with Imperial Center. Puts in transfer orders for that nervous junior officer to somewhere very far away and very quiet. Saves only one short vid clip, to the secret hard drive hidden in his own respirator.

I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.

While he’s doing this, his children (children! plural!) are getting themselves into trouble, and out again. Apparently the trash compactor was involved. He will have more footage to scrub. Somehow they’ve acquired a Wookie.

Kenobi is with them.

Vader should have foreseen this. Of course, Kenobi.

His presence saturates the Force, nearly drowning out Luke— and Leia, too, now that Vader knows to look. It’s enough to break Vader free from the chill of shock, his rightful fury seen as through a window right up until it shatters, and engulfs him again.

But he forces it back. He wants answers, before he kills Kenobi.

(I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.)

He hasn’t played the clip again, but it echoes in his ears nonetheless.

When he faces Kenobi, Vader is still off-balance. Kenobi seems as calm, as unruffled as he ever did, though he’s far too obvious in buying time for Leia and Luke to attempt an escape.

Vader asks him: “Do they know?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Kenobi says, light and unconvincing.

“You kept them from me,” Vader says, and that is a thought that feeds the Dark, that lets him hammer at Kenobi’s saber until he’s nearly past his guard—

“I kept them from your master,” Kenobi says, his voice still even and pleasant and false, hardly betraying his exertion.

“I’ll kill you for this,” Vader vows.

“I expect so,” says Kenobi. “I swore I’d die before I let Palpatine harm another child in my care. If dying will keep them from him, it’s well worth the cost.”

(I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.)

By the end of this speech Kenobi recovers a little of his old skill, turning Vader’s blows aside instead of merely bearing up under their weight. Too soon, Vader falters, losing the momentum of rage. They both fall back to defensive positions. Any living troopers have long since cleared the area; the whole deck is a ruin of saber gouges and shattered armor.

Vader rarely speaks without thinking. The nature of his breathing apparatus makes this a necessity, more often than not. But the words escape him anyway.

“Who named them?”

And now Kenobi is the one who falters. It is satisfying, if short-lived. “Their mother,” he says. “With her last breaths.”

A long time ago — a lifetime away — there was a list of names. Two lists, really, to start with, and then another of the names held in common to both. No record of it survives, not even on the hard drive hidden next to Vader’s heart.

On Naboo, children are often named for virtues. A child might be called Aluuk, for kindness, or Alié, for wisdom.

On Tatooine, a child’s name is the parent’s hope for its future. Perhaps Lukka would grow to be free; perhaps Leyah would grow to be fierce.

And perhaps they have. Vader does not know. Kenobi took that from him.

Vader won’t kill him yet, though. He still has questions.

[asongbirdandanoldhat]

written for the @steddiemicrofic prompt ‘pool’ wc: 442 | rated: G | cw: none

Eddie Munson nearly didn't make 21. But even before becoming a buffet spread for interdimensional hell bats, Eddie never would've imagined spending his 21st birthday at Steve Harrington's. After wide games in the woods with the world's most metal teens, having his pale skin preserved by Nancy's stern gaze and endless sunscreen supply, and somehow surviving the dreamlike vision of Steve, tanned, topless, and happy, Eddie was ready declare his birthday a roaring success. But the glint in Gareth's eye, the way Jeff was watching him while chatting to Buckley, had Eddie on edge. He surveyed the suspiciously quiet yard. Absences noted, Eddie's eyes met Dan's. He tilted his head in question. Dan's hands rose. Eddie honed in. He was great at charades. But before interpretations could begin, Gareth slapped Dan's hands down. His hissed words didn't carry, but the shake of his curly head was unmistakable. Whatever was afoot, the band were in on it. The kids shuffled back outside in an extremely conspicuous formation. Eddie thought they might be smuggling Harrington between them, before he spotted Steve in the doorway, watching them, expression fond. Dustin was vibrating. "Present time." "We already did presents," Eddie said. "Sure. But there's one left." "The big one," Lucas added. "Don't ruin it," Mike muttered. "I didn't say what it was." "Do I get to know what it is?" Eddie derailed, amused. Dustin nodded to Will, who carefully counted down, "Three, two, one." The boys stepped aside, revealing Max, holding his present, and El, holding Max's elbow. Eddie felt tears prickle, as he took in the unnecessarily wrapped gift. There was no mistaking the shape. "You bought me a guitar?" he croaked. El helped Max place the gift in Eddie's lap. His hands slid instinctively around it, the weight felt just right. "Open it," El instructed. Ripping the bright paper revealed a familiar x-shaped body, not the dappled red of his world-saving sweetheart, but a solid black. She was a starless night sky. She was beautiful. "I- How?" "We pooled our allowances." Eddie didn't know how much they got, but he knew how quickly they blew through it. There was no way. Eddie's eyes drifted beyond the kids, finding Steve.

