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goodbyeyellowbrickcloset · 3 months ago

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The A to Z of Plausible Deniability: Taylor Swift’s 2019 Vogue Interview, Decoded

https://www.vogue.com/article/taylor-swift-cover-september-2019

Hey Kids! Spelling Is Fun!

There are a few moments in Taylor Swift’s career that fans point to as definitive—words etched in stone, used to silence entire communities of listeners. Chief among them? One quote from her 2019 Vogue cover story, often held up as the nail in the coffin of Gaylorism. And yet, as with everything in Swift’s world, what seems like a clear declaration rarely is.

When she said, “I didn’t realize until recently that I could advocate for a community I’m not a part of,” many saw it as a disavowal.

But those of us who’ve studied her work closely—who’ve listened deeply, read between every line, counted every beat and coded phrase—understood something different. That wasn’t a confession. It was a cover.

In this essay, I’ve taken the 2019 Vogue article apart chronologically, letter by letter—twenty-six meticulously crafted sections, each corresponding to a letter of the alphabet. Why? Because Taylor is nothing if not deliberate, and the only way to honor the intricacy of her storytelling is to mirror it with equal care.

From Allyship to Zooming Out, we’ll explore the breadcrumbs she’s left us, the plausible deniability she’s mastered, and the coded queerness that pulses through every paragraph of this interview.

Welcome to The A to Z of Plausible Deniability. Let’s start spelling.

A — Allyship or Authority?

In the second and third paragraphs of the Vogue article, the author describes the star-studded, rainbow-saturated set of “You Need to Calm Down.” It’s a gay wonderland: Hayley Kiyoko shooting arrows, the cast of Queer Eye sipping tea, and Todrick Hall holding court. At the center of it all? Taylor Swift—literally cast as the sheriff of this queer town.

This visual begs the question: would all of these openly queer artists sign on to uplift and center a straight woman’s vision of queerness if it were just that—straight? Would a “sheriff” character not feel weirdly self-appointed unless it was someone already accepted by the community she’s symbolically policing for?

If Taylor were purely an outsider to the LGBTQ+ community, the optics of this video might feel off—like performative allyship bordering on appropriation. But instead, these queer creatives joined her vision. That doesn’t prove anything definitive, of course, but it does challenge the idea that Swift was simply “borrowing” queerness for optics. The role she plays in that trailer-park utopia feels more like one of quiet authority.

B — Byzantine Breadcrumbs

In paragraph six, the Vogue author confesses: “I hadn’t understood how coded and byzantine her body of work had become; I hadn’t learned, as Swift fans have, to see hidden meanings everywhere.” This is a powerful observation—and one that Gaylors have long embraced as a cornerstone of Swift’s artistry.

The word Byzantine isn’t just poetic. It’s specific. It implies complexity, secrecy, and intentional obfuscation—a storytelling style that thrives on symbol and structure. It mirrors the way Swift weaves metaphors, numbers, time-stamped references, and narrative misdirection into her public-facing work.

This is where plausible deniability enters the chat. Taylor gives her audience enough—just enough to be interpreted—but never so much that anything is definitively confirmed. She can’t be “proven” one way or another. And that’s the point. This isn’t just fan projection—it’s a blueprint. The layered, coded nature of her work invites analysis because it’s crafted to sustain multiple truths at once.

When Swifties reduce this system to “easter eggs for the next album,” it undercuts the literary, poetic, and queer-coded lineage of what she’s actually doing. She’s not just teasing projects—she’s hiding a whole life in plain sight.

C — Codes, Clues, and Calculations

In paragraph eight, the author writes: “Apprehending the Taylor Swift Universe is like grasping quantum physics.” It’s a nod to the sheer complexity of her work, but more than that, it validates the way many fans—particularly Gaylors—approach Taylor’s art: through close reading, detailed timelines, and intertextual analysis.

This isn’t a stretch. Taylor loves numbers. She codes her life in them. From referencing “Track 5” songs as emotionally significant, to dropping albums and music videos on symbolically loaded dates (like Pride Month, or Lesbian Visibility Day), there is historical precedent for believing she crafts with intention.

So when Gaylors notice the consistent use of numbers like 8 and 3—Karlie Kloss’s birthday—or see mirrored timestamps and patterns emerge across albums, it isn’t “reaching.” It’s reading. It’s noticing the very kind of symbolic complexity Taylor herself says she values.

To reduce these patterns to coincidence is to ignore the deep, ongoing conversation she’s having with her audience. She knows how to whisper through art. The question is: who’s listening?

D — Dates and Declarations

In the 9th paragraph, the Vogue article notes that Lover was announced just after midnight on June 1st, the first day of Pride Month. The timing wasn’t accidental—and neither was the content. Taylor also released a letter to Senator Lamar Alexander, asking him to support the Equality Act, and posted a petition in support of LGBTQ+ civil rights. These weren’t vague gestures—they were coordinated acts of public political advocacy.

What makes this significant isn’t just that she said these things—it’s that she’d never said them this loudly before. Prior to Lover, Taylor had a documented history of quiet support: a donation to GLAAD in 2011, a pro-gay lyric in Welcome to New York, presenting Ruby Rose with an award, and even subtle visual nods like her lavender sweater in Mean. But none of that matched the scale, clarity, or political urgency of her 2019 actions.

Then there’s the author’s note that her letter was written on her personal stationery, which cheekily read: “Born in 1989. Loves cats.” If that’s the personal truth she’s putting on paper, her next sentence—“I personally reject the president’s stance”—reads differently. “Personally” doesn’t just signal belief; it signals lived experience. If she were writing from a purely ally perspective, wouldn’t it be easier to say “I support the rights of the LGBTQ+ community”? Instead, she positions the rejection as something that affects her directly.

This is part of what makes the “I recently realized I could advocate for a community I’m not a part of” statement so strange in the same interview. She’d already spent years advocating for queer people—what changed? Perhaps it’s not that she was finally advocating for LGBTQ+ people, but that she was finally speaking about trans rights, a specific subgroup she hadn’t addressed before. The specificity is important—because if she’s not part of the trans community, but is part of the LGB community, then the quote reads very differently than it’s often interpreted.

E — Enemies of Progress: Who Was YNTCD Really For?

In paragraph 10, Vogue lists the targets of You Need to Calm Down: trolls, cancel culture, homophobes, concert picketers, and those who pit successful women against each other.

But let’s pause—who was picketing Taylor’s concerts? Why were people already protesting her shows before YNTCD ever dropped?

Because her queer alignment didn’t start in 2019. For nearly a decade, she’d quietly supported queer causes, coded her music with queer subtext, and stood in solidarity behind the scenes. YNTCD wasn’t a beginning—it was a confirmation.

And it did more than call out hate. It placed her at the center of queer joy—as sheriff, no less. That imagery wasn’t subtle, and it challenged the idea that she was merely an ally.

The song also critiques how women are constantly scrutinized and compared—adding a deeper layer for someone who’s long had her personal relationships dissected under a heteronormative lens.

YNTCD made her stance unmistakable. Even if she didn’t spell it out.

F — Family Matters: “If He Was Gay, He’d Be Gay”

In paragraph 12, Swift shares a moment with close friend Todrick Hall. He asks, “What would you do if your son was gay?” Her response: “If my son was gay, he’d be gay. I don’t understand the question.”

It’s a powerful moment—especially in context.

They're sitting in a secret garden shaped like a cocoon—a space symbolizing transformation and protection. The metaphor is striking. Here’s Taylor, wrapped in this image of safety and potential change, confronted with the idea that someone close to her had doubts about where she stood.

Her realization? “I hadn’t been publicly clear enough.” But clear to whom?

Of all the marginalized communities Taylor could have highlighted, she centers the LGBTQ+ community. Not women. Not BIPOC fans. Not people with disabilities. This is who she’s focused on.

And her emotional reaction—“devastating”—isn’t just about perception. It reads as personal. If she were queer, this would be a moment of profound internal reckoning. Because being seen as an outsider to your own community is a unique kind of pain.

That’s why the answer hits different. “If he was gay, he’d be gay.” It carries the energy of someone who’s long wrestled with her own identity and doesn’t want that struggle projected onto others.

If she was gay, she'd be gay.

What’s the question?

G — Guarded in Conversation, Glowing in Song

The writer notes that Taylor’s answers on LGBTQ+ topics were “direct, not performative or scripted,” but also that she seemed tense—“like she’d enjoy [the interview] about as much as a root canal.” The exception? When the conversation turned to music. Suddenly, her “face lit up” and she began weaving melody into her speech. That’s where she’s most at home.

It begs the question: Is music the only place she feels free to speak her truth?

If her public language is burdened with risk—fear of missteps, media backlash, or violating a carefully crafted persona—then songwriting becomes her sanctuary. A protected space where she can communicate honestly, albeit in metaphor and code.

She seems guarded in speech, but in music?

She radiates.

H — Hints from the Heartland

The author of the Vogue piece acknowledges that Taylor had been sending pro-LGB signals for years—since at least 2011. And Gaylors know it goes even further back: in 2008, she was participating in anti-gay bullying PSAs and quietly supporting LGB causes long before it was deemed “safe” for someone like her to do so.

And that matters. Because she was a young country star from Nashville. We explored this in The Glass Closet post: country music has a long, fraught history with queerness. Chely Wright’s career was decimated the moment she came out in 2010. Taylor would’ve seen that play out in real time—and internalized the lesson.

So her early advocacy wasn’t just subtle. It was strategic. She laid groundwork in winks and whispers, not because she didn’t care—but because she knew the cost of being too loud, too soon.

I — In Plain Sight: A Timeline of Taylor’s Queer Advocacy

Long before Vogue 2019, Taylor Swift had already been participating in meaningful acts of queer advocacy—subtly, consistently, and often in ways that flew under the radar for casual fans. Here’s a quick timeline of what she had already done by the time this article was published:

2008 – Participated in a Seventeen magazine PSA against anti-gay bullying following the murder of Lawrence King, a 15-year-old shot for being gay.

2010 – Released Mean, widely interpreted as a song about homophobia and bullying. In the video, one character wears a lavender sweater—later referenced in the Vogue article.

2011 – Began to be more visibly supportive of queer artists and fans. Notable moments include her friendship with out lesbian musicians like Hayley Kiyoko (who later appears in her music video) and support for LGB charities behind the scenes.

2014 – Released Welcome to New York with the lyric: “You can want who you want / Boys and boys and girls and girls.” This marked one of her first overt queer-affirming lines in a song.

2016 – Publicly presented Ruby Rose (a genderfluid lesbian actress) with a GLAAD Media Award.

2017–2018 – Dedicated “Dress” on the Reputation tour to Loie Fuller, a queer icon and gender-defying performance artist.

2018 – Wrote a personal, viral Tumblr post ahead of the midterms calling out anti-LGB legislation and specifically criticizing Marsha Blackburn’s homophobic voting record. This was a major shift for a celebrity who had previously remained silent about elections.

2019 (pre-Vogue) – Donated generously to GLAAD and the Stonewall Inn Gives Back Initiative during Pride Month. She also began actively using her platform to uplift queer voices, and started the You Need to Calm Down campaign by launching a petition in support of the Equality Act. This is where the organization/policy she supported explicitly included gender identity in its mission or language and Taylor acknowledged this publicly.

These moments span more than a decade—and they are not subtle. Her engagement wasn’t a sudden pivot in 2019; it was a steady climb toward louder, more direct action.

Soon, we’ll return to the infamous “community I’m not a part of” quote that so many Swifties have latched onto. But before we get there, it’s worth recognizing: Taylor’s track record of queer advocacy was long established well before that moment.

J — Judgements and Justifications

In discussing the Tennessee Equality Act, Taylor says she “loved how smart it was to come at it from a religious perspective.” On the surface, this is a political observation—praising a tactic that reframes queer protections in a language conservative lawmakers might understand. But for a songwriter like Swift, who builds entire albums around thematic layers, this statement feels more personal. In The Tortured Poets Department, she references biblical imagery, heaven and hell, sin, redemption, punishment, and divine judgment. The emotional weight behind her lyrics—especially when dealing with shame, silence, and secrets—often echoes the internal conflict so many queer people experience growing up in religious households or communities.

Swift doesn’t just casually name-drop religious themes; she builds worlds out of them. To highlight the “smartness” of using religious justification in advocacy suggests a deeper awareness of how moral arguments are weaponized against queer people. It also implies she’s personally familiar with the pain those narratives can cause—and how powerful it can be to reclaim that language for liberation.

K — “Kicked Down by the Church” The release of “You Need to Calm Down” wasn’t just met with celebration—it triggered backlash, including from a Colorado pastor who declared Swift “a sinner in desperate need of a savior” and warned that “God will cut her down.” Beyond the absurdity of that rhetoric lies something much more serious: the reminder that queerness, or even perceived queerness, invites violent cultural policing. Some LGBTQ+ activists also questioned the suddenness of Taylor’s embrace of Pride imagery, critiquing her for corporate allyship or performative politics.

But if you’ve been paying attention—as the Vogue article subtly invites you to do—you’ll know none of this came out of nowhere. She had been quietly aligning with the queer community for years. And for a woman who had never been called a “sinner in need of saving” before, this moment was a turning point. If she received this kind of vitriol just for advocating, imagine the fallout if she openly identified as queer.

Maybe that’s why she dresses herself as the literal sheriff of a technicolor gay village in the “Calm Down” video. It’s a declaration of belonging disguised as allyship—plausible deniability in rhinestones and pastel wigs. Maybe this was her version of coming out. Or maybe it was a warning shot across the Bible Belt. Either way, the message was loud.

L — “Legacy or Liberation?”

Taylor has never been afraid to speak out—when it matters most to her. Whether pulling her music from Spotify, standing up to Apple Music, or fighting for artist ownership of her masters, she has repeatedly put her reputation on the line to challenge powerful institutions. In the Vogue interview, she explains her choice to let go of the past and focus on the future: “It was either investing in my past or other artists’ future, and I chose the future.” This quote, while referencing her business decisions, echoes another liberation she seems to be chasing—one that lives between the lines of her music and her imagery.

It’s not a stretch to read this through a queer lens. If Taylor has accepted the limits of the glass closet, she’s at least trying to leave the door cracked open for others. She’s built a career on coded confession, signaling over and over again to those who know how to listen. And still, she’s never named Gaylors as harmful or called for the conversation to stop—even while she’s called out just about everything else that’s hurt her.

People point to this article as the smoking gun of heterosexuality. But they fail to see the queerness that fills every page. If this is the definitive “she said she’s straight” moment… explain the rest of the article. Go on. We’ll wait.

M — “Met Before the Moment”

Before we even reach the infamous quote Swifties love to use as proof that Taylor is straight, we’re grounded in a moment of bravery: her decision to take a stand in her sexual assault trial. The article recounts how she testified publicly, in open court, against the DJ who assaulted her—seeking only a symbolic $1 in damages. It’s a reminder of the way she’s used her platform to speak up, even when it’s uncomfortable or risky.

This moment of strength isn’t just about justice—it’s also about identity. It’s about taking back control of her own narrative, something Taylor has fought for time and time again. And that matters in the broader context of queerness too. The fear, vulnerability, and risk of being scrutinized, disbelieved, or minimized—it’s not the same, but it echoes the kind of high-stakes exposure that often accompanies coming out.

So when we talk about what Taylor says next, let’s not forget the emotional terrain she’s already laid. She knows what it means to be disempowered and to reclaim the story. And she knows the cost.

N — “Not a Part of the Community?”

Here it is—the quote that gets endlessly tossed around to “shut down” Gaylor:

“Rights are being stripped from basically everyone who isn’t a straight white cisgender male,” she says. “I didn’t realize until recently that I could advocate for a community that I’m not a part of. It’s hard to know how to do that without being so fearful of making a mistake that you just freeze. Because my mistakes are very loud. When I make a mistake, it echoes through the canyons of the world.”

At first glance, it seems like a straightforward disavowal. But let’s slow down and really examine it.

We’ve already established that Taylor has been advocating for LGB rights since at least 2008—from anti-gay bullying PSAs, to her GLAAD partnerships, to lyrics and symbols embedded across albums. So if she had always believed you shouldn’t speak on behalf of communities you don’t belong to… why was she advocating for queer rights all along?

The math only works if we understand that this quote is referring to her first time advocating publicly for the trans community—a specific identity group within the LGBTQ+ umbrella that she may not personally share.

Her activism in 2019—especially around the Equality Act and her statements on gender identity—was the first time she explicitly centered trans rights. So when she says she “didn’t realize” she could advocate for a community she’s “not a part of,” she may be drawing a careful line: she is part of the queer community. But trans rights advocacy, in that moment, was new territory. And for someone with her level of fame, she was terrified to get it wrong.

This reading not only makes sense—it’s supported by the timing, by her language, and by the long arc of her advocacy.

So no, this quote isn’t a denial. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability about the risks of public advocacy when you belong to some parts of a community, but not all. And for a woman who’s spent her career walking the tightrope of plausible deniability, this kind of carefully crafted phrasing is not a slip—it’s intentional.

If she believed she couldn’t advocate for people she didn’t identify with, then all her previous advocacy points to one conclusion: she does identify with the queer community. Just not every part of it.

O — Omitted on Purpose: What We Choose to See

Let’s talk about timing.

On April 26, 2019, Taylor posted “ME! Out now” — the first single of the Lover era — and signed it off with hearts and rainbows. She posted it on Lesbian Visibility Day. A release date known to be significant in queer circles, posted in rainbow color palettes, launching her most colorful era yet. And that caption? “Out now.” It’s subtle. Or maybe it isn’t.

Then, she released Lover just after midnight on June 1st, the official start of Pride Month. These dates were not arbitrary. This is the same Taylor Swift whose fans currently believe she will announce Reputation (Taylor’s Version) on March 28 (3/28) because it mirrors her original Reputation announcement date of August 23 (8/23) — and that a ram mask worn upside-down in the "Karma" music video is somehow pointing to this through astrological symbolism related to Ram Day. Don’t get me wrong, I love the deep digging and cool connections just as much as anyone, but it’s the way that some things are totally acceptable to clown while others are outright rejected as nonsense.

Like… let’s pause. If that level of acrobatics is applauded and celebrated by fans, how is “Out now” on Lesbian Visibility Day somehow “a reach”?

It’s selective attention.

The fandom chooses to dismiss the simplest, most plausible clues when they point toward queerness — while simultaneously clowning for far more elaborate theories that conveniently uphold heteronormative narratives. The rainbow murals, bisexual wigs, LGBTQ+ symbolism, and carefully chosen dates from this era are too consistent to be random. And yet they're brushed off while a mirrored ram date theory spreads like wildfire.

When it comes to the Lover era, maybe the Easter eggs weren’t just hinting at a re-record or a new album drop. Maybe she was dropping something else entirely — and everyone missed it. Or worse, they chose to.

P — Perception Shift: From Girlhood to Glass Closet

In this section of the article, the interviewer shifts to a conversation about sexism, asking whether Taylor had always been aware of it. Her response is vulnerable, self-aware, and (importantly) layered. She reflects:

“When I was a teenager, I would hear people talk about sexism in the music industry, and I’d be like, I don’t see it. I don’t understand. Then I realized that was because I was a kid. Men in the industry saw me as a kid... The second I became a woman, in people’s perception, was when I started seeing it.”

This quote is essential not just for what it says about how women are treated in entertainment — but how it might also parallel her internal awakening, particularly as it relates to queerness.

When you're a kid — especially a girl — people write off your perspective. They infantilize you. You’re considered safe, nonthreatening, charming. And if you’re queer, but not yet perceived as someone who could pose a challenge to heteronormativity, your existence is easier for the world to digest. But the moment you step into adulthood, when your body is sexualized, your career becomes powerful, and your voice begins to matter… suddenly you’re “too much.” Suddenly, you’re dangerous. Sound familiar?

If Taylor entered the industry with any part of herself tucked away for safekeeping — a glass closet agreement, for example — then this realization about sexism might have dovetailed with a larger reckoning about her identity and autonomy. Not just who she was perceived to be, but what she was allowed to say, and who she was allowed to love.

That quote about songs like I Knew You Were Trouble and We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together marks a turning point in how the industry saw her — and maybe, how she saw herself. It's not hard to imagine that her emergence into “womanhood” in the public eye also came with the devastating realization that if she was ever going to live authentically, it would be on someone else’s terms.

This is why grace matters. If we allow Taylor room to grow in her awareness of sexism, why wouldn’t we offer the same space for her to process queerness — not just in others, but within herself? This paragraph plants the seed that not everything was visible to her when she was younger — but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. It just hadn’t yet been allowed to be seen.

Q — Quiet as It’s Kept: The Art and Accusation of Her Songwriting

This paragraph may not scream “Gaylor” on first glance, but it offers one of the most quietly profound insights into Taylor’s artistry — and how it’s been misunderstood, minimized, and even weaponized against her.

She reflects:

“People would act like [songwriting] was a weapon I was using. Like a cheap dirty trick. Be careful, bro, she’ll write a song about you... First of all, that’s not how it works. Second of all, find me a time when they say that about a male artist...”

There’s something almost queer-coded in this experience: being punished for your method of expression, having your emotional honesty misread as manipulation, your perspective dismissed as dramatization. Taylor’s frustration here reveals just how deeply misunderstood she’s been — not just as a songwriter, but as a person who makes her private longings legible through art, only to have them distorted by the public eye.

What she creates is not a “cheap trick.” It’s a quiet art, a system of layered metaphors, symbols, personas, and lyricism — where truth lives just beneath the surface. Her music is often so personal it’s uncomfortable, but not because it overshares. On the contrary, it hides itself in plain sight. It’s legible to those who speak her language — and confounding to those who don’t.

The idea that her songs are “a weapon” implies that her truth, when unveiled, is dangerous. And maybe that’s exactly the point. If you are queer and closeted, your truth is dangerous — not because it’s shameful, but because it threatens the illusion that protects you.

Taylor isn’t just writing songs. She’s coding messages. She’s weaving grief into gowns and secrets into choruses, making it possible for a person to be understood without ever being exposed.

This quote might not name queerness directly. But it names the system that makes queer storytelling so difficult in the first place — and that alone makes it worth highlighting.

R — Rejection, Reputation, and the Refuge of Art

When the article shifts into the fallout from the Kimye scandal — Taylor’s cancellation, public exile, and retreat — we’re reminded just how brutal her relationship with the public has been. She describes the experience as catastrophic, a mass shaming that stripped her of her voice and agency. Her instinct? To make music. She says it was the only way to survive.

This coping mechanism is revealing. When the world misunderstands her, she writes. When she feels unsafe to speak, she sings. When she’s exiled, she creates a universe where she’s still in control.

It’s not hard to see the queer parallels here. Closeted people often use art to express what they can’t say aloud. When you’re queer and afraid — of rejection, judgment, or losing everything — your survival strategy becomes storytelling. You bury your truths in metaphor, hoping someone will notice. You write your way into safety.

Reputation was born out of trauma — but so were the following albums. Her entire discography is a roadmap of surviving silence. Her queerness, if present, lives in that pattern. It’s not just what she says — it’s what she has to say in order to keep going.

So when people demand a public declaration, they ignore the fact that Taylor has already given us something far more raw: her refusal to stop writing, even when the world tried to silence her. Her art is her resistance. Her survival. Her truth, coded and crystalline, waiting to be heard.

S — Silence, Stigma, and the 2016 Election

The article then turns to her silence during the 2016 election — a moment that defined how millions perceived her political stance. She explains that no matter what she said, she would’ve been torn apart. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t. Her solution? Say nothing.

This feels like the exact bind she faces with her sexuality.

If Taylor were to come out explicitly, she risks alienating part of her fanbase, fueling media obsession, and potentially damaging the global brand she’s spent nearly two decades building. But staying silent also invites criticism — queerbaiting accusations, claims of vagueness, and doubts about her integrity.

It’s the trap many closeted people face, only magnified a million times under a global spotlight.

What’s interesting is that in the years following that election silence, she became louder about everything else — especially LGBTQ+ issues. Instead of retreating, she emerged with the Lover era: bright, bold, full of rainbows and carefully coded references. She may not have spoken in press conferences or interviews, but her art screamed louder than ever.

Taylor’s fear of saying the “wrong” thing isn’t weakness — it’s strategy. It’s survival. And it’s a strategy many closeted people know intimately. Because when your truth feels dangerous, silence becomes a kind of armor. And when you can’t say the words, sometimes a song — or an entire album — has to speak for you.

T — The Taylor Swift™ Bunker and the Burning of the Lover House

When Look What You Made Me Do dropped, much of the world misunderstood it. Critics dismissed it as petty or vengeful. But for Taylor, this was more than a clapback — it was a transformation. This was the moment she leaned into the idea of Taylor Swift™ — a constructed persona that allowed her to exist safely within the narrative, while taking control of it.

The Vogue article discusses how she built a house — a metaphorical one — to contain the many versions of herself. Each era a new room, a new reinvention. During Reputation, she built a bunker around that house. She didn’t give interviews. She retreated, but not passively — she did it with precision, choosing silence as a weapon and reinvention as her defense.

And now? We’ve watched the Lover House burn to the ground on the Eras Tour.

What does it mean to burn down the structure she’s been living inside?

Maybe the bunker — the shelter she created to weather public scrutiny, queer speculation, and personal betrayal — isn’t serving her anymore. Maybe this is a quiet rebellion, an acknowledgment that the narrative she once tried to control no longer needs protecting. She’s not hiding anymore — not in a tower, not behind metaphors, not in a rainbow-painted house. She’s setting fire to the architecture of plausible deniability, one spark at a time.

U — Underneath the Butterfly Wings

In the Vogue article, there’s a brief mention of the ME! butterfly mural in Nashville — a moment that signaled the beginning of the Lover era. But notably, the author doesn’t mention the actual date ME! was released: April 26th, aka Lesbian Visibility Day. That omission is important — because it’s exactly what plausible deniability looks like.

They do mention the intentionality behind other dates — Lover dropping at the start of Pride Month, YNTCD on Trump’s birthday — yet the most obviously coded date goes unspoken. It’s not an accident. It’s an invitation. (This makes me think about the three polaroids...)

The butterfly itself is a rich, poetic motif. A symbol of transformation, of rebirth, of self-expression emerging after a period of concealment. For Taylor, it’s a perfect metaphor — not just for the era, but for her own evolution. And painting it as wings on a wall? An invitation to stand in the middle. To imagine yourself inside the transformation.

You don’t have to decode it all. You just have to be willing to look.

V — Vanishing Act (feat. Joe Alwyn) (kinda)

For an album that many claim is all about Taylor’s great love with Joe Alwyn… it’s kind of hilarious how absent he is from the actual Vogue feature. He’s mentioned once. In parentheses. By the narrator. Not by Taylor.

No sweeping anecdotes. No “he changed everything” soliloquy. No quotes from Taylor about their relationship. Just… blink and you’ll miss it energy.

The Lover era was supposedly Taylor’s most outward celebration of straight romantic joy — and yet the guy at the center of that narrative is completely offstage in her biggest pre-release interview? Not even a carefully scripted nod to “my amazing boyfriend who inspired this album”?

Privacy is one thing. But this? This feels like a deliberate vanishing act. Wonder why.

W — Wordless, Yet Wildly Loud

When Taylor calls Lover “a love letter to love,” it’s easy to gloss over how many shades of love that encompasses. Maddening, passionate, exciting, enchanting, horrific, tragic, wonderful… That’s not the language of a blissfully simple straight romance. That’s the language of a person who’s lived through love as survival, as loss, as transformation. It’s the language of someone who has loved deeply, maybe even when forbidden.

She describes feeling at peace after the grief of the Reputation era—an era where she famously stayed silent, building a “bunker” around herself. But silence doesn’t mean absence. It means strategy. The shell of Reputation may have been hard-edged, but inside? She was hatching something delicate and deliberate.

By the time Lover bloomed, Taylor wasn’t just reemerging. She was writing in full technicolor. And yet… still not saying it outright. This is the magic of her authorship: speaking loudly through subtext, through metaphor, through music. The story was never gone. It was just written in a language only some were listening for.

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X — X-Ray Vision: Seeing Through “The Man”

When Taylor introduces The Man as a “thought experiment,” it’s easy to read it as a feminist anthem—and it is. But it’s also something more queer, more layered. The bridge is what really breaks the binary: “What’s it like to brag about raking in dollars and getting bitches and models…” This isn’t just about misogyny. It’s about power, performance, perception—and maybe projection.

What if she’s not imagining herself as a man, but imagining what it would feel like to live her actual life openly, if she were afforded the protection of maleness? The success, the swagger, the dating history, the freedom to be sexual, powerful, and unapologetic. So when she flips the mirror—“They paint me out to be bad / So it’s okay that I’m mad”—you realize she’s not just mad about double standards. She’s mad about what she could never say out loud.

If she were “the man,” maybe the things she’s done—raking in dollars, chasing models, reclaiming power—wouldn’t have to live under so much scrutiny. Or metaphor. Or plausible deniability.

Y — Yearning for Recognition: Loie Fuller and the Queer Artistic Lineage

When Vogue’s writer suggests that Loie Fuller may be the “most illuminating clue” to decoding both Reputation and Lover, it’s not just an offhand observation—it’s a revelation. Fuller, a queer icon of performance and illusion, was known for using light, shadow, and fabric to transform her body into living poetry. Her dances were about metamorphosis, concealment, emergence. Sound familiar?

Taylor honored Fuller on the Reputation tour Jumbotron and carried her motifs—serpents and butterflies—through to Lover, making it crystal clear that this reference wasn’t just about artistic ownership. It was about transformation and identity. About queerness.

Loie Fuller was a master of the “hide-and-seek illusionist game.” She dazzled and disappeared in the same moment. And what has Taylor done, if not mastered that same art? She's evoked symbols, created personas, coded her stories in velvet-lined metaphors—and paid tribute to queer artists along the way, often without her fandom realizing the depth of the gesture.

So why don’t more Swifties connect the dots? Why don’t they learn from the artists she literally projects on screens during her shows? Maybe because to do so would require acknowledging a legacy they’ve never been taught to look for. But Taylor is trying. She’s leaving us a syllabus. And Loie Fuller? She’s chapter one.

Z — Zooming Out: The Dollhouse, the Lover, and the Open Ending

As the Vogue article closes, Taylor delivers one of its most chillingly vivid metaphors: superstardom, she says, is like living in a dollhouse—a glass box where anyone can "ship you with who they want," decide who your friends are, and track your every move. The phrasing is razor-sharp, almost too articulate to be off the cuff, and it perfectly encapsulates the trap of fame. But in the context of everything else this article has covered—rainbows, butterflies, secret gardens, queerness, plausible deniability—it takes on another dimension entirely.

When she calls herself a baby doll in “ME!” and promises you’ll never find another like her, we’re reminded of that same dollhouse. A curated, polished version of herself, smiling behind glass. And yet, the lyrics wink at the queerness of desire: “You can want who you want / boys and boys and girls and girls.” She sings that line in Welcome to New York, but she lives it in the margins of her work—always teasing, always performing, always keeping the truest version of herself just out of reach.

This final image—of a woman fully aware she’s being watched, packaged, and dissected—feels like a deliberate warning shot. It's not a confession. It’s a dare. And now that the Lover house has burned down, the question remains: What was she trying to escape from? And what—if anything—is she finally ready to reveal?

That’s the question the article leaves us with. And it’s the question we’re still asking.

Conclusion: The ABCs of Plausible Deniability

When I first sat down to comb through Taylor Swift’s 2019 Vogue interview, I did what Taylor has taught me to do��I grabbed a highlighter. And as I read, I found 26 moments that stood out, 26 points that deserved more attention, 26 reasons why this article is far richer than the one sentence people love to cherry-pick as their “gotcha” against queer interpretations of her work.

So I took a page out of Taylor’s book. Hey kids, spelling is fun! And suddenly, the A-Z structure felt like the perfect way to break this all down. Because if there’s anything I’ve learned from Taylor, it’s that details matter, words are chosen with precision, and if you take the time to look closely, there is always more to the story.

The 2019 Vogue interview is not a smoking gun that “shuts down” Gaylor. It is a dense, layered, and coded piece of work that mirrors the way Taylor has always built her narrative—through plausible deniability, careful omissions, and a delicate balance of what is said and unsaid. This article deserves so much more consideration than one sentence that gets wielded against queer readings while everything else—from the trans advocacy, to the Loie Fuller references, to the calculated dates, to the butterfly and cocoon metaphors—is ignored.

Taylor Swift doesn’t do anything by accident. Not in her lyrics, not in her Easter eggs, not in her carefully crafted public image. So why would she accidentally load an entire profile with queer subtext, nods to hidden figures, and a narrative about metamorphosis and liberation?

I’ll leave you with this: at the end of the Speak Now prologue, Taylor signs off with a little smirk—“P.S. To all the boys who inspired this album, you should’ve known ;)”

And after reading this article as closely as I have, all I can say is: P.S. To anyone who thinks this interview ends the conversation… you should’ve known. ;)

#gaylor #kaylor #lgbetty #taylor swift #friend of dorothea #swiftgron #friends of dorothy #vogue magazine #taylor swift lover #taylor swift lyrics #deep dive #lover #reputation #midnights #yntcd #ME!#Youtube

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silverflqmes · 2 years ago

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໒⦂ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑.

notes. genshin boys as songs from taylor swift’s album, lover, super sorry for misreading your request mikan, i hope this one is better for you!

genre. fluff + angst

for @alatushours <3

ft. xiao, kazuha kaedehara, albedo, scaramouche ( wanderer / kabukimono / kunikuzushi / balladeer )

tw. implied alcohol consumption ( scaramouche’s ), implications and discussions of abandonment issues.

gender neutral! reader

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ now playing.. the archer.

+ about. the archer tells the story of someone’s anxiety, inner suffering and insecurities. while they have had their fair share of the upper hand in a situation, they’ve also been in a more vulnerable, hunted position. relationships are hard to hold onto, as most of their enemies started off as friends

+ xiao has lived a long time, having gone from a peaceful life among his yaksha allies — whom he called his friends. in the present, those friends are no longer, having become corrupted with karma and the after effects of the cataclysm, which had left him with no choice but to fulfill his duty as the remainder of the five. on the outside, the conqueror of demons stands as a symbol of strength and protection for the people of liyue, a hope for a karma-free region. yet, there stood somebody who always seemed to see right through him, who saw through the stable front he put on for everyone. he found it stupid that you did, but deep down it scared him. xiao once wondered who could ever leave him, but now.. it’s who could stay? it strained his chances at new friendships, at relationships — at letting somebody into his life. yet you paved a path towards him, through all the karma that follows and bathes him under the moonlight, and reach out for him to hold onto you.

+ “i’ve been the archer.. i’ve been the prey..”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ now playing.. daylight.

+ about. daylight tells the story of a person who has been stuck in what feels like a never ending dark night, and finally breathes out a puff of fresh air when the brightness of day, their cherished love, washes away the eternal darkness that has trapped them for so long.

+ kazuha didn’t want to look anything else now that he saw you. ever since the lockdown on inazuma with sakoku decree, the loss of his friend, what remained of his lineage; just about everything, he felt stuck. stuck within a night without a moon or stars to light his way, to guide him out of the dark.. until he met you, that was. with his only escape through beidou’s ship, he was met with the most cleansing opportunity of meeting you upon his arrival in the ever prospering liyue. you were like a ray of sunshine, the daylight he’d been search for what felt eons for, and finally found. you’d driven out every shroud of darkness that held onto him and flooded his vision with a brightness so warm, it gravitated him to you. of course there had been the fear of flying too close, like the story of icarus. only, if kazuha flew too close, there was the fear of losing you as he’d lost another once before. but as he drew closer.. he found himself greeted with warmth, rather than ashes.

+ “and now i see daylight, i only see daylight.”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ now playing.. lover.

+ about. lover tells the story of someone who feels they’ve known their partner a lifetime, rather than the amount of time in which they’ve been together. they have finally found the one they have been searching for all their life, and wants to go wherever they go.

+ albedo never thought himself to be cut out for frivolous love and romance, and yet here he was now. a holiday dinner at his place had ended with his colleagues friends of the knights crashing in the living room, fairy lights still up, casting their warm glow. he held up a cup of tea as he walked in to see you snickering at them with a morning drink of your tastes in hand, wrapping an arm around you as he held you close to him. he could remember last night near perfect detail, recalling the cooking, the laughter, and the seat you saved him right next to you, just as he did for you at every table you both sat at. it was always the little details that made his heart burn with an unfamiliar warmth, similar to the one he felt with alice’s daughter, klee, yet different. yours felt like a bundle of blankets on the coldest day of the year, on the peak of sal vindagnyr, with a shower of adoration in the form of sweet nothings, dirty jokes and the tenderest kisses. a reminder that you are his, forever and ever and ever. his.. lover.

+ “i take this magnetic force of a man to be my.. lover!”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ now playing.. cornelia street.

+ about. cornelia street tells the story of someone afraid to lose another person they loved, due to previous loss. they’re enjoying the moments with the person they love, but doubts and fear surface in their head of those moments coming to an abrupt end, just as everything else does.

+ scaramouche swore off getting close to people after the third incident in his early life. now, he is met again with what could be the fourth incident, out of his ( stupid ) feelings for someone that warmed their way into his hollow chest. that was you. after a night out, feeling tipsy, you threw in the idea of renting a place for the both of you to live in. the wanderer thought it to be stupid. given his new lifestyle, renting a place didn’t align with that. but he didn’t refuse the idea. he enjoyed his time with you there, life was never brighter.. except for those moments where he thinks back to his past, and wonders if he would lose you, too. if the former harbinger did, he knew he would never be the same, that he would never be able to walk the street of your rented home again. terrified, he tried to leave at point, fearing history would repeat.. and yet you showed your hand before he could leave, and sat on the roof with him that night with the promise of never leaving.

+ “hope it never ends.. i’d never walk cornelia street again.”

notes. hello mikan! super sorry again for misreading the request, i hope this one is better and that the songs i chose are okay😭 i only listen to a few tracks on lover so i tried my best to pick what fits them best</3

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

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itsjuststardust · 1 month ago

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Heaven in Hiding - Chapter 32: What Do We Say?

Heaven in Hiding Masterlist

Chapter Summary: All that's left to read is the manuscript.

Word Count: 16,571

Author's Note/Chapter Warnings: This chapter is going to be a little different, but I hope you enjoy it. I struggled to find a way to incorporate Alaina's parents' story into this story, and when I arrived at the diary decision, this seemed like the natural conclusion. This chapter may be a little slow. Chapter warnings would entail descriptions of having difficulty conceiving, along with some bittersweet angst, but there is also fluff. The contents of this chapter have been plotted since the beginning, but have taken many different shapes as Heaven In Hiding has unfolded over the last year. I think I could rewrite it a hundred more times and not be happy with it, but… I decided to follow my invisible string. 🩶 🎵Chapter Soundtrack🎵- “The Manuscript” - Taylor Swift MINORS - DO NOT INTERACT - 18+ ONLY

Chapter 32: What Do We Say?