Steve, who'd given Eddie a card, claiming that he didn't have a present yet, hadn't known what to get him. Steve, who'd looked embarrassed when Eddie had called the party a great present and meant it. Steve, whose guilty smile all but confirmed him as majority contributor to the beautiful instrument in Eddie's lap. Steve, who Eddie would have to find a way to thank, to explain what this meant.

For now, Eddie smiled back.

[hakaan05]

Please stay on my skin, stain my clothes, exchange breaths. Carve your existence into mine, go beyond just memories, leave a tangible scar. I don’t want to just remember you

[makeandshift]

No boundaries!BFF with Hasan

bless @the-phantom-author for putting this out into the universe for everyone to enjoy

Everyone who sees them interact for any amount of time immediately thinks they are dating, which they will both deny. Not even in a ‘no we’re not’ kind of way, but acting like it’s the craziest thing they ever heard anyone say, like it is on par with the sky is green. None of this helps any of the allegations of course.

Either of them goes on a date and once they get home they immediately calls the other to tell them all the details. They know entirely to much about each other’s preferences, needs and wants, and half of these conversations just end up being a variation of ‘how could they ever think you’d like that?’ and ‘that is not what you need from a relationship at all’

Just barging into each other’s homes like they live there. Could be the middle of the night, could be at 7 am, who even knows honestly. They probably bring groceries as well because they remembered that the last time they were over x, y, and z was running out.

What even is a guest bedroom? Sleeping over means sleeping in each other’s bed all cuddled up with zero space between them. Also they probably sleep worse if the other isn’t next to them.

Hasan has totally offered his bestie to move in with him at least a dozen times. Anytime something is wrong with their apartment he mentions that he has plenty of space in his ‘mansion’.

Forehead kisses!!!! So many, all the time, no reason needed.

Random gift giving just because they saw something that reminded them of each other. Hasan probably spends ridiculous amounts of money on these. Don’t even dare mention liking something because he will have it delivered the next day.

Must sit next to each other! It’s just the rules okay. Inevitably one of them ends up with their head on the other’s shoulder, a hand resting on their knee, some hand holding to toy with their jewellery. Or just a combination of those.

Fidgeting with each other’s jewellery is totally a common thing for them, btw. Anything else doesn’t even cut it as a coping mechanism anymore.

[accio-lo-ki]

These ribbons wrap me up

Hangman + Rooster Amnesia AU.

Jake gets Bradley through little flashes in his life. A scenic picture posted on Instagram. A selfie of a funny face sent to the group chat he keeps with the rest of the daggers, the text chain as active as any of them can manage with their jobs. But that’s the extent of Jake’s relationship with Bradley: flashes and neverfuckingenough. It doesn’t hurt, though. Not necessarily. So some days Jake convinces himself it is.

Until he gets the call.

OR

Bradley gets in a training accident and ends up losing some of his memories, including breaking up with Jake, who he thinks he's still engaged to. Amnesia AU.

Read on Ao3

-

For the prompt: ""Hangster ex-fiancés to lovers. Bradley suffers from a head wound from getting back to the carrier and gets amnesia. He wakes up disorientated, thinking it's a different employment and doesn't understand why Jake won't be let into medical since they were engaged and on the same carrier in the past. I leave the rest up to you as long as it has a happy end." from @iprefervillains !!

[timidxtempted]

sometimes i awaken in the deep night to find my own fingers thrust into my slick cunt and i shove them hungrily into my mouth to taste my dreams of you

[bookshelfdreams]

oh and one more thing i am SO GLAD we got to see the first meeting between edwin and charles, it is so sweet and understated and so so SO absolutely insane like

imagine you are curled up in a dark corner somewhere and you have been hurt plenty before so you know this time it's really, really bad. and you can't get help, don't have the energy left for it, and there never was any getting help for you anyway, was there? finding a quiet spot to hide until you can pick yourself up again has always been the only option, but you just - you don't even feel the pain, and isn't that the biggest sign that you're truly fucked? you just feel cold, and scared and you wish. you probably just wish you weren't alone.

and then you suddenly aren't, anymore. suddenly there is light, and a kind face, and a voice keeping you company, answering your silly questions, distracting you from the fear and the memories, soothing you, being there in a way no one has ever been, not in all your life

and then you realize oh it's because you were dying. dying, and haven't even noticed, he "did not want to scare you", and you do not have the words for how that makes you feel, that kindness, how it makes something crack open, how it wraps itself around the core of you like warmth you can no longer feel, and tells you you're alright, you'll be fine

so that's not so bad, then. you have someone with you now.

except you don't, you don't, because turns out you're supposed to go on by yourself, which means you will be left alone again, and no. you will not.

he tells you he's "not good with people" and you know that's a lie, and also, you don't care at all. you don't care what is waiting for you in the afterlife, as long as you get to draw out this moment. so you turn your back to the light, and walk away towards him, and you never regret that, not one bit

imagine crawling out of hell and the first person you meet immediately refuses to go to heaven so he can spend more time with you

[regicide1997]

Thesis: Mental health problems are (largely) due to chemical imbalances in the brain, and should be treated with psychiatric medications. (Biomedical model).

Antithesis: Mental health problems are (largely) due to harmful societal structures, from abusive relationships and the nuclear family all the way up to the nation state and capitalism itself, and should be treated by abolishing these structures. (Social model).

Synthesis: If not for capitalism, the meds would be free.

EDIT: Wanna help me pay for the meds lol?

[theperksofbeingstupid]

It starts like this.

Roier and Cellbit moved into their new house six weeks ago after the tragic death of Roier's son. Roier's partner (what was her name again?) slowly stopped talking to him after that, and they didn't need such a big house anymore so. They move.

It's a nice house, all things considered. One floor, big windows that let in light all day, a porch, nice backyard. No extra bedrooms.

Cellbit has claimed a corner of the living room as his office. He put up a corkboard on one wall and is steadily covering it with newspaper clippings and red string. His desk is cluttered with books and notes and coffee stains, and every time Roier passes by, his footsteps stir up dust that he was so sure he'd cleaned.

The sun sets early now. It gets dark so fast that Roier has to flick on the lights or else Cellbit will ruin his eyes trying to read his handwriting by the dim light of the television they never turn off.

Roier watches it sometimes. He doesn't know where they left the remote and he can't really be bothered to get up and change the channel. They're always playing some menial drama, or cycling through commercials for products he'll never need. He can never quite remember what the story is about.

It starts like this.

Roier and Cellbit sleep in the same bed every night. Technically.

Roier is tucked in at 10pm sharp every night. Cellbit doesn't drag himself into their bedroom until at least four in the morning and he barely remembers to slip out of his clothes before he's crashing into the sheets.

Roier wakes up at 7am on the dot and wanders into the kitchen to make breakfast. He gets dressed. He cleans the house. He doesn't think about the face he's forgetting, a child he loved and clutched tightly to his chest as he bled out all over his lap. He doesn't think about it he doesn't think about it he doesn't think about it he doesn't-- Roier clicks on the coffee machine at 1pm and waits for Cellbit to groan awake and stumble into his seat at the table.