“Alaina, your father was a Mandalorian.”

Alaina felt her world slowly turn on its axis, leaving her speechless.

There was no way.

There was no way her mother would have kept her in the dark about something like that.

Although she hadn’t mentioned she’d been training as a Jedi either.

“Why wouldn’t she tell me something like that?” Alaina asked, rereading the last few words of the first entry repeatedly, looking for any sign that this was some kind of joke, but found none.

“I don’t know,” Din answered, letting out a long sigh. “I hadn’t gotten very far in before you showed up at our moon.”

So many things she’d been kept in the dark about… but why? Why had her mother never told her she’d been trained as a Jedi? Why did she never speak about her father? Why had she never told Alaina that her father had been a karking Mandalorian?

“So… does that… does that mean that I’m a Mandalorian?” she asked, turning around to give him a questioning, skeptical look.

He brushed her hair back over her shoulder so he could see her face. “Mandalorian isn’t a race,” he said quietly. “It’s a Creed.”

Alaina’s forehead drew in concentration while she contemplated his words. “So… no,” she nodded, flicking her eyes back to his helmet. “Right?”

“Yes and no,” he said, making Alaina frown at his answer. “You weren’t raised in The Way, you haven’t taken the Creed, so, no,” he finished, sounding slightly unsure of his answer.

“But,” she prodded him, feeling like there was more he wasn’t telling her.

“But…” he started and then sighed. “But your family’s lineage can be traced to Mandalore directly. Back thousands of years. So, in that way, you’re actually more Mandalorian than I am.”

Alaina blinked at him while she processed his words. That was…

The snort left her before she could stop herself. “This is some kind of joke,” she finally got out before dissolving into a mad fit of laughter.

When Din shook his head at her outburst, it only made her laugh harder.

“C-Come on!” she wheezed. “How much did it hurt you to tell a former ballerina that they were more of a Mandalorian than you were?” she managed to get out before she lost the battle and fell into another fit of cackles. “Din, I hadn’t even heard the word Mandalorian until another dancer barged into my dressing room to warn me one was looking for me!” she wheezed again. Alaina couldn’t restrain another snort at the stoic helmet staring back at her.

Oh, Maker, she thought, wiping the tears from her eyes. This was too much.

“Alaina,” Din sighed again, and she nodded, trying to control her hysterical laughter.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she apologized, shaking her head again, and wiped the final tears from her eyes. “But you have to admit that sounds pretty ludicrous.”

“Doesn’t make it less true,” he countered quietly.

Alaina frowned when she realized that Din had never once laughed with her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend—”

“You didn’t,” he stopped her as he set down the diary they had just read the first entry of.

“Wait,” Alaina stopped to reach for the book, but his hand reached out to stop her. “But… we just started,” she pointed out, turning to look back at his helmet again.

“There’s more.”

Alaina pursed her lips as her eyes rolled around, trying to figure out what he was getting at. “Right…” she settled on slowly. “Which is why we should keep reading,” she pouted.

“There’s more,” Din repeated, and if Alaina didn’t know him any better, she would have called him nervous.

“More?” she asked, and Din nodded. “Well, I’m not sure how you’re gonna top the fact that my dad was a Mandalorian, and that I might actually be more Mandalorian than you are, but…” She let her words fade off as she motioned for him to have the floor.

Din seemed frozen while he studied her, and even from a distance, she could already see her breath fogging up his helmet, indicating that the temperature was already dropping inside the hold. Finally, after several long, drawn-out seconds, he nodded and shifted to move from behind her. Alaina grimaced at the shift in their position and probably squeezed Grogu a little too tightly as she fought through the pain, judging by the kid’s muted croak.

“Sorry,” Alaina apologized, kissing the top of his wrinkled head before she tried to make herself comfortable in the space Din just vacated. Strong hands came under her armpits, and both she and the kid squeaked when Din pulled her the rest of the way up so she could sit with her back propped up against the wall.

She watched him, trying not to ogle how tight the black shirt was against his broad shoulders, but she couldn’t help herself. What else was she supposed to look at besides how his back muscles pulled taut as he knelt by the bed, fishing for something under it? As Din’s back straightened, something came from under the bed.

A trunk.

A trunk that wasn’t her trunk—wasn’t her mother’s trunk.

“There were two trunks.”

Alaina leaned forward to get a better view of the mystery trunk in the dim lighting of the hold. It was made of black leather like the one she was already familiar with, but it was clearly newer. Hadn’t been carried around by her mother since she left Naboo to go to “boarding school”. Or, as Alaina learned in her adult life, that boarding school was code for Jedi school. This trunk hadn’t been lugged around from place to place for her mother’s entire life. This trunk only showed up when she was five, and her mother felt the need to hide it from her at her neighbors.

“Where was this trunk before?” she asked curiously. Din’s helmet looked up from the trunk and tilted slightly at her question. “You said that Soola told you I was five when my mom asked her to keep it… I know I was young, but I don’t ever remember there being two black trunks in our house.”

“I don’t know, Tranyc,” he replied, returning his attention to the trunk and opening it.

Alaina wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but a grey, wool, folded fabric was not it.

Din placed the item beside the trunk reverently, piquing her curiosity, but his attention returned to the trunk to pull out… another blanket. Alaina blinked as he tossed the black fur blanket on the bed, and she instantly noticed the temperature difference now that it covered her feet—er, foot. She was so focused on the black fur blanket that she hadn’t realized Din was standing until something blue obstructed her view.

She squinted until her eyes adjusted in the dim lighting, but the moment they focused, she lost her breath as she gaped at the dusty blue helmet before her.

“This was his?” she asked, turning her wide eyes up at his helmet. Din nodded and pushed the helmet closer, indicating that she should take it.

Cautiously, she reached out for the helmet, slowly taking it from Din until she could hold its weight on her own. Alaina was speechless as she examined a piece of her history. Grogu cooed and pointed at the helmet from her lap.

“There’s more.”

“There’s more?” Alaina asked, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. “How?”

Din shifted nervously on his feet beside the trunk. “The complete set is in there,” he began, nodding at the trunk. “The complete set, except for one pauldron.” He turned from the trunk, and Alaina frowned as he walked to the crates that had been pushed out of the way to make room for the bed. He took a duffle bag out of one and carried it back to the bed.

“Din, if you’re about to tell me that my mom was also a Mandalorian—”

Din chuckled and shook his helmet. “She wasn’t. This is my old set,” he explained, stopping to grab the shoulder pauldron from his new set before he returned to her side and sat on the bed beside her. Din looked at the shiny silver pauldron in his hand for a moment and then passed it to her. “Pauldrons can be unique,” he told her, pausing to allow her to examine the piece of his armor.

Alaina placed her father’s helmet on the bed beside her left hip when she noticed a pattern she didn’t remember being there. Her index finger ghosted over the metalwork, unfamiliar with the horned beast. However, the delicate, fanged snake wrapped around its horn... She stopped her inspection to give Din a questioning look.

“It’s new,” he confirmed with a nod. “After—” he started and then stopped to sigh. “IG managed to pull me into the sewers right before the explosion,” he revealed.

“Din—”

He shook his head. “There had been a fight after I first rescued you and the kid from Nevarro,” he began. “When the Mandalorians came to our aid to help us escape, they exposed themselves, and I lost many of my tribe.”

“Din,” she shook her head, “I had no idea. I—”

He reached out to stroke the back of his fingers across her cheek. “I had no idea either. What’s done is done, but I found the Armorer there. She said I had earned my signet,” he murmured, taking the pauldron back from her to look at. “A mudhorn for the kid, and a fanned rawl,” he finished, turning his helmet to stare at her, the unspoken for you was left hanging in the air. “This,” he stopped to hold the pauldron up, “is the signet for my clan.”

Alaina pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded at him. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, reaching out to squeeze his bicep. “It’s perfect,” she amended, trying to hold the tears back.

“I wasn’t born into a Mandalorian family, and I never let my sponsor officially adopt me. So, I never had a clan signet. I had to earn it, just like every other clan before me. It was an honor to earn one…” he tapered off, and his helmet looked back at her. “I-I wanted you there with me,” he whispered, and Alaina’s heart broke to hear the crack in his voice.

Alaina lunged forward and wrapped her arms tightly around Din’s neck. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She wouldn’t call it a sob, but more of a choked sound covered by the static from his helmet, but it was enough to make her break. Her face contorted in grief, but she didn’t dare make a sound. This moment wasn’t about her. It was about him. It was about the man who had given everything for her. Her reason for fighting to get back to her family. The man she loved. “I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

Din’s arms wrapped around her waist as his helmet dropped to her shoulder while he clung to her, and Alaina felt out of her element, but in a good way.. It was always her doing the breaking down, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from supporting him in his time of need. He’d never allowed himself to break like this. He’d never allowed himself to be vulnerable quite like this. He’d never allowed her the one to pick up his pieces.

After all, that’s what partners are for.

Even if one partner were a solid mass of muscle and leaning awkwardly on her leg, she’d suffer through the pain if it meant relieving his.

Grogu grunted as he squirmed out of where he had been crushed between them, and his ears lowered when he saw Din’s shoulders shudder as he attempted to restrain his grief.

It’s okay, little one, she thought, hoping Grogu would see the sympathy in her face, but the kid’s ears perked up at her, almost as if he’d heard her. Alaina cocked her head in surprise, but Din’s arms tightening around her waist brought her back to the present. There would be time for that later. For now…

“Do you trust me?” she whispered, stroking his back with her fingers. His helmet nodded into her shoulder in answer. “Okay, then, I need you to get up for just a sec,” she grimaced.

He jolted when he realized he was leaning against her bad leg. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, standing sheepishly.

“Don’t apologize,” she corrected him. Alaina took a moment to pull the blankets back, looking at him and not at her legs. “Come on,” she told him, patting the empty space between her legs. Din’s helmet cocked making her smile. “Come on, you always get to be the big spoon,” she teased, patting the mattress again.

Din shook his helmet, but didn’t argue as he knelt onto the mattress, taking extra care to avoid the leg. Slowly, he made himself comfortable on his stomach, with his helmet resting on hers.

“Grogu is going to go under the covers and not look,” she said, directing her statement to Grogu, and held the covers up until the kid squirmed his way under them. Once he was tucked away from view, she ensured they were all covered with the blankets before grabbing her mother’s diary. “And I’m going to close my eyes so you can take your helmet off.”

She closed her eyes, waiting for him to think through his options, but there wasn’t even a moment’s hesitation before she felt him remove his helmet, the beskar knocking against her father’s. Maker, that wasn’t going to get easy to say. Alaina smiled when she felt his face press into her stomach, and she brought her fingers up to card through his hair.

“Better?” she whispered. His hair slid through his fingers as he nodded. “Good,” she smiled, placed the diary on top of his head, and opened it. The perfect obstruction, she thought with a smile. “I think it’s my turn to read to you, and when you’re ready to go back to what you wanted to talk about, stop me.”

Din nodded again as she went back to where they left off.

Alaina picked up with the second entry.

Her mother was the primary writer, but her father frequently jotted down his own notes in the margins or free spaces on the pages, correcting Ana’s version of events. Sometimes, her mother argued with him, and sometimes, she let it go.

It was like reading a love story. She had no idea of any of this. The day after her father allowed her to take the quarry over him, her mother ran into her father at the space port. In the most literal way possible. Her mother had been so focused on her options for getting to wherever the winds would take her next that she smacked directly into Rav. The rest was history.

While her mother still referred to the man who would end up being her father as Buckethead, it seemed rather serendipitous that they bumped into one another again. It was supposed to start as her mother bumming a ride to the next stop, but one ride turned into two, and they never separated again.

Three months later, her father proposed.

Her mother turned him down, told him he was crazy, that they hardly knew each other. But her father, Rav, didn’t give in.

While Rav had suspicions about Ana being a Jedi, it took her months to confide in him about her past—The shame and heartbreak she felt when she was ostracized from the Jedi Grand Temple. She told him how the others she had looked up to and trained with, how her friends had all shunned her, and how they had called her a snake for attempting to upset the balance with her information. All she wanted to do was warn them, but instead of listening to her warning, they took it as an attack. They turned everyone against her, forcing her to leave in disgrace.

With nowhere else to go, she returned home, hoping for the opportunity to lick her wounds in private while she worked on figuring out what her next steps would be. Only her parents disowned her and cut her off from the family fortune when she told them what had happened to her. They turned their backs on their only daughter and sent her on her way with a handful of credits that wouldn’t last her a month.

Alaina’s heart ached for all of the pain her mother had gone through at such a young age. Her mother had never gone into the details about either side of her family; she’d simply told Alaina that it was just the two of them, and Alaina believed her. There may have been only two of them, but it was enough. Her mother filled her life with so much joy, laughter, and love that she never thought she was missing out on anything with their small family.

Grogu drifted in and out of sleep while she read aloud, but respected Din’s privacy and never came out from under the covers. Din rested on his stomach between her legs, using her as a pillow. Both boys listened to her read months of entries without interrupting.

Hours passed as Alaina read entries spanning the first year from he mother’s missing diary.

In those months, her father never gave up on Ana. Even when his brother, Kresh, warned him about becoming involved with an outsider. Even when Ana turned him down two more times. Even when his brother told him that he was no longer welcome on Concordia, after Rav dropped the bomb that Ana had been trained as a Jedi.

“Why didn’t the Mandalorians like the Jedi?” Alaina asked as she carded her fingers through Din’s head. She’d attempted to stop earlier, but the man pushed his head back into her hand like a cat begging for more attention.

His sleepy hum tickled as it vibrated through the sweater and shirt. Din’s head shifted to the side, and Alaina carefully used the open diary to keep his face blocked from view. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “It was something that was never taught to me. I’m not sure I could have even told you what a Jedi was before I met you and the kid. I’d only heard whispers of them.”

Alaina nodded as she processed what she’d read. “Concordia… Why does that sound familiar?”

“That’s where I was raised,” he whispered.

Alaina smiled at his answer and massaged her fingers firmly into his scalp as an answer. “What was it like?” she asked. “Growing up as a Mandalorian?”

She tried to imagine how different her life would be—to be raised as a warrior like Din instead of a ballerina. It was too unbelievable for her to even imagine.

“Alaina?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her stomach. “Can you close your eyes?”

Alaina did as instructed and leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed. Din grabbed the diary from her, placing it off to the side somewhere for later. She could feel him shift and shuffle around on the bed as he got up. His lips pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, making her smile, and then she felt the familiar cool beskar of his helmet gently press into her forehead. When she opened her eyes, she was greeted with his visor's black, transparisteel T, and she pressed a kiss to the center of it.

“I love you,” she murmured with an easy smile.

“Kar’taylir darasuum,” he murmured back before shifting off the bed completely.

Alaina watched him place his silver pauldron with their signet back with the rest of his armor, then returned to the secret trunk that had been storing her father’s armor for all these years. He grabbed a dusty blue pauldron from inside and returned to sit beside her with his feet on the floor.

“I was brought back to Concordia after the Mandalorians rescued me,” he began, his head still directed at the blue pauldron in his hand. Alaina leaned forward to rest a comforting hand on his arm, but he nodded that he was okay. “The man who was the one who saved me didn’t end up being my sponsor,” Din continued. “He had an older brother on Concordia who ended up being the one to sponsor me. I primarily grew up with him and his son.”

“Why didn’t you let your sponsor adopt you?” Alaina asked curiously.

Din shrugged. “I was a little older for a foundling. Not the oldest, but old enough. It never seemed right. I felt that if I did that, I would somehow be disrespecting my parents and their sacrifice.”

Her face softened at his answer, and she rubbed his arm. “I think they would have been happy to know that you weren’t on your own, and that you had someone looking out for you.”

“Honestly, I probably would have if it had been the one that found me instead of his brother. Not that his brother wasn’t a good sponsor…”

“He just wasn’t the one who resonated with you,” Alaina finished for him.

Din’s chest inflated, and he nodded. “Looking back on it, with everything that’s happened…” he started again, but faded off as he tried to find the words. “It’s almost like I was always meant to find you,” he whispered. Alaina couldn’t help but beam at his words. “Alaina, I think your… invisible string analogy was maybe more right than either of us realized.

She smiled softly at his statement and asked, “How do you mean?”

Din handed her the blue pauldron and pulled the duffel bag containing his old armor closer to him so he could dig through its contents. “The Mandalorian who found me gave me two things the last time I saw him,” he started again, still searching through the duffel bag. “A blaster—”

“The one you gave me,” she recalled with a smile.

Din nodded. “And a pauldron,” he finished, pulling the object in question out of the bag for her to see.

Alaina tilted her head at the blue piece of shoulder armor. Din offered for her to take the piece, and she accepted it. Now, she had her father’s in her left and Din’s in her right for her to compare. “They look the same,” she commented.

“That’s because they are.”

Alaina’s eyes snapped to his helmet at his answer.

“Alaina, your father was the Mandalorian who saved my life on Aq Vetina.”

The hold went deathly silent. Even the sound of her own breath was too loud. She felt frozen—couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The only thing Alaina could do was stare at him in disbelief.

“The kid and I went through both trunks before…” Before they were going to bury them. “I couldn’t believe what I saw,” he continued, shaking his head. “It was unbelievable—A Mandalorian,” he scoffed. “And then when I started trying to find your father’s signet, I could only find the right pauldron, and it was a match for the left pauldron he gave me all those years ago.”

Alaina’s brain felt slow and sluggish, as if Din had poured tar inside and the cogs in the machine ground to a halt as she struggled to wrap her head around the newest revelation.

“Raivi, or Rav, was the Mandalorian who found me. His brother Kresh was the Mandalorian who sponsored me.” Alaina’s head drifted to the diary, lying on her other side, beside her father’s helmet. The names were all in there, but… “Raivi and Kresh Vizsla.”

She snapped her head back to Din at the sound of the last name. “I’ve heard that name before…” she muttered, and could feel her face drawing together as Din’s helmet cocked at her. “My mom sometimes said it under her breath when I was young. I just thought it was a Naboo-specific curse,” she finished quietly, handing Din’s pauldron back to him. “You knew my father?” she asked, unable to believe it. Alaina shook her head. “No, that’s…”

“Impossible?” he offered, and she nodded her head. “Alaina, look back on everything… Remember when we all got stuck inside your mind?” he started excitedly, and all Alaina could do was nod dumbly. “Your… sister, for lack of a better word, kept talking about the foundation.”

“That the foundation survived,” she said, still nodding slowly, but still not understanding.

“Right, and the foundation was constructed by four pillars… Your mother saved Grogu, your father saved me… We’re your pillars, Alaina,” he whispered, gripping her hand. “We’ve been connected all of this time…”

Alaina stared numbly, unable to process everything she’d been told. “Did… did we ever meet? I mean before?”

Din shook his head. “But,” he stopped to chuckle, “I guess you could say I knew your mother was pregnant before she did.”

Alaina’s mouth dropped open. “Okay, now you are just making things up,” she accused.

Din’s quiet chuckle rumbled through the Crest. The sound brought Grogu out from under the covers, and he looked between the two adults as if he might be missing out on something.

“The last time I ever saw Rav was on Concorida. He and Kresh had gone out on some secret mission, and when they returned, there were rumors that one had lost their helmet. I was in the fighting corps, sparring with Paz… your cousin, I suppose, and we overheard people talking. We rushed to the infirmary, and Kresh was fine, but Rav was the one who was injured and had lost his helmet. We didn’t realize that there was someone else with them. An outsider. Rav’s wife.”