They kiss, usually. When Roier is cooking dinner, Cellbit will press up against his back and dig his face into Roier's hair and they're happy. Cellbit will plop a wet kiss on Roier's cheek when he thinks he's being quiet while getting into bed. Roier cherishes each and every one, they melt into his skin like the snowflakes they used to crumple into snowballs to throw at each other. Before, back when--

It starts like this.

Roier and Cellbit love their new house. It's perfect in every way possible. It has furniture, it has a bathroom with two sinks so they can brush their teeth together in the mornings. It has big windows that let in the light all day, a porch, nice backyard. There is only one bedroom.

They don't have many neighbours, not that they'd know. They stick to themselves mostly, Cellbit in his makeshift office and Roier wandering the house, dragging his knuckles along the bare walls. He thinks he remembers paint, covering marker stains and scratching out height marks and hand prints in three different sizes. But the walls are always blank.

Cellbit forgets to use a coaster, and he keeps knocking over empty coffee mugs all over his papers. Roier hasn't tried reading them in weeks. He wonders if they make as much sense as the books on the singular shelf in their bedroom.

Roier takes care of the house while Cellbit works. It's an equal exchange, especially considering that when Roier cooks Cellbit has to do the dishes, keep them as sparkling clean as everything else in the house. The laundry machine is tucked away in the far corner of the kitchen, with no dryer in sight. He piles it with clothes he didn't bother to sort from the hamper, shoving in towels and socks and shirts all in one load. They always come out fine anyways, the colour bleached out by the rigorous washing cycle.

It starts like this.

Roier and Cellbit got married three years ago in a small venue with close friends and family present. It was a sweet ceremony, they kissed tenderly at the end, Cellbit ugly cried when they exchanged rings, and Roier got frosting smeared all over his white suit.

Two months later they moved into their old place, decorated a child's bedroom, took care not to step on any toys, and lived their happily ever after.

Until they couldn't anymore. But everything is fine, they have a new house now, and it's wonderful. It didn't cost much to buy it, the location is nice, everything is clean and crisp and ready for a brand new start.

Cellbit runs out of red string one evening, but Roier offers him white thread he was using to mend one of his jackets and everything is fine.

It starts like this.

Roier and Cellbit are in love. They do everything for the other, they're family, they're best friends, they're lovers.

They only have each other.

Roier watches tv and cooks dinner, Cellbit sits at his desk and covers the corkboard with more and more pages until it's no longer visible. He gets into the habit of adding milk to his coffee, the taste too bitter and grating otherwise. And every afternoon when he arrives at the kitchen, his splash of milk in the mug grows longer and longer. It's fine, they're changing.

There was a point in time when they were saving up for a car. Something dependable that they could trust to withstand tiny kicking feet and mudstains, that could travel to volleyball practice and then to work with no trouble.

Now, Roier wanders the house and thinks about nothing. He thinks about his nothing walls and his nothing furniture and his nothing dinner. He thinks about his everything husband and his nothing life. He thinks that he might've lost his bandana in the wash the other day, but Cellbit likes it when his hair hangs loose.

Cellbit's hair hangs loose also. It's soft when Roier cards his fingers through the strands and wonders if it was always more white than brown. Was it ever not white? He's always had light brown hair, but something itches in the back of his brain that makes him pause and question whether Cellbit's hair was ever that light also. Clearly he's not sleeping enough, it's just the sunlight from the windows bleaching their hair.

It starts like this.

Roier and Cellbit have a lovely new house far away from the bustle of the city. They love it here.

They don't have to worry about anyone bothering them while they're at home, and their fridge is always stocked with plain yoghurt and tofu and chickpeas. Roier is working on fixing Cellbit's diet.

They eat dinner together, holding hands over the table. They watch mindless tv before bed. They brush their teeth together in the morning. Roier thinks about how much he loves Cellbit, and Cellbit looks at Roier like he hung the moon. They don't worry about crayon lines on the walls or jello splotches on the sofa. Roier doesn't worry about the phantom feeling of a small body cooling in his lap lingering every time he gets dressed for the day. Cellbit doesn't worry about the gasping pain in his chest or the papers he doesn't remember writing.

It starts like this.

Roier and Cellbit love each other, and they love their new house.

Roier and Cellbit don't have anyone else, just the white walls and the white furniture and their white clothes. Why would they need anyone else?

Roier and Cellbit got sold a new house by a man who was also a bear. And they never want to leave.

Roier and Cellbit are happy.

Roier and Cellbit are safe.

Roier and Cellbit have been missing for six weeks, if you have any information please call--

[blchwaaaan]

dazatsu week 2024 day 2: Band AU

Pairing: Dazai Osamu/Nakajima Atsushi

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: None

Length: 6.7k words

Tags: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, bodyguard! Atsushi, singer/songwriter/idol! Dazai, Jealous Dazai Osamu, an excuse to write him being irrationally jealous, Oblivious Dazai Osamu, Caring Nakajima Atsushi, Mutual Pining, Cuddles, Making Out, Hand Jobs, you get dominant Atsushi as a treat, Dazai thinks too much and is a little shit, Stalking, Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions

Summary: Dazai lives an apathetic life as an idol. When he starts receiving death threats from a mysterious stalker, Atsushi is assigned to be his bodyguard.

[pearwaldorf]

Sorta instigated by @blakbonnet 😘

--

“Olu, can I ask you a question?” Stede has that very solemn, earnest look about him, the one Oluwande has learned will lead to either the deepening of a connection or oversharing and irreparable psychic damage. He never knows which. 

“Sure.” He takes a sip from his water bottle.

“What’s a ‘zaddy’?” 

Olu didn’t think spit takes were actually a thing until he saw water all over the table. He grabs a towel and cleans up the mess, if only so he doesn’t have to answer Stede immediately. 

“Um, well. Do you know what a daddy is?” He prays he doesn’t have to explain this to Stede too.

“I’m assuming this is not about having sired children?” Well, it’s a start.

“That’s a DILF, it’s not the same thing!” Archie calls from where she’s sweeping the floor. 

“Not what we’re talking about, but thanks!” Olu calls back. He returns his attention to Stede. “Anyways. ‘Daddy’ is… a vibe. Usually in reference to older men but not always. A zaddy is… Okay. Do you know who Christopher Meloni is?” He’s grateful for Lucius’s prattle about pop culture nonsense, because he did remember this. 

Stede shakes his head and takes out his phone, doing the older adult hunt and peck on his keyboard. His eyebrows raise when whatever he’s looking at loads.

“So I’m guessing it’s complimentary?” He’s got that little smile on his face, the one that reminds Olu Stede’s still adjusting to people finding him attractive. It's cute.

“Wait, somebody called you ‘zaddy’?” Archie’s materialized across the room. “Let me see!” 

Stede sighs dramatically, terribly put-upon. “If you must.” He brings up an app on his phone, tilts it so Olu and Archie can see.

Archie gives a low whistle. The guy messaging Stede is hot. Long silver hair, big brown eyes, leather pants, a not quite slutty purple crop top that exposes a bit of tummy. (Look. Olu is happily taken, but he has eyes, okay?)

“Stede, if that’s the guy messaging you, I think you should let him call you whatever he likes.”

[the-ellia-west]

Servant’s Tears

Alkain Short Story 1/3

It's a little long... sorry Lovelies <3

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

Pherea sighed, wiping sweat from her brow as her eyes found the large clock tower, a hundred thoughts swirling in her mind at once. But the crack of a whip snapped her attention back to her work. 

“Mamá, can I help?” A voice beside her startled her into dropping the cart with a loud crash.

“Ey! That’s expensive, slave!”

“Kha’ven, My apologies sir.” Pherea bowed her head as her son dropped to his knees, eyes darting to his mother’s bristling tail as he hung his head, his own tail coiling around his legs.

“Sorry mamá, I didn’t mean anything…”

“It’s fine Kain, you don’t have to help me, your portion is done.” She knelt, lifting the cart with all four arms, trembling under the effort before a sudden shift lifted the weight from her shoulders. Pherea’s eyes widened as she turned to her son, who now shook in her place.

“I can do it mamá.” He forced a smile, and she pressed against it.

“No, we work together.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she shot him a look and he shut up quick.