“You’ve met my mother, too?” Alaina asked, feeling as if all of the breath had left her.

“No,” he answered, and Alaina wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or not. “In the same building as her, but we never formally met. Paz and I were kept away from the outsider. Hell, I didn’t even know Rav was married until that day. I can still remember him laughing when he learned his wife was pregnant. I thought he was gonna pass out,” Din snickered. “That’s the day he gave me his blaster and pauldron,” he continued, sobering slightly. “I think they stayed with Kresh for a bit, but we were forced to stay with the fighting corps. They were gone the next time Paz and I were allowed back home.”

“You knew my father,” Alaina said, sounding like a broken droid, but she couldn’t wrap her mind around it.

“I’m sorry you never got to know him,” Din whispered, running his thumb over her knuckles.

“What was he like?” Alaina asked, wide-eyed.

“Patient,” Din nodded. “Bull-headed,” he chuffed, and Alaina smirked, remembering her mother used to tell her she’d inherited her bull-headed nature from her father. “He couldn’t let anything go,” Din said, shaking his helmet. “Case in point,” he paused to point to himself. “He was a good man.”

A tear leaked down her cheek, surprising her. “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, wiping the tear away.

“Do you want me to read to you some more?”

Alaina nodded.

Din grabbed the kid and made himself comfortable beside Alaina. “How’s your leg? Want to take some of the weight off?”

Alaina nodded again because it seemed that was all she was capable of.

He propped himself up with his back against the wall, put one pillow over his legs and another by his hips, and helped Alaina shift and roll into position with her leg resting over his.

The kid grunted as he searched for his metal gear ball that had gotten lost inside the blankets. Din teasingly knocked his foot into Grogu’s bottom, making the kid fall on the bed, earning Din an angry sputtering noise.

“Ready?” Din asked, lazily drawing patterns on Alaina’s back, waiting to continue until she nodded.

"He’s an idiot. An absolute, karking idiot.

But I love him.

Listening to him rant and rave about a family he doesn’t know… I love him so much that I think I just might marry him.

Maker, help me.

I made the mistake of sending a letter to my parents… I thought that having a year or so to cool off would open up some lines of communication, but I was wrong. That doesn’t surprise me. My parents are very proud, well-to-do people. They don’t want to be reminded of my failure.

What did surprise me was Rav’s hour-long rant after I read their response.

Now, he’s on some tangent about forcing his brother to get to know me. You’d think the galaxy would end if the three of us can’t find a way to get along.

Ana sighed and placed her pen in her diary to hold her spot. Then, she turned to look across the cockpit to end Rav’s angry monologue about his brother.

“Why is this so important to you all of a sudden?” she asked, lifting a quizzical eyebrow at the Mandalorian in the dusty blue set of armor piloting the ship beside her.

Rav turned to cock his helmet at her, making Ana smile. That was his patented ‘And who is the idiot now?’ look. “Because he’s family,” he answered as if it were the most obvious answer in the galaxy. “He’s family, and I don’t want him thinking—”

“Rav,” Ana sighed, “I don’t care what your brother thinks about me.”

Rav reached the short distance to her chair and grabbed her hand, intertwining their fingers. “Try as you might to act like it doesn’t bother you that your family has outcast you. I know it hurts you,” he murmured, squeezing her hand tighter when she sighed and tried to pull it out of his grasp. “Iliana Corra,” he stopped her with that low murmuring voice that never failed to light a fire inside her. “Ana, I am yours. Everything I am is yours. That means you have my heart, my soul, and my family. Family is important to you—It is important to me, too, which is why I will share everything with you—even my asshole of a brother. Just give me some time to get him to come around. I know he will eventually see you for who you are.”

Yup, she was most definitely going to marry this man.

Ana smiled at him, shaking her head at his words. She rose from her chair, refusing to let go of his hand as she turned to straddle Rav’s lap. Rav’s free hand came to rest on her waist, and Ana gently pushed her forehead against his helmet.

“Rav, I don’t care what your brother thinks,” she repeated. “I care about what you think, you stubborn ass,” she teased, and the two shared a chuckle. Ana took a deep breath and brought her free hand up to cup the side of his helm. “I care so much about what you think that I just might marry you—”

The next second was a blur. One moment, she was sitting in Rav’s lap, and the next, she was dumped to the cold durasteel floor of his ship while the idiot bolted out of the cockpit.

Ana blinked in confusion as she watched the man run away from her. In fact, Rav ran so fast that he almost tripped on his boots when he turned to enter the sleeping quarters.

“You know that I was in the middle of proposing, you idiot!” she called after him.

Rav poked his head out of his room to say, “Not if I ask you first!”

“Real mature there, Buckethead,” Ana grumbled as she pushed herself off the floor. “What are you, five?” she laughed. “You’ve been asking me to marry you for almost a year.”

“Precisely,” Rav agreed, stepping out of his room with his hands behind his back. “Do not take this moment away from me, Iliana Corra,” he growled.

Ana smirked and opened her mouth to give him a hard time, but she closed it when Rav handed her something wrapped haphazardly from behind his back. She lifted a skeptical eyebrow and smirked at him before returning her attention to the scrap fabric wrapped around her present.

“Go on,” Rav encouraged her, and Ana smiled at the excitement in his voice.

Slowly, she brought her free hand up to peel the piece of fabric away—

“Rav,” she gasped as the fabric fell away.

It was exquisite. At first glance, it appeared to be a simple dagger made of solid silver, but then her eyes landed on the hilt. The hilt looked like a snake wound around the handle. The serpent had two tiny emeralds for the eyes, and the body, which formed the perfect grip, was decorated with small, delicate scales.

“It’s made of beskar,” Rav whispered.

Ana’s eyes widened at his admission, and she looked at him but found herself speechless.

“I know you think I’m a rash idiot, but I actually put some thought into this,” he huffed nervously. “I wanted to find something that tied us together, some common denominator we had. After trying to come up with some different ideas, I started looking into our home planets,” he explained. “I grew up on Concordia but was born on Mandalore,” he told her. “And would you believe that Mandalore and Naboo have something in common?”

Ana scrunched her brow and looked down at the dagger. “A snake?”

He nodded. “The fanned rawl is native on both planets,” he informed her. “And I know that you have been hurt by your friends calling you a snake… but…” he tapered off and cupped her head with his gloved hands. “But I don’t want you to be hurt by your past. I want you to embrace it. It’s who you are. Let it shape you. Don’t let it change you. You’re a viper, mesh’la,” he whispered. “You’re ready to strike and defend those you care about and the things you believe in without hesitation. You’re strong—lethal even. And I’ve been mesmerized by your beauty since the first time I ever laid eyes on you,” he admitted, pushing his forehead into hers.

Okay, he was still an idiot, but he was an idiot who knew exactly what to say.

“Iliana Corra—”

“Yes!” Ana agreed before he could finish his question.

“Yes?” Rav rasped as if he had misheard her, and Ana nodded eagerly. “This isn’t one of your jokes, is it? You realize you just agreed to marry me, right?”

Ana laughed and flung her arms around his neck, smiling brightly when he spun her around the cockpit.

“I can’t believe I finally got you to say yes,” he laughed, refusing to let her down. “I’m going to tell our kids this story every year on our anniversary.”

She froze and tried to pull away, but Rav refused to let her go. Unable to go anywhere, she pulled her head back enough to look at the man’s helmet. “You want kids?” she asked, eyes wide with surprise.

They’d never had the kids talk before. Having children of her own was something that she had long put behind her. It was something that was frowned upon. You couldn’t be a Jedi and have attachments.

But she wasn’t going to be a Jedi…

Rav slowly put her down. “I guess we never talked about that,” he murmured.

“I never thought I would get to have them,” she told him honestly. She smiled and then ducked her head in embarrassment. “I always used to dream of having a little girl, though,” she admitted quietly.

“I know nothing about girls,” came Rav’s terrified response. Ana snorted and rolled her eyes. “Keep your tongue to yourself, mesh’la,” he warned, but was soon laughing with her. “A girl, huh?” he asked, placing his arms on her waist.

Ana shrugged. “One of each would be nice, too,” she said with a smile.

“You know, Mandalorian wedding ceremonies are done in private without an officiant,” he said slowly, tugging her closer.

“Oh?” she asked. “So… we could get married right here, right now?” Rav nodded. “And after this wedding ceremony, will I get to see your face?” Rav nodded again. “Good,” she said, giving the man an evil smirk. “I need to know what I’m working with before we have kids,” she teased. “I might need to go find someone else—”

“Bite your tongue, mesh’la,” he warned with a growl.

Ana lifted an eyebrow at him and said, “Marry me, and you can bite it for me.”

She couldn’t ever remember smiling or laughing as much as she did at that moment when Rav tossed her over his shoulder and ran down the hall to his bedroom, where they exchanged their vows. Afterward, they worked on making that first child a reality.

I’ll just have to make sure that if and when we do have children, I can keep their father from telling them every detail from their wedding day."

Alaina felt delirious.

There were so many emotions… so many untold secrets her mother had kept for her…

Listening to Din narrate her mother’s stories made it better.

She was now propped up against his right side, her head leaning against his bicep, and her leg cushioned by pillows, with Grogu passed out between their laps.

When Din turned the page, her curiosity was piqued when she saw that the handwriting style had changed to her father’s as the primary writer for the first time in this entry.

She wasn’t the only one taken aback, judging by Din’s quick intake of breath, she heard.

“What?” she asked, looking between him and the book he was holding.

“This was only two days before the sentry droids attacked my homeworld,” he whispered, running the pad of his finger under the date.

Alaina rubbed his arm and nuzzled her head into his upper arm. “We can take a break if you want,” she offered, kissing the muscle under her.

“No,” he murmured. “If that’s okay?”

Alaina nodded.

"My brother is a good man. He is a family man, a proud man, and a good Mandalorian.

He is also an enormous pain in the ass.

“I don’t have time for this,” Kresh muttered, shoving off the wall.

They’d come to Kresh’s home—his old home—on Concordia, and it had not quite been the reunion he’d been picturing.

Rav stepped in his way, preventing him from leaving the room. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, let’s just sit at the table,” he encouraged, waving at the table that had been in their family for generations. “Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

“The table is reserved for family,” Kresh growled, turning his head to glare at the blonde-headed woman already sitting at the table.

Ana gave Kresh a wave and a cocky smile, and Rav had to fight not to laugh when his brother’s growl intensified.

“I know what you are,” Kresh started lowly, stalking his way to the table.

Rav forgot how much larger and more intimidating his brother could be compared to him, but when Ana let out a loud yawn, he didn’t think he could have loved her any more than he did at that moment.

“You are not welcome here,” Kresh continued, ignoring Ana’s indifference to him. “My brother can ruin his life however he wants, but you will keep your ilk away from my people, home, and family.”

Ana smirked, “Speaking of family—”

Rav coughed and stepped quickly to Ana’s side. She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, and Rav gripped her shoulder, silently pleading to let him break that bit of news to his brother.

“What?” came Kresh’s gruff question, returning him to the present.

“Look, Ana had an old contact from the Empire reach out—”

Kresh scoffed. “A Jedi and an Imperial sympathizer? Have you lost your mind, Raivi?!”

Rav ground his teeth. “Mandalore and Concordia are in danger, Kresh!” he spat out.

“Is that what you learned from your little Imp bedwarmer? You’re an idiot to trust her! What if she is using you?! And you brought her here, to my home! You’ve done some moronic things in your lifetime, Raivi, but bringing this pathetic—”

He never learned what insult Kresh was about to hurl at Ana because suddenly, an unseen force shoved his brother back into the wall.

Rav slowly lowered his gaze to find Ana glaring at his brother with her hand outstretched.

A cold, eerie silence filled the room, and Rav tapped on Ana’s shoulder, motioning for her to get up.

Ana kept her green eyes locked on his brother, and he knew he would get nowhere fast if they kept going at one another’s throats.

“Can you wait outside for me?” he murmured, rubbing the backs of his fingers along her upper arm.

Her green eyes looked back at him, assessing him, before she nodded.

Ana pulled her grey cloak back up to cover her distinctive bright hair. She paused and turned to look back at Kresh. “You should listen to your little brother every once in a while,” she said quietly. “Your life and the lives of everyone on Concordia might depend on it.”

“Get out of my home,” Kresh growled.

Ana gave him a knowing look before she turned to exit the home.

With a sigh, Rav turned to offer a hand to his brother. Kresh accepted the offer, but not without letting out his own sigh of displeasure.

“Raivi—”

“No!” Rav roared back, stepping into his brother's personal bubble and doing his best to make him as tall as the other man. “Say what you want about the Jedi, but she’s not one of them. And she’s not a fucking Imp either,” he growled.

Kresh groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me the two of you are still—”

“I married her,” Rav informed him, ready to end this insane tiff.

Although he would be lying if he didn’t admit that his brother’s shocked silence brought him a certain amount of glee.

“You what?!”

Rav smirked. “Almost six months ago now,” he revealed. “I guess I finally wore her down. Only took me a year of constantly asking her,” he chuckled.

“Please tell me this is one of your jokes,” Kresh begged.

“Oh, I’m not joking. I’m a married man now,” he told his brother proudly.

“I think I need to sit down,” Kresh groused, shuffled past him, and fell into his customary seat at the table with his helmet in his hands. After a moment, his brother removed the blue helm and placed it on the table before, now giving Rav the full view of his most disappointed look.

Rav followed suit, removing his helmet as well. He grimaced as he took a seat at the table, preparing himself for what he was about to say next. “Gave her the rest of my portion of the family beskar, too.”

When Kresh’s hands hit the table, Rav was proud that he didn’t flinch.

“You did not,” Kresh pleaded, eyes wide saucers, silently begging his little brother to reveal that this was all some kind of elaborate joke.

Rav cringed. “The thing is, I did.” Hopefully, Ana was in earshot and would come save him before his brother actually strangled him to death. “I went back to Mandalore and had our old Armorer make her a special dagger for a wedding present. We haven’t gotten to tell anyone, so this is kinda exciting for me. So, may I present Raivi and Iliana—”

“She doesn’t get to taint our family name by taking it,” Kresh all but growled at his little brother.

Rav shrugged and stood up from his chair. “Maybe I’ll take hers then,” he said nonchalantly. The flash of irritation his brother shot him only fueled him. “If I’m that much of an embarrassment to the family, I’ll make sure our children take her name, too.”

“Children,” Kresh rolled his eyes and growled. “I don’t have time for any of this. I asked you to come help with the attack we learned is going to take place on Aq Vetina—”

“You asked, and here I am,” Rav said, opening his arms. “That’s what brothers are for,” he said quietly, returning his arms to his side. “All I wanted was for you to hear us out.”

Stifled silence filled the house again. He loved his brother, but when he was being a stubborn ass, he made it difficult to remember that.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Rav started as an idea came to him. “I’ll go with the others to Aq Vetina if you go with Ana,” he offered. Kresh scoffed, and Rav held up his hand to stop his brother. “Take your own ship. Go do reconnaissance and see it with your own eyes. We can meet back here when we’re both done, and if we’re lying… then you have my word that you’ll never see either of us again.”

Rav had almost convinced himself that Kresh would laugh his suggestion off, but when his older brother held his hand out between them. Rav gripped it before the man could change his mind.

“I’ll do this. But after this, your riduur is no longer welcome here,” Kresh said lowly, gripping Rav’s hand painfully tight.

“Fine,” Rav rasped, disappointed in his brother.

It would seem that Iliana and I were both abandoned by our families.

Yeah, but we still have each other.

Darasuum."

Alaina flipped through the next few pages while sipping on the warm bowl of bone broth she was holding.

Din had gone quiet after reading Rav’s entry in her mother’s journal, and when Alaina’s stomach rumbled loudly, she declared it was time for them to take a break. Din had warmed up a bowl of broth for each of them before disappearing into her old room up top to eat in privacy.

The next few entries weren’t very long, and only one brief mention of a foundling.

A sloppy, slurping noise from the other side of the bed made her look up from her journal to give Grogu a pointed look. “Manners,” she chided, but the kid just smiled. “Don’t think you can smile your way out of manners, little one,” she told him. “I know this was a boy’s club while I was gone, but now that I’m back, manners will be strictly enforced,” Alaina smirked at the quiet spitting noise the kid gave before tipping his bowl back up to cover his face.

She sipped from her own bowl while she returned to peruse the journal to see what was in store.

“Oh! Grogu, I think we’re to you,” she said, pointing to the page she was on. “Mama mentions returning to Coruscant to save her teacher’s ass,” she grinned.

“Are you reading without me?” Din’s voice startled her, and she saw him climb down the ladder, redressed in his flight suit, but still sans armor.

Must be cold enough for even Din to need an extra layer, she thought, bundling the black fur blanket she had confiscated from the other trunk even tighter around her shoulders.

“I’m just scanning a head a little,” she defended before downing the rest of her broth.

At the sound of Din’s disbelieving hum, she gave him a sweet, apologetic smile and batted her eyes at him. He just shook his helmet at her as he collected her and Grogu’s dishes to take to clean.

“So, what did I miss?” he asked.

“Not much. Most of what is written is more of a travel diary. Where they went, how long they were there,” she told him, slowing down to take a closer look at the shorter entries. “She doesn’t say, but I think she and my dad got into some kinda argument. She left him on Concordia for a little while—Oh,” Alaina stopped as she reread a short entry.

“What?” Din asked quietly as he came back to join her.

“They had troubles getting pregnant,” Alaina revealed, lowering the book to look up at his helmet. “She never told me that…” she whispered, frowning at the book. “Kresh asked for his brother to return to Concordia, and my mom left him there so she wouldn’t have to tell him that she wasn’t pregnant again after almost a year of trying.” Alaina was quiet as she analyzed her mother’s writing and wondered if part of her entries around that time were so short because she was sad. “But she got a message from her old mentor, Beq, and returned to Naboo for help. She even flat-out wrote that her parents didn’t warrant any more space in her journal. Her father was on the Queen’s council, and she ignored him when she went to ask the Queen for backup to go to Coruscant. The Queen sided with her when her own father wouldn’t,” Alaina tisked. “I couldn’t imagine,” she said sadly. “Naboo sent her with a small army back to Coruscant. She doesn’t say much about Beq or Grogu… just that she was glad to help and had the opportunity to make her peace with her former master.”

Din slid the diary from her fingers and flipped through the pages. “This is when Rav came back to Concordia for the first time after leaving me there,” he said. “Kresh told him I just laid in bed all day and thought a visit might help.”

Alaina’s eyebrows raised in disbelief. “You just laid around in bed all day?” she asked him, unable to picture it.

“I was ten, my parents were killed, and the guy I had traveled with and gotten attached to for a week just left me with a stranger,” he defended.

“Sorry,” Alaina apologized and rubbed his forearm. “We don’t have to keep going,” she offered. This was all new information for her, but this was, in a strange way, his history… “We have time.”

“We do,” he nodded. “Another fifteen hours to be exact.”

“Ugh,” Alaina grumbled.

Din chuckled and made himself comfortable beside her. Alaina smiled when he draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her to his side. “Where did you leave off?” he asked, and Alaina pointed to the next date. “Comfortable?” he murmured. Alaina nodded as she snuggled further into his side to wrap her right arm around his middle.

"Rav has been off since I flew his ship back to Concordia to get him. I thought he was angry for going to Coruscant without him… at least until I saw him hugging his little foundling boy goodbye…

A year ago, I hadn’t even entertained the idea of adoption, or having a boy…

“Hey,” Rav’s irritated voice cut through her thoughts, “you’re the one with the lightsaber. You almost chopped my hand off!”