The two worked together for a few more minutes before the slave master shouted the eight-year-old boy to another job, leaving Pherea alone to do all of the heavy lifting herself. It surprised her how strong he was getting these days. He reminded her of his father, a strong, valiant worker. He would have made a good man if he’d had anyone other than her as a mother. After his father had died in a mining accident, the rest of their split debt had been dumped onto Pherea and her son, doubling their work time from ten years to twenty. Alkain would be almost grown by the time they were let off.  

Perhaps she could get him out. But again, her thoughts cut off at the crack of a whip beside her ear. “If you don’t start workin’ woman, I’ll ‘ave yer ‘ead!” The Elf flinched away from the whip and lifted the cart, stumbling as she dragged it behind her. Ever since the cave-in she’d struggled to breathe while working, and today had done a real number on her. But she continued to work, knowing that the edge of the whip would be worse than anything she could reasonably inflict on herself.

Time passed slowly, until Pherea set down the final cart, and stepped toward the slave master to tell him she was finished, breaths coming slowly and difficult as her chest tightened. But halfway to the slave master, she tripped on a rock and crumpled. A shout pulled her eyes up. “Mamám!” Alkain dropped the boxes he was carrying, the wood splintering on the stones as he rushed to her side. “Mamá, are you okay?” 

“Kain… No!” She pushed herself away from the ground as the Slavemaster marched over to them and wrenched the boy from his mother. Both shouted for one another as the slave master forced Alkain toward the other side of the field. Pherea pulled herself to her feet and ran after them as best as she could. She cried out and ran for her son, just reaching him as the whip whistled through the air and a rip of flesh shot a cry of agony between them as Pherea fell back to the ground. The slave master frowned. “Get out of the way, ya stupid wretch!”

Pherea’s hand flew to her face, blood trickling through her fingers “Ah…Ugh… I… I’ll take his punishment…”

The Slavemaster scowled. “Fine. Be my guest.”

“Mamám! No! No! Don’t! Please! Mamá!” Alkain pulled away from the man holding him, but a hand wrenched him to the slave master’s side, the man holding him turned his mother onto her knees and he watched, trembling as the man ripped the back of her shirt, revealing the binds and the whip slashed into her back, cutting a deep scarlet gouge. He flinched, two arms covering his eyes, the other two held back by the slavemaster's second-in-command, who wrenched his other hands away from his eyes as the second strike from the whip came crashing down on her back. 

A horrified squeak escaped Alkain's lips as his mother screamed, panting as blood ran down her back, dripping down her lower arms in thick streams. Another slash sent Alkain struggling in his captors grip, and three more earned him a slap across the face. “That’ll teach ya, insolent woman. It’ll be more next time if ya don’t leave the boy to ‘is punishment. And you, boy. It’ll be you next time if ya ever pull a stunt like that again, understood?”

Alkain shrank away from the slave master, his terrified agreement drowned out by the tolling of the bell, striking the end of their field shift. “Mamá…” He reached out to her, and Pherea let her son help her to her feet as the slave masters cast then to the side and left. Alkain supported his mother as the slavemaster went to converse with a shady figure. But he shook off his curiosity as he and his mother shuffled toward the house, blood trickling down her face from the first strike she had taken to protect him, every step weaker than the last.

But as they reached the door, the head maid startled. “Pherea! What happened to you?”

“She… she took the whip for me.” Alkain hung his head. 

“Alkain! What is wrong with you? You slack off on work and get extra hours for your poor mamám yesterday, and now this!” The head maid cuffed the boy around the ear, “Go, quickly. Get her into a supportive position, I'll be right there. Now scram!”

“Yes ma’am.” Alkain helped his mother toward the servant’s house, praying with every breath she would be alright, scrambling for any way to help her as the head servant and a medic tore him away from his mother and took him from the room. 

Pherea woke hours later to find her son asleep beside her, tear tracks staining his cheeks. She pushed herself away from the bed, waking him with the movement.

“Mamám?”

“Hey, it’s okay Alkain… go back to sleep.”

“But I don’t want to go to sleep. I like talking to you. I'm scared Mamám, I'm scared I'll lose you… like Papá.” He rested his head against her shoulder, and she ruffled his short sandy golden curls, motioning for him to sit beside her. 

The small Elf smiled and crawled up onto the mattress beside her as she hugged him close. “It's not your fault. You did well. Thank you for helping me Alkain.”

“But I hurt you Mamám-”

“No. It wasn't your fault. You weren't the one holding the whip. I will always protect you, I promise. Listen to me Alkain, I love you, and that will never change.”

The eight-year-old elf nestled his face into her top shoulder, and sniffed softly, tears staining her shirt. “Okay Mamá… I love you too.”

…

Pherea woke the next morning to the bell’s toll, shouting of the slave masters rousing her son. Alkain sat up, rubbing his eyes as he braced himself against the mattress.

“Alright Kain. Come on. It's time to get up.” Pherea ran a hand through her son's curls, and Alkain stood.

“Mamá, we can't! Does it still hurt?” Alkain grabbed onto the side of her skirt.

“No, I'll be okay Alkain.” She rustled his hair again and scooped him into her arms as someone rapped on the door.

“Oi! Get up! Or we're gonna go to the ‘ead of ‘ouse and ‘ave ya executed!”

“Alright Kain, get dressed please. We have to go.” 

“Yes Mamám!” The young elf wrestled on his work clothes and scampered after his mother as she lined up straight in the row of workers, wincing with every movement.

The Slavemaster smirked as he saw her and sent her and Alkain to dig up potatoes near the house. The little elf boy frowned as he saw his mother’s pain, and dug as hard as he could, using all four arms for maximum efficiency so that she wouldn’t have to do so much work. But then, a sharp whistle halted him in the middle of his work and the cracking whip caught his mother’s eyes as sparks flared out of the corner of her eyes and shouts rang across the fields. “RUN! FIRE!”

Pherea’s eyes widened as she spotted theflames consuming the piles of crates and she grabbed Alkain’s closest wrist, pulling him to his feet and flung him in front of her as she slowed, doubling over as red seeped through the bodice of her dress. An unspoken dread filled the air as the crackling of flames drowned out any natural sound and thick black colums of smoke blotted out the sun, raining ash over the servants like snow from hell.

“Mamám?” Alkain skidded to a stop just at the corner as the fire reached the house. He rushed back to help her, dropping to his knees as he tried to pull her up, but just as Pherea stumbled to her feet, the fire consumed a window, and the ground beneath their feet rumbled. The older elf then took the best option she could, knowing she wouldn’t be able to run and flung herself around her son.

  And then the world exploded.

Large chunks of rock, splatters of blood, and bits of flesh crackled and sizzled in the flames as shrapnel flew. Alkain yelped and tugged his mother back, just as a large shard of twisted metal and glass pierced straight through her neck, snapping her jugular vein in two. “Alkain…” She crumpled, and he just managed to catch her as fiery splinters of wood and stone sliced into his skin. Her hand cupped his cheek as blood sprayed from her neck, more of it than he ever would have thought possible as her eyes glazed. “Run… go… hide… you are… everything… I…” She trailed off, her hand slipped from his face, and she died.

“Mamá? Mamám! No! No, no, no! Mamám, please!” Alkain clung to his mother’s corpse, begging it for warmth as the foundations of the buildings cracked and boomed into large pillars of flame. Pherea’s blood dripped from his skin and soaked his shirt as the last of it trickled beneath his fingernails and he buried his face into her body, nuzzling as close as her could get. “Mamám…”

But as he laid there, sobbing into her body, she fulfilled her promise to him one last time, corpse shielding him from the sharp objects and smoke long enough for the what to fade from her and Alkain to get his bearings, remember her final words, and run for his life.