Ana cringed, “Sorry.”

Rav lowered her beskar dagger, which they’d been using as a target, and studied her with his concerned, hazel eyes. “What’s got you so preoccupied, mesh’la? Thought you’d be more excited about getting your lightsaber back.”

Ana deactivated her saber, and her arms fell exhausted by her sides. “I’m not pregnant. Again.”

Rav closed his eyes and nodded before he closed the gap between them in one large step and pulled her into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, bringing his hand to hold the back of her head.

Ana shook her head and pushed away from him. “Maybe it’s a sign,” she sighed. “The Jedis are scattered and in hiding. War is on the horizon… It’s not meant to be,” she shrugged, fighting back the tears from coming. Rav shook his head, but she held up a hand to stop him. “Doesn’t mean we still can’t have a kid.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, and Ana couldn’t help but smile at how adorable he looked when he was confused. “Mesh’la, you’re not making a lot of sense right now.”

“I saw you and your foundling,” she told him with a soft smile. “That little boy looked up at you like you hung each star in the sky.”

Rav returned her smile. “He’s a good kid, but what does my foundling have anything to do with us—Wait… are you suggesting that we adopt him?”

“Why not?” Iliana shrugged. “I’m obviously broken—”

His hazel eyes broke at her words. “Iliana—”

“I mean, I don’t know anything about boys—”

“You have a lightsaber,” Rav teased. “You’d be his favorite over me in a heartbeat.”

Ana smiled, “Sooooo… are we really talking about this?”

Rav sighed and turned to sit on the bench in the common room with his head in his hands. “I’ve been considering it since I left him with Kresh,” he admitted. “He’s only just getting settled in… to uproot him again?” he shook his head. “Kresh is an ass, but he’s a good parent. The kid will have safety and stability on Concordia with him.”

Ana frowned at his answer, “I don’t understand. It’s not safe for us to adopt him... If it's not safe for that, how would it be safe for us to have a kid at all?”

“Ana, I didn’t mean—”

“What did you mean?” she cut him off, with an angry huff, and put her hands on her hips. “We’ve been trying for over a year for a kid, Rav! It’s clearly not going to happen the old-fashioned way, and one literally stumbled into your lap!”

“Iliana, look at our lives!” Rav shouted, standing up to defend himself. “We don’t have a home! We don’t have a family on either side to support us! You’re in hiding for Maker’s sake! What world are we bringing a kid into? One that is getting ready to go to war for who knows how long?”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Ana gasped, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Ana—”

“No!” she screamed, stomping to go nose to chest with him, wishing she could grow another six inches in the next blink of an eye. “You’re my home! You’re my family! I’ve been on my own for so fucking long. And it was all worth it because I finally found you!” she cried.

“Ana—”

“Do you still want a kid?”

“Iliana—”

“Yes or no?”

“I don’t know.”

Ana nodded and angrily swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “I need to be alone for a little bit,” she whispered, turning away to go lock herself in the bedroom.

“Ana,” he sighed and grabbed her forearm, but Iliana spun and used her powers to fling him across the common area and back into the stove.

“I need to be alone for a little bit,” she repeated through clenched teeth, and locked the door behind her."

Alaina sniffled and ran her finger over a spot on the paper where she suspected her mother had cried, and the page had dried with her tears.

Din was silent, but she didn’t need to ask him; she already knew he had no idea that her mother had actually suggested that they adopt him.

“Din?” Alaina whispered and smiled when she heard Din’s answering, contemplative hum. “Not that you wouldn’t have been a good one, but I’m glad you didn’t end up being my big brother.”

She couldn’t contain her smile at Din’s full-on belly laugh filling the hold.

The rest of what was considered the afternoon on Razor Crest time had been spent lazing about in bed. Every few hours, the trio would be in a different position. Grogu begged to be tossed up top a few times, but would always return after less than an hour of annoying IG. Alaina forced herself up to the fresher a couple of times, but couldn’t manage much more than a trip there and back.

Now, the soft snores of her boys could be heard in the quiet hold.

The three of them were cozied up under the blankets together. She was lying on her left side, with Din behind her, using his right leg to prop her prosthetic up, and she had Grogu sleeping beside her.

Alaina felt guilty reading while Din slept, but she couldn’t sleep. Although she had feigned sleep at first, she was restless. She’d tried her best to go to sleep, but her eyes kept landing on her mother’s diary, and after a couple of hours of fighting sleep, she gave in and grabbed the black leather book to read.

As she turned the page, she was only vaguely aware that she could see her breath in the cold hold, so she pulled Grogu closer to her while she snuggled her back into Din’s chest to soak in his warmth. Even in his sleep, the man’s arm instinctively tightened around her, holding her tightly.

Now, snuggled, content, warm, and safe, she turned the page.

Her mother and father hit a rough patch—A steep one.

A rough patch so steep that for a moment, Alaina was convinced her mother would leave her father.

Alaina wanted to strangle them. Her mother’s entries were sparse over the next few months and lacked her father’s commentary in the margins.

She furrowed her brow when she turned the page and found an entire entry crossed out and Rav’s firm, bold handwriting off to the side. “No.”

Alaina squinted to see through the markups but quickly realized her mother had written her exit plan.

“Stop reading my diary,” her mother replied under her husband’s comment.

“Wherever you go, I go, Iliana Corra. You are my home.”

Alaina’s smile spanned her whole face as she read that, and then immediately disappeared when her mother wrote in the next entry that they made up and didn’t leave their bedroom for three days.

“Bleh,” she grimaced. Maybe there was a reason this particular diary was kept hidden from her.

Vague descriptions of her parents’ sexual activities aside, it was nice to see a return to happier entries and the exchange of banter between them.

They’d even broached the children topic again. Her mother apologized to Rav for walking out of the argument. She had said that she had always wanted kids but knew that would never happen as a Jedi, and when it was suddenly a possibility, she had a new mission in life.

Only for her to be unable to get pregnant and feel like she had failed that mission.

Rav had been patient and understanding. Told her that whether they ended up with a hundred children or just one foundling, they’d handle it. Together.

“Whatever happens… happens. You’re my home, Iliana Corra.”

After reading that, Alaina smiled and turned her head to kiss Din’s bicep.

“Go to sleep, Laina,” he mumbled, shifting to wrap the layers of blankets tighter around them.

She grinned at Din’s sleepy words but continued reading when his breathing returned to its normal, deep, steady rhythm.

Life moved on as her parents hopped from place to place, hiding and finding odd jobs to make ends meet. They wrote entries together, planning their life as a family: where they would live, what they would do, and what their future kids’ names would be. But months ticked by, and then another year, and Alaina wished she could crawl into the diary to hug her mother.

With the Empire monitoring most doctors who specialize in fertility, we decided a consultation wasn’t worth the risk of having my M-Count reported. Maybe our paths will cross with someone we can trust in the future. Rav’s foundling has taken the Creed and is settled in his life on Concordia. Maybe there will be another one for us in the future. Either way, whatever happens, we’ll meet it face on.

Together.

Alaina hesitated when she turned the page and saw that her father had written the next entry. Looking behind her at the sleeping man, she decided to stop so Din could read with her. Rav, her father (still difficult to believe), had been such a huge part of Din’s life that it didn’t feel right to read her father’s words without him.

As she began to close the book, a word jumped off the page, making her heart stop.

Gideon

“Din,” she whispered in shock, flinging the book back open.

“Go to sleep, Laina,” he mumbled again, nuzzling his helmet into the back of her head.

Alaina knocked her head back into his helmet. “No, Din, wake up,” she whispered, moving the diary to whack him in the shoulder, which she learned was a mistake when he grabbed the leather diary from her hand.

“Have you been up reading this whole time?” he asked, groggily, setting the diary out of her reach behind him.

“That’s not the point,” she argued, knocking her head back into his helmet again while she tried to reach her arm back, wanting the diary again. “I think they met Moff Gideon,” she grunted, feeling the diary just out of reach of her fingertips.

Din sighed and shifted around for a moment, and Alaina silently cheered when he passed her the diary again.

“I got to an entry written by Rav and was going to stop so I could read it with you when you woke up, and then saw Gideon’s name,” she explained excitedly as she opened the diary to find her father’s entry.

“And you couldn’t wait till I woke up?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep. When Alaina shook her head, he sighed again before replying with, “Okay.”

"I’m going to be a father.

This whole, terrifying ordeal will be worth it when I see Iliana’s face when I tell her the news.

And then I’m going to tell her how incredibly rash and stupid she was for going back for my helmet. To think that she almost died—To think that I almost lost my wife and my unborn child just because Iliana knew what that helmet meant to me, even knowing I’d never be able to wear it again.

I think the memory of that little Imp, Gideon, shoving her over the edge of the building will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Say what you will about Kresh. Even though he has labeled me an apostate and never accepted my relationship with Iliana, I owe him a debt that cannot be repaid. Because while I was too stunned, watching Ana fall, he used his pack to save her. And in saving her life, he ended up saving two.

I suppose for Kresh to allow his apostate brother and his brother’s aruetii wife to stay with him while we recover is a fairly big step for someone so entrenched in the old ways.

I don’t know where we’ll go. The Jedi are being hunted, and while Gideon is a young officer, I know that look in his eyes. And he knows what Ana and I look like. He knows what we are. We’ll be in hiding for the rest of our lives, but that life will be heaven in hiding as long as I’m with my family.

I want things to be different for my child. I know there is no such thing as a perfect world, but I want to find the closest thing to one that I can. I want them to grow up knowing there is nothing that their parents wouldn’t do for them. I want them to grow up with love, safety, and wonder. I want them to be able to be a kid. I don’t want them to instantly have the weight of the Jedi and Mandalorian cultures shoved down them.

I want this to be a blank slate for my family. I want a chance for us to start over. We can rebuild our lives and be the family we need to be for our kid.

With every breath left in my body, I vow to ensure my family will have the life they deserve.

Stars . A family… A baby…

Din told me I’ll make a good dad, so at least I’ve got that going for me—high praise from a teenager. I think.

Kid, if you ever get to read any of your mother’s ramblings… I just want you to know how loved you are, and you’re not even here yet. And… between you and me, for your mother’s sake, I hope you’re a little girl. Just promise to forgive your old dad when he messes up, because I know nothing about what little girls like, but I promise I will treat you like a kriffing princess. And if we end up having a boy, and you read this, you have permission to punch me. Hell, if we have a daughter, you have permission to punch me for the princess comment, because any kid of mine will know how to throw a punch."

For the first time in hours, Alaina didn’t fight when Din slipped the book from her hands after she went quiet.

“Get some sleep, Laina,” he murmured.

She didn’t let the tears fall until after she felt his lips press into the back of her head.

Alaina frowned at the diary that was on the crate in the corner.

They were so close to finishing the diary. Her parents had found a community on a quaint planet that sounded a lot like Sorgan. Her father opened a business of sorts, repairing weapons and other odds and ends that the other people in town would bring in. They had a home on the outskirts of town with a view of the countryside.

And then their world turned upside down when their daughter decided to come a month early.

Din snorted when they read that.

“What?” Alaina asked with a frown, not understanding what the man found so amusing.

“Makes sense why you’re so rash, running into things without thinking,” he said, and Alaina lifted an eyebrow at his tease. “You’ve been doing it since the day you were born.”

Alaina rolled her eyes, snuck her hands to that sensitive spot on his ribs, and smirked when she made Din jump.

They kept reading through all of the parents’ firsts. She remembered a lot of this from what her mother had said. Still, it was nice to read about how, after several sleep-deprived days, her father gave in and started reading from one of his weapons manuals he had out from a recent repair, and they finally figured out how to get their daughter to sleep.

Unfortunately, for her mother, that trick only worked for her father. However, Ana quickly learned she could almost hypnotise her daughter by making small trinkets around the house float around her. Even if she couldn’t coax her daughter back to sleep, she could at least silence her cries.

She smiled to learn that Rav even took his daughter to his shop with him a couple of times a week so Iliana could have some time to herself. He would place her in one of those bouncing devices strung between a doorframe while he repaired whatever was brought in.

The small family was happy and enjoying the life they’d made together.

And then Kresh showed up on their front porch.

Of course, that’s when Din decided it was time for a break.

“Hey!” Alaina complained, as Din closed the book and placed it just outside her reach.

“We’re almost there,” he said solemnly as he moved off the bed.

“Almost there isn’t there,” Alaina argued. “We’re almost finished!”

Din ignored her as he stretched and refastened his armored pieces into place.

Alaina’s glare turned from the Mandalorian to her mother’s diary. She could feel the strange new feeling of her power rolling agitatedly under her skin, and she smiled, remembering that she wasn’t completely helpless anymore.

She stretched her arm out for the book and closed her eyes, waking her twin from her slumber. When she opened her eyes, they flashed black, and the leather-bound diary snapped into her waiting hand. With a victorious smile, she settled herself against the wall—

There was an excited squeal, and suddenly, the diary flew out of her hand and almost knocked Grogu over when it flew straight to him.

Even her sister’s power flowed with amusement at the toddler’s antics.

“You little womp rat,” Alaina chuckled, ignoring Din’s irritated sigh.

She cocked her head at the kid and let her sister come forward again.

It was strange to take a backseat to your own body. Alaina was aware that her twin was now making Grogu float while he held onto the diary. She could hear Grogu’s laughter fill the hold. She could feel the same annoyance her sister felt when Din snatched the kid and the leather journal out of the air. She knew everything that was happening, but it wasn’t her doing.

“Stop,” Din commanded. The order was firm, direct, with no anger laced behind it.

Alaina rolled her eyes when her sister almost purred at the strong command and pushed her way back to being the one in control. She flexed her fingers, and a little shiver ran up her spine as she settled back against the wall with a smirk.

Din’s helmet studied her face in the silent hold, then gave her a short nod when he saw her eyes return to their normal green color as he set the kid on the bed. Instead of giving her the diary back, he put it on top of one of the crates at almost the other end of the hold.

“Come on, don’t you want to know what happened?” Alaina pleaded, not ready for a break just yet.

“I already know,” came his quiet answer, and the smile dropped from Alaina’s face.

Right. Because he’d lived this already, when Alaina was only two…

Oh.

Alaina’s breath left her. Kresh came to her parents' home when she was two. She was two when her father died. She was two when Din lost the two people who were father figures to him.

Suddenly, Din’s subdued behavior clicked. He was using their destination as an excuse to stall, because he knew what was about to happen.

“Din, I-I’m sorry,” she apologized, holding her hand out for him. Din’s wide steps crossed the hold in seconds, and he grabbed her hand in his, running his thumb over her knuckles. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I just got so excited—”

“It’s okay, Tranyc,” he murmured, gently squeezing her hand before letting it go. “I’m going to go check on the droid, make sure we’re all good. I’ll find you something to wear in your room and help you if you need it. We should still have some time before we land. We can finish it once we’re all ready.”

Alaina smiled at him and nodded, understanding his need for privacy to compose himself. “We can always just stop there for now. Pick it back up after we land, wherever you’re taking me,” she offered.

He shook his helmet. “It’s okay. It will be good to finish it. I just—Just give me a second.”

“Can you bring me down some different options?” Alaina asked once Din made it to the ladder. “I’m not exactly sure what’s gonna fit over…” she faded off as she looked down at the blankets hiding her metal limb.

With a nod, Din climbed the ladder and disappeared through the hatch.

Now she frowned at the diary while Grogu made the little metal gear ball from the cockpit float to entertain him.

Alaina knew what happened, but didn’t know what happened at the same time. Kind of like knowing that her mother and the ability to make objects float, but not that she had once been trained as a Jedi. Kind of like knowing that her father was a soldier, but not that he was a Mandalorian.

Maybe… Maybe it was better to leave the rest unread. What good would it do to reopen old wounds for Din? He’d already broken once when he attempted to tell her what happened after she left him with IG with the intent to take out herself and the rest of the Imps attacking them. She didn’t want to see him relive any more pain.

Her frown deepened when something purple suddenly covered her head.

She pulled the fabric from her face, and her gut clenched when she realized what Din had brought her to wear.

“What is this?” Alaina asked, holding the dress out.

The silver helm cocked at her question. “I told you that I was going to grab you something to wear,” he replied, obviously unaware of why she was so irritated with him.

“I asked for options,” Alaina reminded him, dropping the garment onto the bed.

Din’s helmet looked at the purple dress she’d just let go of and then back at her with a questioning head tilt. “I brought your purple dress,” he answered, cluelessly, picking up the dress to hold out for her again. “You like the purple dress.”

Alaina frowned at the limp piece of lavender fabric dangling from his hand. She liked the purple dress when she had two legs to show off. She remembered how the hem struck just above her knees and floated as she moved. Now, there was nothing to show off.

“Please?” she tried again, batting her eyelashes at him. “I don’t want to wear that. I know Iris left me an entire wardrobe. Maybe there is something else?”

“What’s wrong with this?” he asked, waving the purple dress in front of her face. Alaina sighed and looked away from the dress. “You could go up to your room with me and pick something out yourself,” he suggested. “I could pass you off to IG—”

“I’m not letting you and your new pet droid pass me around like a sack of supplies,” she countered, keeping her voice firm so there was no room for argument. “Just go find something that covers more,” she settled on, unable to meet Din’s eyes.

There was a beat of silence before Din finally pulled the dress away from her with a mumbled, “Osik,” under his breath. “Alaina, I’m sorry,” he tried to excuse himself, suddenly realizing the real reason why Alaina was avoiding that particular dress.

Alaina shrugged as she burrowed herself further under the covers. “It’s okay. You can leave it,” she said dejectedly when she couldn’t remember what else she had in the wardrobe. “I might have to wear it anyway. I think it’s too big for any of the pants Iris gave me.”

Din’s hands went to his hips as he looked around the hold. “You know, I think it’s winter there right now. This would be too cold for you.” Alaina smiled at his flimsy excuse, but even his flimsy excuse made her feel a little better. “C’mon,” he said, offering her his hands. “Why don’t you get cleaned up, and I’ll find something warm enough for you.”

Alaina smiled thankfully as she allowed him to pull her up. The shuffle to the fresher was slow going, but the soothing feeling of his fingertips trailing up and down her waist was enough to distract her until they reached the door.

“I promise to yell if I need help,” she said, before Din even had the chance to say it.

Din nodded and leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. Alaina smiled and pressed her forehead back into his helmet, returning the kiss.

“He’s not my pet,” he murmured. Alaina pulled away from him with a questioning look. “The droid,” he muttered. “He’s not my pet.”

Alaina smiled at the petulant tone in his voice and nodded. “He’s not your pet,” she agreed, brushing her hand against where his cheek would be under his helmet.

Din nodded and leaned to nudge her forehead again before turning away to leave her to get cleaned up.

Without the blankets or Din’s warm body pressed against hers, the full chill of the hold hit her full force when she stripped the sweater and Din’s old tunic from her. She turned the shower on as hot as she could bear it, but the cold still seeped through the warm water. She rinsed off quickly, and by the time she dried herself off and had the towel wrapped around her body, her teeth were chattering when she opened the fresher door.

Din had already materialized on the other side of the door with a small pile of folded clothes outstretched for her to take. “Here,” he said softly, passing the outfit to her.

She smiled as she closed the door on him again, even though she knew he was still standing like her sentry on the other side of the door, listening for any signs of distress.

Alaina laid the outfit down on the sink and slid on another clean, black shirt, this one a little more worn than the other. She quickly covered it up with the grey knit sweater she’d been wearing earlier. Her eyes settled on the pair of his sweatpants he brought for her to wear. It was a kind and practical thought. They would be warm and large enough to cover the bulk of her metal limb from view. Unfortunately, she had no idea how she was going to be able to put them on without help.

She heaved a frustrated sigh and stared at her reflection in the mirror. “You can do this,” she muttered to herself, giving herself a little nod of encouragement.

Alaina settled herself on the stupid tilting vac tube and slid her left leg easily enough into the appropriate leg. Then, she sighed as she glowered at the right leg. It refused to cooperate with her, and even when she attempted to force the metal knee joint to bend, it pulled on the infected, sensitive skin on her thigh, making her hiss in pain.

Her head hung in defeat, and she took a deep breath before quietly calling for Din. The door swooshed open before she even finished saying his name, and she lifted her head to look at him, silently asking for help with her eyes. Wordlessly, he knelt before her and helped guide her prosthetic into the sweats.

Alaina looked away, fighting back tears of embarrassment at being relegated to this. Not that long ago, her biggest problem was a mad scientist, and now, her archnemesis was pants.

The familiar scratch of Din’s mustache on her cheek startled her from her thoughts, and she closed her eyes as he gave her a tender kiss. “I’ve got you,” he whispered into her cheek, his lips dragging against her skin as she spoke.

Alaina nodded and slipped the sweats the rest of the way over her hips as Din helped her stand. She wasn’t even surprised when she felt Din’s arm under her knees moments before he picked her up to cradle her against his chest. Alaina wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face into his cowl, breathing in his familiar scent, letting it calm her down.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it now,” Din’s baritone voice rumbled as he lowered her to the bed. “But it won’t always be like this. You’re next leg will be everything you need. I promise,” he finished, tucking a lock of hair back behind her ear.

Alaina could only give him a strained smile in answer.

Din appeared to accept her silence for now and brushed his thumb across her lips before he turned to cross the hold. Alaina tracked him as he walked to the crate where he left her mother’s diary and picked it up.

“We don’t have to,” she offered quietly. “If it’s going to be too painful for you. We already know what happens.”

Din crawled beside her on the bed, his armor and boots adding more bulk to him, but to Alaina, it was a familiar, comfortable bulk. It was safety, it was protection—It was him. When Din lifted his arm, she snuggled closer into his right side and smiled when he draped his arm around her.

“We finish it,” Din began. “And when we’re done, there will be no more mysteries or secrets between us. We finish it, and we say thank you to the people who shaped our lives, and we move forward with a clean slate,” he finished, voice firm and decisive.

Alaina sucked in a deep breath through her nose and tapped the leather cover, signaling for him to continue reading.

“It’s been two weeks since I last heard from Rav.

I’m trying not to worry, but it’s hard not to, especially when you’re being woken up at all hours of the night by a teething two-year-old.

Besides, I gave you my dagger as a promise that you would return to me. I’m going to be pissed if I don’t get it back…

The now-familiar high-pitched screams of her daughter’s cries echoed through their home, and Ana sighed, setting aside her diary to attempt to quiet her daughter.

“My, my, little one,” she cooed, attempting to smile as she lifted her daughter up from her crib. “Are you still working on cutting those back teeth?” she asked, clutching Lainey tighter to her chest as her daughter’s wails increased.

Ana carried her around their home, bouncing her until little Lainey’s cries slowly dwindled to quiet sniffles.

“There you go, little one,” Ana soothed, stroking the top of her blonde head. “How about we try to go back to sleep?” she suggested, turning back around when Lainey began sniffling louder, and Ana stopped to sigh. “I know what you want,” she whispered in her daughter's ear.

Ana pointed at the couch, directing her daughter’s attention to the stuffed porg. With a wave of her finger, the small stuffed toy levitated in the air. Lainey giggled at the sight, and when Ana moved the porg closer to them, Lainey’s giggles turned into squeals of delight. Ana giggled along with her, grabbing the porg from the air to hand to their daughter.

Her smile immediately vanished when there was a knock at the door.

Ana stood frozen, staring at the front door. Her stomach churned, and her mind raced with possibilities. They lived in the country… There wasn’t a soul for kilometers.

Another round of knocking only cemented her fears.

“Okay, Lainey, I need you to go back to your bed,” she told her daughter, doing her best to keep her fears out of her voice. “You’ve got your favorite toy, and I need you to go back to bed and be quiet for Mama, okay?” she whispered, kissing her daughter’s head as she placed her back in her crib.

Lainey cooed as she continued to play with the stuffed porg, utterly oblivious to her mother’s anxiety.

Ana tiptoed out of Lainey’s bedroom and narrowed her gaze on the door. She outstretched her hand, and the lightsaber that Beq had returned to her after she came to his rescue flew out of their bedroom and into her hand. She continued walking to the front door with her weapon tucked behind her back. When she reached the door, she cracked it open and was greeted with a slice of dusty blue armor.

Maker, she thought as she released a sigh of relief at the sight of the familiar armor. Rav knew better than to scare her…

But Ana paused as she opened the door the rest of the way. The armor was the familiar blue Vizsla armor, but that wasn’t Rav or his brother Kresh. The build was tall, but the stature lacked the bulk of the two grown men.

Kresh had never allowed her to meet his son or his foundling (even though Rav was technically the one who found him). Through her handful of dealings with Kresh, she knew he was enough of a stickler, and only family was allowed to wear their traditional armor. Rav had mentioned his foundling had respectfully declined Kresh’s offer of adoption, which meant he wouldn’t wear the traditional Vizsla armor. So, that only left one kid.

“Paz?” she guessed.

The younger Mandalorian nodded, confirming her guess.

Suddenly, Ana’s chest tightened, and tears filled her eyes. There would be only one reason why Paz would be here. She shook her head, refusing even to think that thought.

“No,” she whispered.

Paz’s blue helmet dropped, and her heart followed.

“No!” Ana cried. “What—” she tried to start, but became too choked. “He told me that Kresh said they were just doing reconnaissance! What could they possibly have found?!”

“War,” Paz answered frankly, cutting her off. “War is coming—it’s already here.”

The thing they’d dreaded for years. The thing she’d tried to warn her teachers about and had been labeled as a mutinous snake… The thing they’d tried to warn the Children of the Watch about…

“Where is he?” she asked, gulping down her tears.

Paz’s helmet sank lower.

“Your family hated me so much that you wouldn’t even let me be there to say goodbye?” she choked out.

“I—” Paz began, but stopped when a thud came from the house's back bedroom.

Ana closed her eyes. Leave it to Lainey to pick now to learn how to crawl out of her crib. She turned around to find her daughter toddling out of her bedroom, clutching her stuffed porg to her chest, clearly proud of herself for escaping the confines of her crib.

“Mama, mama, mama,” she babbled, rushing the rest of the way to her mother.

Ana bent down to scoop her daughter up and hold her against her chest. Lainey’s green eyes blinked and pointed at the armored man on their porch.

“Da!” she squealed, attempting to squirm out of her mother’s arms.

“No, little one,” Ana told her, kissing her forehead. “Not Daddy,” she told her, swallowing back her tears before returning her attention to the younger Mandalorian, who was now staring at her daughter. “Is that it?” she snapped.

Paz shook his head and directed his attention to her once more. “I’ve arranged for a transport ship to come tomorrow,” he told her quietly. “The pilot can be trusted. He’ll take you anywhere you want to go—”

“This is our home. I’m not leaving,” Ana spat.

“You need to. For her sake,” he nodded to Lainey, who was watching the Mandalorian with bright green eyes. “Rav added her to the Registers of Mandalore along with the rest of our family as Alaina Vizsla,” he informed her, flat and solemn. Ana’s eyes widened, unaware of that piece of information. “They’re hunting us now, and if the things my father said about you are right…” he finished, tapering off.

Then she’ll be both a Force user and a Mandalorian.

“I’m sorry,” Paz rasped, and Iliana hated the undercurrent of sincerity in his tone.

“Go to hell,” she growled and slammed the door in his face, but the teen’s boot shot forward before she could close it all the way.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching through the gap in the door to pass her a folded piece of paper. “We found this on him. I think it’s for you.”

Ana’s hand shook as she took the note, unable to stop the tears from streaming from her eyes like waterfalls. When Paz removed his foot, the pressure from her hand forced the door to slam closed.

Lainey began screaming at the sound of the door slamming, and Iliana waited until she heard the boy finally turn from the door and leave before she let herself collapse on the floor, clutching Lainey and sobbing along with her.

Rav and I were practical. We had planned for any combination of scenarios that could happen, but I never once imagined this life without him. Raivi Vizsla, my buckethead, my idiot, my home, knew exactly what I needed to hear. ”

Din gulped as he paused, and Alaina’s index finger traced the scrap of paper that had been cut and glued to the page below her mother’s words.

Her face crumpled as she read her father’s last words to his wife. “What do we say?” she read aloud through her own cries.

Din’s helmet tilted as he rested it on top of her head, and he read her mother’s words written below it. “Corras, don’t give up.”

Even Grogu felt the somber mood that now blanketed the hold.

Din continued to read the sparse entries. Her mother talked about how difficult it was to start over and how hard being a single mother was, but she was thankful for the new friends she had made while they settled into their new life.

Every entry was like she were writing to Rav, as if he could be kept up to date in the afterlife.

The Razor Crest lurched as they dropped from hyperdrive with only one entry left.

IG-11’s head lowered through the hold and announced, “We’ve been cleared to land.”

Din nodded his approval, and the droid disappeared again. Then he turned his helmet to her. “We finish it,” he murmured, passing the diary back to her for the final entry.

Alaina nodded as she took the diary and lovingly ran her fingers over her mother’s handwriting before she began.

“Our daughter is going to be a ballerina.

The daughter of Iliana Corra, a former heiress who should have been a Jedi, is going to be a ballerina.

The daughter of Raivi Vizsla, Mandalorian, and the descendant of the great Tarre Vizsla, is going to be a ballerina.

I’m glad that the Corras will continue to make the Mandalorians proud.

She was so happy, how can I tell her no?

I can only imagine you would have been overwhelmed by a world of tulle and pink, but something tells me you would have gone all in the second you saw how happy Lainey was after her first lesson.

She is nothing like us, and that is exactly what we wanted. Lainey is a five-year-old bundle of energy with the focus of a gnat, but Maker, help me. She loved her ballet class.

So, now we have a ballerina.

A soft knock on the door forced her to put her pen down. Ana smiled as her daughter spun around their small apartment, practicing the dance moves she had learned.

“Why don’t you go change out of your dance clothes, and I’ll take you out for dinner?” she suggested.

“I’m never gonna take these off,” Lainey sighed, twirling in the outfit of light pink tights and tulle so her skirt flared around her.

Ana rolled her eyes, chuckling to herself as she opened the door, only for the smile to fall from her face at who was on the other side.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered to the younger Mandalorian. His helmet tilted that same way Rav’s used to when he caught sight of the spinning ball of yellow and pink behind her. “Lainey,” she said sharply, turning back to her daughter, closing the door slightly so she couldn’t see the visitor. “Go change.”

“But Mama—”

“Alaina Corra,” her mother snapped, giving her a serious look, pursing her lips when her daughter sighed like a petulant teenager before returning her attention to the unexpected guest.

“What do you want, Paz?”

“Corra?” he asked her, taking her by surprise.

“It’s my name, since she can’t have her father’s,” she answered flatly.

Paz coughed nervously and turned from the door to grab something she hadn’t noticed off to the side—a black trunk. He grabbed the trunk, and Ana opened the door wider so he could set it down just inside the door before he took a respectful step back.

Ana studied the trunk with its shiny black leather and silver accents before looking back at Paz. “What is this?” she asked, pointing to the trunk.

The younger man shifted nervously in his boots and tucked his hands behind his back, but he left her question unanswered.

Ana scrunched her nose in confusion and knelt before the trunk to open it, but frowned when she realized it was locked.

Before she could ask Paz for the key, something silver floated in front of her, and the man said, “I believe this belongs to you.”

Her eyes focused on the silver scales and two tiny emeralds of her dagger, which she had accepted long ago, was lost along with her husband. Her jaw dropped and her eyes flooded with tears as she looked up at Paz for answers.

“There was… a disagreement amongst the clan about his belongings,” he answered, inching the dagger closer to her.

Ana’s breath left her as she reverently reclaimed her dagger from the Mandalorian. It was still in perfect condition, just like the day Rav gave it to her. She looked between the dagger and the trunk, noting the oddly shaped keyhole, and then looked to Paz for confirmation. When the other man nodded, she placed the blade inside the slot and unlocked the trunk.

When she opened the trunk, she reached inside and ran her fingers through the soft, black fur blanket.

“From my uncle’s first hunt as a child,” Paz explained. “His mother turned it into a blanket to commemorate it.”

Ana smiled as she removed the blanket and gasped when she saw what was hiding underneath.

Her shocked eyes shot back to Rav’s helmet.

He brought his fist up to his chest. “I—My uncle… My uncle was a good person and a great Mandalorian,” he murmured, bringing more tears to her eyes. “That is how he will be remembered. I have my father’s armor,” he told her, tapping his chest piece. “It’s only fitting for Rav’s family to have his and be able to remember him that way as well,” he finished with a slight bow.

Ana shot up and wrapped her arms around the younger boy’s neck, surprising him. “Thank you,” she rasped, pulling away from him to give him a watery smile. “Why did you return this? Not that I’m not grateful, but it’s been three years.”

“It was the right thing to do,” he answered solemnly.

Ana opened her mouth to thank him, but was cut off by the sound of Lainey humming as she ran inside the living room and flung herself on the couch with one of her books, oblivious to her mother and the armored Mandalorian on the other side of the door. She caught Paz sneaking a curious look over her shoulder and gave him a soft smile. “She has his smile,” she told him quietly. “And his attitude,” she added, and the two shared a weak chuckle. “Would you like to meet her?”

Paz sucked in a quick breath and stepped away from the door. “I should go,” he said, and Iliana nodded, not pushing it.

“Lainey, sweetie, I need to step across the hall to Soola’s. I’ll be right back,” she fibbed.

“M’kay,” her daughter replied without taking her eyes off the book.

Ana gave Paz a little eye roll and stepped out to the breezeway to say goodbye.

“Are you and your brother going to be okay on your own?” she asked as she closed the door behind her. “You’re just boys.”

“My brother’s stubbornness will either be what saves him or kills him,” he joked, but then became serious once more. “But we will be fine. This is the way.”

Ana nodded, wrapping her arms around herself before whispering, “This is the way.”

Paz gave her one last look before he nodded and turned toward the staircase at the end of the breezeway.

It was there that I decided that was the final piece I needed to close out that chapter. My sweet Lainey, I know that you will find this someday, and be hurt and confused, but I hope you understand that you were the most important thing to your father and me. So, I gathered the parts of our past that helped define us and locked them away to protect you.

We wanted more for you, Lainey. And now you’re five, dancing around our home, but someday, you’ll be a grown woman with a family of her own. I hope you understand that we didn’t want our baggage to define your life for you because you deserve to blaze your own trail in the galaxy.

I have no doubt you will.

And when you feel like you’re all alone, remember that you carry a piece of me and your father wherever you go, and we will give you strength when you don’t think you can keep going because nothing in this galaxy is stronger than love.

And we love you. So much.

Now, what do we say? ”

“Corras don’t give up,” Alaina said quietly, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

She stared numbly at the book until she could finally set the diary in her lap.

Din scoffed, “That asshole.”

Alaina frowned and turned to give him a questioning look, not expecting that kind of response.

“I got into a fight with Paz about Rav’s armor,” he said quietly. “He never told me he took it to your mother.”

Alaina rubbed his forearm and pressed a kiss to his bicep. “It’s back with you now,” she offered, nodding to the trunk.

Din gave a low hum and turned his helmet to her before he said, “Your mother’s lightsaber is in there too.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock. “And you waited until we landed to tell me that?” she asked, staring at the trunk.

His chuckle reverberated throughout the hold as he got up from the bed. “New leg first. You can play with your mother’s lightsaber after,” he teased, and Alaina gave him a half-hearted glare. “Ready?” he asked as IG climbed down the ladder and walked to grab Grogu from the bed.

“What if I said no?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Din bent down to pick her up and paused halfway down. Alaina followed his gaze as it landed on the black fur blanket that was her father’s. His hand reached out and grabbed the blanket, using it to wrap her up before he lifted her in his arms.

Alaina felt her nerves begin to return the closer Din got to the gangplank. The day was emotional enough as it was, and she had no idea what to expect from here. Din seemed confident that this place would be able to give her the perfect leg, but it still wouldn’t be her leg. Surely, anything had to be better than this.

The gangplank lowered, and Alaina was thankful Din decided to grab the fur blanket. The already cold hold was blasted with frigid air, and the wind blew some snowflakes inside as it lowered.

She had to squint to see through the blizzard outside, but even with the snow falling from the sky, you couldn’t miss the outline of the imposing, familiar castle straight ahead. Alaina smiled when her suspicions were confirmed when she saw guards in bright turquoise robes approaching them.

She looked up and found Din already staring down at her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Din nodded. “What do we say?” he asked, gripping her tighter in his arms.

Tears sprang in her eyes at the question. "Corras don’t give up.”

With another nod, Din nodded and carried her down the ramp, leaving a trail of bootprints behind him in the fresh blanket of snow as they headed toward the castle.

A/N #2: Remember how, like four chapters ago, I said there was a different chapter meant for Chapter 28, but it turned into The Albatross instead? It was this one. I had originally meant for Din to read through Alaina’s mom’s diary before they realized they were both alive… but I couldn’t do that to Alaina. She needed to be there to hear her backstory, too. Now, Din and Alaina get to move forward. Together.

Cin vhetin

Tag List: @racheldon @zenrobbins0021 @locked-ness @hipcheckchick @smoochispoof

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Heaven in Hiding Masterlist

Next chapter in series - Chapter 33: The Antidote

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ometochtli2rabbit · 1 month ago

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MAYA:

13.0.12.10.3

ox[3] AK'BAL/AQ'A'BAL[darkness]- jun[1] ZIP

galactic tone: action/ rhythm

sun sign: NIGHT| bat/black/west

spend some time contemplating the stars

NAHUA:

yei[3] - CALLI [house/temple]

Chalchihuitlicue | Tepeyollotl

huactli [falcon]

lord of the night: Piltzintecuhtli

trecena[3]: Tonacatecuhtli

x: cempohualli[20] - xocolhuetzi

"Three Beauties of the Present Day", Kitagawa Utamaro, 1792-3.