(If you made it to the end of this short story, Please comment. Please, just so I know you read it, and also so I know if you liked it or not? Thank you <3 :])

|Part 1 (Here) | Part 2 | Part 3|

@supercimi @leahnardo-da-veggie @aesthetic-writer18 @that-weird-kid-from-your-school @thecrazyalchemist

@fantasy-things-and-such @nkikio @urnumber1star @darkandstormydolls @smudged-red-ink

@artsandstoriesandstuff @stars-forever @phoenixradiant @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @avidreadersandemergingwriters

@starslide @lunaeuphternal @rivenantiqnerd @aalinaaaaaa @ramwritblr

@savepoint-has-died @roleplay-fanatic @bbatcat @thelazywitchphotographer @ryahisbored

@pastellbg @icarianauthor @start-receive @agirlandherquill @corinneglass

@taleweaver-ramblings @bigwipscholar @themortalityofundyingstars @starmanbutitsregulusblack @sunglasses-in-the-bentley

@seliyareine @confused-romantic @blue-kyber @bloodmoonloveletter @bluektw

I Love you guys so much <3

[spectral-musette]

I'm running a few days behind on Satine Week, but I finally finished a very short fic (just under 600 words) set during the Manadalore Mission (pre-Episode I) for the prompt "Jewel".

...

            Satine let out an exasperated huff as she set her data reader aside with more vehemence than necessary.

            “What?” Obi-Wan prompted. He also set aside the archaeology periodical he was browsing on his own reader, knowing from prior experience that if he ignored such displays she’d only sulk. After all, if the ruins of the temple uncovered by Master Cordova had waited centuries for discovery, his study on the topic could wait until Satine had vented her ire a little.

            She picked up the reader again, showing him the headline that had so offended her. He squinted at the thin, spiky Mandalorian runes, deciphering and translating as fast as he could before she grew impatient.

            “’The Jewel of Kalevala’,” he read aloud, demonstrating his growing fluency in Mando’a. She didn’t correct him, so he assumed he’d translated correctly. She was evidently too annoyed to be impressed with his intellect just then, and he tried not to be overly put out at the wasted effort. “That’s you?” he concluded, uncertain.

            “Oh, indeed,” she repeated, voice falsely smooth, the expression on her beautiful face deeply indignant.

            “That’s…bad?” Truthfully, he was perplexed. It didn’t seem like such a negative epithet. In fact, he thought it rather fitting, though he knew better than to say as much when she was making that face.

            “Of course it is,” she said, tossing the reader back onto the table.

            He crossed his arms across his chest, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “Then I suppose it doesn’t mean that you are… treasured, beautiful?”

            “In Basic perhaps,” she conceded a bit more calmly, showing forbearance with his ignorance of her culture despite her peevishness. “To a Mandalorian, the implication is…” She paused to gesture, her hand graceful even as she waved it about in frustration. “A sparkling bauble. Something frivolous, merely decorative, without strength or purpose.”

            “All that in one word?”

            She shrugged. “If Mandalorians excel at something besides pointless destruction, it’s insulting each other with economy.”

            He reached to unclip his lightsaber from his belt and set it on the table in front of him.

            She cocked her head, fair brows furrowing in a charmingly perplexed expression. “Are you going to fight the data reader on my behalf?” she asked with a soft snort of a laugh.

            He spared her a half-smile before he turned back to the saber, deactivating the power cell and starting to unfasten the casing. “Obviously not. I want to show you something.”

            Her intent gaze did distract him a little as he went through the familiar motions of disassembling his lightsaber. He slowed a little lest he fumble a critical component in self conscious clumsiness. Still, it only took a few moments to reveal the kyber crystal. He turned it a little, letting it catch the light. It sparkled, clear as ice, and seemed to glow from within.

            “When you say ‘jewel’, this is what I think of,” he explained. “That’s why I thought the word suited you,” he added, glancing at her quickly. He bit his tongue before he waxed poetic about the color of her eyes. She was clearly in no mood for flattery about her looks, even if it was genuine.

            “It is beautiful,” she breathed.

            “It is, but it’s more than that as well. It channels energy, amplifies the Light. It’s incredibly precious, remarkably powerful.”

            “I wish that’s what they meant,” she said sadly.

            “You will show them what kind of jewel you are,” he promised.

            “I will certainly try,” she agreed, reaching out to take his hand.