"Three Girls", Amrita Sher-Gil. 1935.The thirteen day period (trecena) that starts with day 1-Cipactli (Crocodile) is ruled by Tonacatecuhtli, Lord of Nurturance, the primordial god of creation and fertility. Cipactli is god of the land, the great earth monster, floating on the sea of stars. This is the first trecena of the sacred year. The 13 days of this trecena are governed by the primordial urge to create order out of chaos. The three means by which the Old Ones established order are still our most important treasures: speech, agriculture, and the family. The lineage of thought runs from seed to fruit to seed: these are good days to participate in the community; bad days for solitude. [www.azteccalendar.com]

Today is the third day of this trecena on the Nahua calendar and day three on the Maya calendar as well. Here are songs and ands that mention THREE:

Bob Marley: Three Little Birds

Lynyrd Skynyrd: Gimme Three Steps

Emmylou Harris, Alison Krauss & Gillian Welch: Didn't Leave Nobody But the Baby

Jack White: Three Women

The White Stripes: The Big Three Killed My Baby

Three Dog Night: One

Patsy Cline: Three Cigarettes in an Ashtray

Three Six Mafia: Stay Fly

The Three Degrees: When Will I See You Again

Courtney Barnett: Three Packs a Day

George Strait: Three Drinks Behind

Treacherous Three: Body Rock

Earth, Wind and Fire: Buffalo Gals

Charli XCX: 365

Silversun Pickups: Three Seed

Olivia Rodrigo: 1 step forward, 3 steps back

Neutral Milk Hotel: Three Peaches

Sara Bareilles: Door Number Three

Dream Theater: Scene Three: II. Fatal Tragedy

Taylor Swift: Paper Rings

Meatloaf: Two Out of Three Ain't Bad

Lily Allen: Three

Smashing Pumpkins: Thirty-Three

Britney Spears: 3

Oasis: Digsy's Dinner

Sia: Chandelier

King Crimson: Three of a Perfect Pair

Lady Gaga: Disease

Alex Turner: A Choice of Three

Gorillaz: 12D3

Feist: One Two Three Four

Green Jelly: Three Little Pigs

Judy Collins: Twelve Gates to the City

The Police: Murder by Numbers

Jane's Addiction: Three Days

Commodores: Three Times a Lady

Elvis Presley: Three Corn Patches

Jackson 5: ABC

Willie Nelson: Three Days

Stevie Wonder: These Three Words

The Cure: Three Imaginary Boys

Beastie Boys: 3 MCs and 1 DJ

Nick Drake: Three Hours

Dolly Parton: Four O Thirty-Three & Three Candles

Cypress Hill: Three Little Putos

Slipknot: Three Nil

Nirvana: Breed

Guns N Roses: You Ain't the First

Lana Del Rey: Grandfather Please Stand on the Shoulders of My ...

John Lennon: You are Here

Paul McCartney: Three Legs

The Beatles: You Never Give Me Your Money & Three Cool Cats

Fats Domino: My Blue Heaven

Schoolhouse Rock: 3 is a Magic Number

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nicoarangoo · 1 month ago

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There are constantly two things on my mind and they are Taylor Swift and The Sims so here’s a fun lil thing I put together since I had no plans this weekend. (I actually started writing this a year ago)

I know some people have done similar challenges inspired by Taylor so feel free to bend the rules to your liking, each gen it’s based mostly on the ✨vibes✨ of each era.

If you do play it and want to share it here or anywhere else you can use #theeraslegacychallenge cuz I’d love to see it

Gen 1: Debut 💚

Hold on to your horses kid, you’re about to become the new country music star from Chestnut Ridge and find your place in this world 🤠

Aspiration: Musical Genius

Traits: Cheerful, loves outdoors, Music lover.

Career: Entertainment

Rules:

start on an empty lot with nothing but a guitar

complete the aspiration and reach top of career

Master the guitar and singing skills

Have a breakup before finding spouse

Celebrate every winter fest

Live in Chestnut Ridge all your life

• Keep your first guitar to pass on to your children

Gen 2: Fearless 💛

Oh golden child it’s a love story just say yes! This gen starts when your sim is a teen 🫶🏼

Aspiration: serial romantic

Traits: Romantic, family oriented and horse lover

Career: Actress (sweet sweet superstar)

Rules:

get a (white) horse as a child

Complete a teen aspiration

Marry your highschool sweetheart

Master the horse training and charisma skills

Have at least 3 children

Complete the serial romantic aspiration

Keep your first gold horse competition medal to pass on to your kids

Gen 3: Speak now 💜

Next chapter! Time for some sparks to fly

Aspiration: Academic

Traits: Bookworm, cat lover, geek

Career: education

Rules:

be a spellcaster

Interrupt the wedding of your future spouse (since there’s no actual option to do this you can play it out however you want)

Have a cat (or 3)

Get a degree in university

Get the dragon familiar

Master the the writing skill

• Write a book called the story of us to pass on as an heirloom

Gen 4: Red ❤️

It feels like a perfect Gen to dress up as hipsters and make fun of our exes

Aspiration: Successful lineage

Traits: Snob, romantic, hot headed

Career: Writer

Rules:

Have a big break up as young adult

Start your career after said breakup

Name one of your books All Too Well

Master the writing and knitting skills

Reach the top of your career

Keep one of your knitting projects as an heirloom

Gen 5: 1989 🩵

Welcome to San Myshuno! You came to the big city after leaving your family home to live your wildest dreams and never went out of style

Aspiration: City Native

Traits: ambitious, insider, dance machine

Career: Style influencer

Rules:

move to San Myshuno as a young adult

Master the photography and dancing skills

Have a close group of friends and go out to parties often

Decorate your room with pictures of your life

Have only one child

The heirloom for this Gen is a picture of your sim by the sea

Gen 6: reputation 🖤

Ready for it? You don’t love the drama it loves you

Aspiration: Master Vampire

Traits: Loyal, Art lover, high maintenance

Career: writer - journalist branch then reaper

Rules:

Get turned into a vampire as a young adult

Get fired from your writer job after reaching the journalist branch

Wear a piece of the delicate jewelry set with your at least one outfit

At some point get a low reputation then raise it back up

Master the vampire lore aspiration

Get the vampire cure after your heir has grown up

• The delicate jewelry piece is this gen’s heirloom

Gen 7: Lover 🩷

You will be complex, you will be cool

Aspiration: Soulmate

Traits: Romantic, cat lover, creative

Career: business- management branch as a young adult then romance consultant as an adult

Rules:

live in a suburban house inspired by the lover house

Help your parent find the vampire cure

Have a holiday with your family every summer

Have a cat

Master the painting and mixology skills

Reach the top of one of your careers and complete the aspiration

Keep one of your painting as an heirloom

Gen 8: Folklore 🩶

You had a marvelous time growing everything!

Aspiration: Renaissance sim

Traits: loves outdoors, loner, bookworm

Career: Gardening - floral designer branch

Rules:

live in a cottage in henford on bagley or brindleton bay

Have a well kept garden

Write books in your free time but do not sell them

Be in a love triangle as a teen

Master the herbalism, floral arranging and baking skills

Craft an heirloom of your choosing

Gen 9: Evermore 🤎

Life was Willow and it bend right to your wind

Aspiration: Spellcraft and sorcery

Traits: Bookworm, genius, clumsy

Career: detective

Rules:

Become a spellcaster

Live in Glimmerbrook

Master the nectar making skill

Complete the tarot collection

Complete you aspiration and quit your job as an adult

After quitting become a home chef

Keep an excellent quality nectar bottle as this gens heirloom

Gen 10: Midnights 💙

Best believe you’re still bejeweled!

And also you’re like some kind of congressman

Aspiration: Crystal crafter

Traits: music lover, overachiever, snob

Career: Politician

Rules:

Complete the crystal crafter aspiration

Get fired from your career at some point

After getting fired make a living from selling jewelry

Master the gemology and piano skills

Keep your favorite piece of jewelry as this gen’s heirloom

Gen 11: Tortured poets 🤍

So tortured so poetic

Aspiration: bestselling author

Traits: gloomy, bookworm, romantic

Career: Writer

Rules:

marry a sim in the athlete career

Master the writing skill

Complete the aspiration and get the poetic trait

Have a room with all the previous generations heirlooms

Write a book for each of the 31 songs on TTPD

See you next Era!

#The eras legacy challenge #sims 4 legacy #sims legacy challenge #sims 4 legacy challenge #the sims #taylor swift #the eras tour #swifties #simblr

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unfaes · 4 months ago

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` ✱ druid's comfort list ! ( ... )

FOODS. greek yogurt (banana or lemon!). grilled cheese. pesto pasta. pears. strawbs. nerds gummy clusters. blueberry scones! DRINKS. very dirty chai. dr. pepper. earl grey tea. peppermint / caramel hot chocolate. guava monsters. guava smoothies! MOVIES. stardust. the hobbit trilogy. how to train your dragon. the lion, the witch and the wardrobe. mamma mia! star wars! SHOWS. phantom of the opera (yep i'm counting broadway). avatar: the last airbender / the legend of korra. the 10th kingdom. orphan black. warehouse 13. wynonna earp! CLOTHING. fuzzy pajama pants. hoodies. grippy socks. glasses. SONGS. stuck here with me by grandson. florida!!! by taylor swift & f+tm. little talks by of monsters and men. come over (again) by the crawlers. we looked like giants by death cab for cutie! BOOKS. fablehaven by brandon mull. the chronicles of narnia by C.S. lewis. a series of unfortunate events by lemony snicket. the dresden files by jim butcher. divergent by veronica roth! GAMES. baldur's gate 3. little hope. until dawn. rocket league. kya: dark lineage. sly cooper 2

tagged by miffy ! @crimlune ( thank you darling ! ) tagging … @roseguided , @wr1tten , @wyrmyth , @notelasts , @b4didea , @mythologaze , @nineoclocknews &. YOU !

#this is so cute !!! WAHH thank you <3 #` ▐ ░ ⋆｡˚୨୧˚｡ ‣ 𝐯𝐢 . ﹚ — dash games .#has anyone besides me seen the 10th kingdom #never met someone else who has JKJHJK

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ewanmitchelll · 1 year ago

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Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (XVII): Anti-Hero.

Imagine Aemond is the King of Westers when you, a Greyjoy, rebel against his rule on behalf of a pretender to the throne.

Warnings: lots of drama, angst; smut, fluff ending like always.

***

•I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser. Midnights become my afternoons when my depression works the graveyard shift all of the people I've ghosted stand there in the room.

Just as Aemond lands, rain begins to fall. Storms usually bring bad omens, but he takes his time in going back inside. He knows he’s expected and yet the prince has no need to rush inside.

His hair is soaked as well as his leather robes. Nevertheless, he acts as if he’s been barely touched by the foul weather. Iron doors are pushed so Aemond walks inside. The moment he does Ser Criston Cole greets him.

“I salute you, lord. It appears you bring me bad news.”

“Has my grave look delivered it?”

Aemond doesn’t show him any emotion.

“The king lays in his deathbed and has requested your presence.”

Tragedy has marked the few years since his older brother won his crown upon the longer period of time spent fighting Rhaenyra and her children. Madness followed when sweet Helaena went on her free will to the grave once the twins were bitterly deprived of their lives.

Because Lucerys had to be avenged for what Aemond caused. Their mother, some would whisper, did not last longer either. Victory came when most of the greens were buried and the blacks were dead and gone.

Now all that has remained is Aemond, recently a widower after his lady wife, the unpopular Alys Rivers, died in childbirth, preventing the greens to continue their lineage since their unborn child never breathed their first breath.

He tries not to dwell in the dark waters of the past if he does not wish to be drowned in the worst depression that could make any sane man sink into it.

But a path of blood has led him to this moment. One that he always desired. At what cost, though?

“I shall see him. No need to show me the way.”

Ser Criston doesn’t seem pleased with the cold remark of the prince who has been like a son to him, but the knight knows his place and lets him be.

Aemond soon takes the stairs and in this state, he walks to his oldest brother’s privy chambers. Once he gets in, unannounced, the silver haired prince is surprised by the bad smell that comes in.

It’s the smell of death.

“Brother”, the ghostly, pained voice reaches his ear in a most unpleasant way.

Aegon II is prostrated unhealthily in bed, the opposite of what his young self used to be. The weight of the crown costed much, but no price was high enough to restaure his sanity, health or, worse perhaps, his glorious past. In his eyes, there is nothing but the disgrace of another kinslayer, consumed by remorse.

A terrible sight to behold.

“My king”, he bows his head.

“Even in my darkest hour you are tied to formalities”, Aegon snarls in disdain. “It should have been you here, not me.”

“Time has always been a great thief, on that we agree, but do not think the shadow of death will not be casted upon me”, responds Aemond in a whisper.

“I should have been wiser”, says Aegon with eyes blurred by tears. “The older I grew, poorer were the decisions made.”

Aemond doesn’t know what to respond, opting for silence. In truth, he’s always been more of a soldier than a general. Always one to follow orders than give them. Or perhaps the civil war has led him to shape this perspective of himself.

“What good is there to think of what should or could have been done? The past is there for a reason.”

“How can you be so cold?!”

“I am being reasonable, logical even. Where is the need of being sentimental when pointing facts?”

“The woman whom you fought so hard has died! And here you are!”

Out of respect for the dying king, Aemond doesn’t pick this battle to fight. Not again. Not now.

“The crown is yours to use. But there is one thing you must be told before I’m gone…”

Aemond steps closer now, accustomed with the bad smell. The heat of the fireplace seems unwelcoming now that he’s friends with the cold.

“Yes?”

“Not every kin has perished in the war”, he murmurs.

“What the hell are you talking about?”, this is the first time in a while that Aemond has shown some emotion.

Aegon smirks at his brother, pleased to get him some reaction.

“Two of Rhaenyra’s sons are living”, but for some reason the dying king thinks it’s not his problem to give Aemond their whereabouts. Or perhaps this is remorse for all that he’s done.

Who knows? Who could tell what’s in his mind?

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”

“I am not”, and as if he is suddenly tired of living, Aegon coughs.

Aemond spots blood in his brother’s mouth, but by now his heart and mind are divided in between genuine concern over Aegon, his last remaining family, and the whereabouts of possible pretenders to his throne.

“Aegon…”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, brother.”

That being said, Aegon’s life has been turned into nothingness. The old king is dead. Long live the new king.

***

• I should not be left to my own devices. They come with prices and vices. I end up in crisis (tale as old as time). I wake up screaming from dreaming. One day I'll watch as you're leaving 'cause you got tired of my scheming (For the last time)…

You stand in black leather robes by your father’s side the moment a messenger enters the great salon. Outside waves hit the shore violently, announcing a tempest that has been forming in the past twenty and four hours. Clouds have been obscuring the skies, but only by this twilight they’ve been producing electric sounds.

A lightening is heard.

“Well, lord. Under hospitality laws you are welcomed in this household”, says the chieftain of the House Greyjoy. “What news do you bring us?”

The messenger inspires some sympathy in you. He’s younger than your youngest brother and appears to have been made of summer. He knows naught of the perils that coming to Pyke might indulge him. But to his fortune Lord H/N Greyjoy is the head of the House at the moment, which means that he knows the aforementioned laws and would never harm a messenger.

“We have a new king”, by his accent you know he comes from a mid noble house of King’s Landing. “Aegon, second of his name, has died and transmitted the crown to his successor. His brother, lord Aemond Targaryen, is now the new king.”

“Ah”, says Lord H/N, playing with the knife. “A usurper following another usurper. Why does he care about us, often ignored by most Targaryens? Is he familiar that our laws somewhat differ even though we have been paying tribute and homage to them for a while?”

The poor messenger is sweating cold. You think wise to interfere when Lord H/N smiles benevolently.

“Young man, as bad reputed as my house is, we are honorable. At least I like to think my kin and I are. The laws of hospitality mean a great deal to us. But I appreciate the message you delivered us. I presume this means Lord Aemond is expecting that we submit to him as our overlord and king.”

The boy swallows again in relief. You see he’s considering correcting your father for the misuse of titles, but opts not to ruin his fortune.

“Aye, lord. The time to pay homage is soon.”

“Indeed it is”, your father strokes his chin. “These are the days I miss King Viserys. Many took him for a fool, but peacekeeping is the product of hard work. This is what made him a good king. And His Grace respected us, the houses that made his reign proper to rule.”

Then he stands, indicating the time to talk has come to an end.

“Tell lord Aemond that we recognize no king but the one who attends the name of Aegon III, son of the formidable Lord Daemon Targaryen and the queen who should have been, Rhaenyra.”

The warning is done. When the messenger leaves, you pity the poor lad’s fate. As you see the wind whirling against the sea, you say:

“The bad omen is sent by the God.”

It’s your elder brother, your father’s heir, who says:

“What do you understand of such things?”

You shoot him a gaze as if you are speaking with someone whose comprehension equals that of an ant.

“Great tempests like the one that’s been forming is hardly favorable. It is known.”

“A bad omen for the self pretentious new king”, you hear your father correct you. “This is our God preparing us for war.”

“War”, your brother repeats. “Was it necessary, father? We do not know whether the offspring of Queen Rhaenyra are alive.”

“They are”, lord H/N says in a tone that makes clear he knows many more things than he’s letting show. And here is how the schemes begin. “However, we must test the new king’s forces.”

Looking at you, his favored daughter, the head of Pyke says:

“Take with you a great number of men. You do well in tempests like this. The new king will assemble his army, but he’s not foreseeing our attack against his shores, assuming we are going to Lannisport again.”

You nod, unquestioning. Another brother, however, meddles:

“Is it prudent to underestimate the usurper, sire? He collects epithets that make quite a powerful sobriquet.”

“Words as those are meant to break fools by creating unreasonable fear of a man who is just that: a man.” And giving you a look, he says: “You may go.”

You hide away your fears, taking his orders. Unlike your brothers, you don’t question your father and you have no taste for blood. Though sensitive you may be—grieving the loss of your sister springs ago when she was forced to marry a green partisan only to die in childbirth and that of your mother by melancholy made you deal with your rage through violent seas—, you hide away your true self off the eyes of others.

Despite the beauty that brings admirers to your side, iron is set above it so though you never caused any death directly, you had enough power to bring it—which only means how fearful to some you can be, not to mention the protection and favor you have of the family.

Now here you are with the men under heavy rain. It’s time to scheme. Despite the bad feeling you bear with you—the fights you won previously during the civil war for the blacks usually occurred in calm sea, not amidst violent waves—, what else is there to do but to obey your father and overlord?

You turn at the ship and instruct your loyal men to follow you. But you do not enter in it before praising the God you serve and yelling after taking a long sip of wine:

“What is dead may never die!”

***

• It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me. At tea time, everybody agrees. I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror. It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero

Aemond’s coronation may have happened with no issues, but brought vices of temper that were not sufficiently tamed during his days of prince. One of which was the obsessive search for the lost sons of Rhaenyra.

Amidst this inconclusive search, the wolves of Winterfell are threatening to revolt at the same time the Krakens of Pyke delivered the message of subtle warning of war.

In spite of the circumstances, he is more than acutely aware of the fragile state of his kingship. This is the time to show his subjects he is not like Aegon.

Nay. He is better.

All the whilst the whereabouts of his nephews remain inconclusive and unknown, Aemond concentrates in issues that expect pragmatism of his part.

The North can still be dealt with the use of diplomacy and he sends his Hightower cousin to Winterfell with gold and an arrangement that works for his cause—presumably a match between a daughter of Lord Cregan and his envoy himself since Aemond has no desires in remarrying.

However, the Greyjoy assault assumes preoccupying colors. What could possibly lead an old house to open rebel against his rule?

“This is easy to resolve”, he shares his thoughts with Ser Criston Cole. “Their fleet will burn with fire and blood.”

Aemond does not fantom how the glory of his moment, albeit with a bloody path that brought him there, can be eclipsed by the refusal of a general acceptance of his rule.

Leaving personal vanities aside, cleaning his judgement of probable vices, the new king understands that the civil war of years ago has not yet been put to an end.

As he watches from the Red Keep the storm outdoors, calmly and steadfastly, a part of him comprehends that he may not be the best loved king time has witnessed and the pen of the maesters registered, but duty is what will always impel him to do what’s best.

If those will not see it through his good, may they see through his worse.

You cling onto optimism under the advantage that this is a surprise attack well coordinated, not a spontaneous sack in search for gold, nor an occasion fighting with random pirates.

This is not, however, a mere thirst for adventure being satisfied. The purpose, although ignored by you in great measure, is bigger than what your reason can conceive.

Perhaps you lack ambition to fight your wars, to be manipulated by your father like your brothers accuse him of doing—but what other choice do you have? He’s never treated you unkindly nor forced you upon an unwanted marriage, giving you liberty to do as it pleased you as long as you’d not forget your duties to your house.

You had your mother and your sister to tame your worse tendencies—whether to be slaved by the passions of the flesh or under the sins of pride—, some of which you’ve learned to repress. Now, however, you are where you belong. In the midst of chaos.

You do not like to fight it or to shed blood. To waste lives is a purpose you take no pride of. But leading others to it… or letting them choose to do what circumstances impel them to do so… this is what you are born to do. This is what makes most men fear you, comparing you to your father.

But they don’t see that, underneath this iron, there lies something pure and good. Sensitive. Aiming to be seen, aiming to be truly free of the duty that ties you to your family.

For however loved or useful you may be to your father, you are still under his command. Even here, even now.

However, it would have been prudent to question it, to have followed your instincts. For you have forgotten, or perhaps not have been told, that a storm never stopped King Aemond of flying his great legendary beast.

Waves clash against the ships, threatening to drown the men in them, or perhaps, as you hopefully attempt to see, leading you all to your destination.

But you miss a great shadow following above clouded skies. The night looks longer and deadlier, specially when it’s heard a roar right when a lightening bolt hits the ocean.

It doesn’t take long before you and your men pale as a shadow of the largest creature you’ve ever put your eyes on is casted upon the ship. You yell orders to separate the ships, with each carrying a beast to put it down.

The rain is too strong now and thus muffles your commands. To worse all, fire comes from above. Two of your ships are gone. You try not to succumb to your fear, soon leading the ship yourself. The desperation of your men is heard, but you try not to let the sound shake your core to join them in frustration.

Some of them opt to jump into the arms of the Drowned God and you cannot blame. But as you try to flee out of the dragon’s grasp, to your dismay you spot an outstanding number of fleet coming to your direction.

You flush violently.

“Fuck, we are ruined! This mission has been…”, your voice dies out. What is there to say? Has your father sent you to a trap?

“What should we do, lady Y/N?”, the second in command asks you.

“Never surrender”, your pride takes the iron shield back to surface. “If we must die, so be it.”

Aemond, however, has other plans. Despite burning and leading his own men to suffocate your rebellion before it reaches land, he wants to imprison the leader of it, which means you.

Soon, your ship is bombarded—and you watch as the king’s men slay all of yours, but you.

“Why are you sparing me?”

To no avail you seek death or protest. As if you are nothing, Lannister men hold you tight, removing you from the wrecked ship. By then you do not know whether you are weeping or the rain is washing your face. What difference is there?

You understand death is coming to you soon or later. Realizing that gives you strength, but paradoxically descend into melancholy.

***

• Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby and I'm a monster on the hill too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city, pierced through the heart, but never killed…Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism like some kind of congressman? (Tale as old as time)

Aemond’s victory upon the two threats against his rising reign leaves him comfortable to deal with upcoming events. Whilst there is no indication that only the names of his nephews are alive in the memory of his enemies, with no bodies found he focus in the real threats and these have been placated.

But curious in meeting the leader of what he judges to be a piracy house, he expects to see you soon. Barely he knows, as well as you, what will result of this.

In the meantime, as comfortable as you are in new robes and in fancy quarters of the Red Keep, protected from the storm that is still daunting outdoors, you have your nightmares to deal with.

The sounds of the men screaming as they either embraced death willingly or were deprived of their lives with inutile resistance bend you to your tears. Never before you felt so weak for loving the sea, the wilderness in it.

What hurts more is the realization you were not born to be a soldier. A part of you always expected to be equal your brothers, but your failure shows precisely that you are not like them.

Lost in your contemplations, you are trying to think of a solution about leaving the place when you are surprised by the presence of no one but the king himself.

Aemond has no time to waste in delegating useless tasks that he can do it himself. Thus it is this anxious warlord comes to the chambers he located you.

Whilst he stands there, you and him share a silent stare. The silver haired prince is significantly taller than you, possessing, as you first notice, a long sword in his right side and a dagger in his left. The idea that he came protected to meet you almost makes you smile.

“What reason is there to your lips twirl in a smirk? You have no reason to commemorate”, his husky voice assaults your troubled mind, forcing you to focus on him.

“You came alone to meet me, lord king. Armed. Do I pose you enough danger for that?”

Aemond takes a seat before you. His good, lilac eye studies you intently. Despite feeling crimson paint your cheeks, you do not look away.

“You think too high of yourself, lady Y/N Greyjoy. I suggest you to know your place.”

You fold your arm, mockery rising to your eyes.

“Please, lord. Enlighten me what place is this when you have no morals to speak in such terms.”

Aemond is patient. And unlike many of the men that crossed your path, not tempted to easily demonstrate or slip into his temperament.

“I wear the crown and impose a defeat on your feeble attempt to overthrow me, lady Y/N. It is unwise to dictate the rules of this game.” And then he adds. “A game that you perhaps have not been prepared to play. Has your good father not instructed you on it properly? By the sounds of your defeat, I guess not.”

You clench your jaw. Despite the broken pride and the heat in your throat that might vert in unwelcoming tears, you hold back the instinct of throwing your hands around this king’s neck and break it.

But you’ve never been one back to violence, have you?

“Has the cat eaten your tongue?”

You stand at last.

“Why coming to insult me so freely? Kill me if you must, lord king. One less enemy to humiliate!”

Aemond too stands, hands contrived in his back.

“Nay”, he speaks in almost a whisper. “The rules are not yours to dictate. Besides, with your supporters dead, I have a guess that your father will not come for you.”

With a side smirk, he leaves you. Victoriously so. And as he closes the door, there locking you in, the prince hears your screams.

But he wonders what to do with you. This is not a typical rebel, nor a natural leader who easily inspires dissent. A soldier. The word brings him back to his memories when, as the right hand of King Aegon, his brother, he did what you are doing now. Obeying orders.

Intrigued by this comparison, he goes back to your quarters after he finishes dinner. Unannounced, he surprises you combing your long y/c hair, wearing a white night gown. As you readily stand before the noise of opening door, he sees not only fear behind your eyes… but comes to notice the strong firm breasts the silk poorly disguises.

However, to his own sake he best not to look too much in you.

“What are you here for, lord king?”, you ask away, throwing robes over your shoulders. “I-It’s too late for a visit and I shall not be your whore.”

Your words, much to your dismay, make him chuckle. Aemond pulls a chair and there sits, holding your uncomfortable gaze still.

“Despite the inappropriate hour, I had to speak with my lady��, says he.

“What for?”, you retort, still at a corner like a frightened animal.

“I will do no harm to you, Y/N Greyjoy. I am not my brother”, he clenches his jaw, waving his hand dismissively. “All I want is talk. You have my word.”

You hesitate and Aemond sees distrust in your eyes. He doesn’t blame you for this behavior. Now wondering what he’d do if his sister’s forces had captured him many moons ago, he comes to think he’d behave similarly. If not more rudely.

Eventually you cede and take a distant seat of him.

“Well?”, you say, anxious. “Speak your terms.”

“I did not come to bargain”, Aemond smirks. “Why, as a victor, would I do so?”

“I am not your trophy, lord king”, you frown your eyebrows in clearly displeasure. “Either send me home or execute me. Other possibilities are out of consideration.”

Aemond is entertained by how your pride takes the reins of the situation. Ignoring what you just said, he proceeds rather cautiously.

“You are a soldier.”

On that you don’t see it coming. You tilt your head and had not it been for a few scars over your eyebrows and on your neck, besides the calloused hands, he’d take you as a princess.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Patiently, the king explains.

“You were following orders to bring your men here. When we captured you, I’ve already had some informations about you. You are the only daughter of Lord H/N of Pyke, but hardly as skillful as your brothers… at least where bloodshed is concerned. You have a tender heart and even when you sack or pile you tend to have mercy on your enemies.”

You look at him in between astonishment and embarrassment.

“You planted a spy at my father’s household.”

Aemond’s lips twitch in a smile.

“You are clever, my lady.”

You feel a strange urge to weep, but you blink a few times, refusing to cede to it.

“I will not ask why. You’ve been counting on that, haven’t you? But seeing I am useless to my father, why keeping me here at your mercy?”

“I do not think you are useless to him. On the contrary”, Aemond rests his hand over his knee. “I know how cherished you are for him.”

“You are using me to bring out my family and defeat it publicly. My House will stand, lord.”

“There are many ways a House can perish, lady. But this is not about it. Disregarding what you may have heard about me, I was a soldier like you. Obeying orders blindly without questioning. However, I was born to hold a sword. You, perhaps, to command.”

Silence hangs in between the two of you. Aemond sees the value you have for your family, but what surprises him is that you don’t share the perspective.

They see the beauty in you, not the iron that lies underneath.

A thought he doesn’t find convenient to share. He stands, having collected enough for his judgement.

You watch as he stops by the door. He knows you have the urge to beg him to spare your family. It is an instinct that many would have in your position. But because you know that he studied you well, you say nothing.

You turn your back on him, disappointing your captor for sparing him of temperamental exhibition.

***

As days turn in weeks, you have been forced to deal with eminent loss of the main purpose that has led you there. Serving your family has not only brought you disgraces or exposed your fragilities to your enemies, but comes to nothing when no news of your father or brothers searching to avenge you reach you.

“A soldier is replaceable, whether by blood or not”, says Aemond.

This evening you two are dining together at his privy royal chambers. You realize the king is a lonely man with unseen scars. Like you.

“You have offended my honor and disgraced my pride”, you speak softly as you take wine to your lips. It’s sweet and part of you wishes it to be poisonous. “Until when do you intend to break my spirit?”

When Aemond raises his eyes to meet yours, your soul is perturbed. You wish you could look away, but not even vengeance is a scheme tolerable by your mind now.

“Despite the circumstances, I wish you had not seen me as such”, he speaks behind the glass he takes to his lips. “I believe there’s much to gain in here.”

“What’s there to gain?”

“Liberty.”

“By what means?”

No answer comes. As you now start to study him, you come to see him as not the villain many folks had moulded him to, but not the hero either. Somewhere in between.

Aemond doesn’t say. Silence again hangs in between you, but this time it has not the same shades of awkwardness.

By the end of the dinner, he is leading you back to your quarters. He sees that you still shake when he takes your hand.

“Lady Y/N…”

You look at him, deprived of your pride.

“Y-Yes?”

“This would all be different had you not openly rebelled against me on behalf of phantoms. I sought about the whereabouts of the princes myself and didn’t find them. Why letting yourself be the pawn of others game?”

You lower your eyes so he doesn’t see the depth of melancholy that has hammered these questions long ago, but the king lifts your chin, there gently holding it.

“What other choice did I have? You, of all, should understand what is like to be tied to the family. Have you never sacrificed anything for them?”

Aemond contemplates you in silence, words that echo that fatidic night where his mother claimed Lucerys’s eye for the loss he suffered.

“I have”, he admits. “More than you will ever know.”

A ghostly smile is seen forming shyly on your lips.

“Then we are not different. Soldiers, like you said.”

And then you stop by the door. Looking back at him, you find the king staring at you. Why, this time, does his intent stare shake you? Why do the parallels between you two bring something more?

Worse is, why does your prison doesn’t feel like one anymore?

***

Aemond leaves the council, certain that no more rebellions will spread. There had been no more words from Pyke, though he’s more than aware that the remaining of your brothers might attempt something in not a near future for he’s been informed that they plan another sack at Lannisport.

In that order, he instructs his spy to pay enough gold to have the Greyjoys protecting the bays of Westeros if they occasionally let go of supporting names that are nothing but a memory of days long put to rest.

However, a question remains: what to do with you?

***

You are allowed to walk freely through the castle. At first this intrigues you. As you love the unknown, you occasionally lose your fear as you start to explore this new environment.

But when going to the gardens and there spotting the sea, your heart aches. As you contemplate those calm waters, you wonder why your father had sent you in such a suicidal mission. He knew you had won previously in placid seas. It was never prudent to combat in ugly storms.

Such are your thoughts that you do not see him coming. Aemond has realized that for a long while he hasn’t come to enjoy a feminine companion, gotten now used to you.

Like a hawk in guard, he sets his good eye to scrutiny over you. This time, your beauty captivates his sight. Your y/c hair, falling down to the mid of your back, is only partially tied according to the local fashion; he notices it’s cleaner and better brushed too. As the sun lights on it, it makes it shine in almost a different shade of y/c.

The gown you dress is silk made and it slips delicately in your body, shaping your curves. Aemond’s good eye notices your hips, how firm they are. He thinks you look good in red and black, the colors of his house. This perception makes him smirk unconsciously.

Feeling you have been under observation, you promptly turn in defense mood, admonishing yourself for letting your guards down, until you see it’s the king, your captor, who’s been the observer.

“Staring is rude”, you do not know how else to greet him and curtsying is not an option; this means that you are subduing to his authority, and as much as you are thankful for his clemency to you, you still have your pride.

Aemond notices it, which amuses. Nothing different that what would have he done, had he been in your shoes.

“Not greeting your king properly is as well”, he remarks. “I thought that even the Greyjoys had some manners.”

You scoff at him in defiance.

“Who do you take us for? Barbarians?”

“No”, Aemond wrings his hands behind his back in his usual composed posture. “Only a folk who is often on combat with their own kin when not assaulting other shores.”

“Please”, you snarl in response. “Says the one who came to power after murdering a few of his own kin.”

Any sign of humor dissipates of the king’s eyes. Darkness casts its shadow upon his face and your smirk is instantly wiped off yours. You instantly regret saying it so, even though you cannot understand why.

“Do not speak of matters that you don’t understand”, the king addresses you in a cold tone.

“Then you should not judge a life that you never lived.”

No one admits defeat. Pride takes victory, thus separating one from the other. For the moment.

***

But your remorse begins to hammer against your conscience. You know if you wanted to make your way, you would. Perhaps seducing the king to buy your ticket to liberty.

As days turn into months and these begin to slowly turn into another year, no signs of the Greyjoys in avenging you shows that there is no point in going back home.

Have you been tamed? You fear to find the answer. It’s when you come for him.

“I need to find His Grace”, you ask Ser Criston, his closest advisor.

The knight looks down upon you and you detest to feel small by this man’s gaze. I’m still a Kraken’s daughter. But you keep the thought to yourself.

“He’s occupied at the moment.”

Sounds come from the king’s bedchambers and you narrow your eyes at what you hear. Why are you flinching upon hearing these scandalous noises?

You do not answer the knight. Lifting your chin, you storm out, perhaps prompted to do something very impulsive.

Which is, for now, getting yourself drunk. Now familiarized with the kitchen and collecting a few friends amongst the servants, you get yourself some good bottles to yourself.

“I do not think wise that you should drink alone, my lady”, a maid responsible to look after you named Gisla tells you concerned.

“Who cares if wine takes my breath away, dear? I am forsaken by all, a prisoner whose life turned into dust.”

As you lock yourself in your bedchambers, you get to wonder why the possibility that the king has found lovers to warm his bed should affect you.

Trying to dissipate these uninviting thoughts, you begin to unlace the gown he gifted you, ready to toss it in fire. Pouring wine in the glass, you try to release your caged spirit in the best way you can.

Now wearing nothing more than undergarments, you open the window in search of fresh air. Moon rises high at sky and when looking at the reflection it casts down the sea, melancholy strikes again.

Having calmed your temper, you start to reason with yourself. Who are you now? A memory that remains, a survivor long forsaken? As you taste the sweet flavor of red wine—Dornish, you are sure—you don’t see the king getting to your chambers.

Aemond is dressed in his usual robes, but looking somehow less than a royal. He throws his cape at the seat, his good eye scrutinizing over your melancholy. Almost twelve months have passed and somehow one remains unreachable for the other.

Under moonlight, he spots a free spirit caged. A woman born to rule, his other half in another life if defeat was meant to him. He did to her what others would do to him. And he realizes how unjust he was.

To secure his throne, he did what he must. But growing used to you, he refuses to let you go. The mere thought of you abandoning him is… unacceptable.

Nevertheless, the king wishes to compensate you. Desire arises, sparked by perhaps his utmost selfishness in keeping you with him.

Or perhaps you are only a gift by the Gods to put an end to this misery. His head is heavy with the crown he wears, a burden that tests his limits and feeds his ambitions.

Yet, all is set aside when he looks at you. Slowly he comes behind you. Sensing an enigmatic presence behind you, you abruptly turn only to find him this close to you.

“Lord king! Your Grace!”, you exclaim out of short breath.

“I see we are welcomed properly now, my lady”, he never noticed until now how deep your y/c eyes are, as if sea is calling him. “I have missed you.”

You scoff, trying to find a way out of his arms, but Aemond doesn’t let you to.

“Will you please let me go?”

“Nay. I was prepared to do so, but I am a selfish man, Y/N. I care about you.”

You clench your jaw, frustrated. So many men have been pushed away, despised and looked down by you, but this king… When you look up, you are trapped.

“You care not!”, your voice betrays your spiritual state. “You have been whoring!”

Aemond’s eye twinkles with amusement. He is now holding your wrists as he pushes you against the wall, his knee gently parting your legs. You feel a strange ache burning your womanhood, rising to your chest.

“What makes you think I was?”

His long, slander pale fingers wrap around your fingers, eyeing your chest with lust, perceiving the hardened nipples under the white nightgown you dress. Then he raises his eyes only to meet your inexpressible face completely red.

“I… It doesn’t matter how I think when it’s a fact”, you try to protest, but it dies incomplete in your throat the moment Aemond gently rubs his knee against your entrance.

You should not enjoy this, but by the Kraken, here is no ordinary man.

“And if it was? Why would you care?”, he is pleased to find some reaction in your eyes at the moment he speaks with his husky voice, a positive effect of him over you.

“I don’t”, you squeak as he continues doing what he’s been doing with his knee.

“Deny me, then. Send me away the way you sent your suitors all before”, Aemond defies you, aroused as you begin to rub against his knee, willingly this time.

Eyes locked in one gaze, no one is ready to surrender. Yet.

“My king should know better whom you speak to.”

“One day you’ll wake up with regrets if I leave.”

You move closer to take hold of his long face, fingertips daringly touching his cheeks, up to his eye—but despite your staring you don’t touch the eye patch. Letting them slip to his silvery hair, wrapping your fingers around his locks, pulling him closer to you.

“Will you dare to leave me, Aemond Targaryen?”

His eyelashes barely open as his lips remain close to yours, his left hand holding your waist as his right one leaves your neck, slipping vaguely and purposely over your breasts before resting over your waist.

“Will you stay, Y/N Greyjoy?”

When you dare to remove his eye-patch, Aemond surprises you by not fighting away your curiosity. Knowing how this means he trusts in you, it’s enough to knock down every other barrier you’ve held up to him.

“Must be exhausting to repress your sentiments to this anti-hero”, he stares at you intently.

“It is”, you gasp, spreading your legs as his hand finally moves under the skirt of your nightgown. But he doesn’t make to your core, not yet, which makes you mewl.

Aemond side smirks at you, waiting to bend you to his will. You barely breathe, but this time you turn the tables by letting another hand finding the way to his pants.

“My lady!”

“You did not take me as a damsel, did you?”, you chuckle, even though he sees you are misleading in your eyes.

In truth, as you feign a confidence you don’t have, all you did was having a limited experience with men. So you did know some things as he can tell by the form your fingers skillfully unlace his pants and…

“Shit!”, Aemond curses.

You giggle quietly, appreciating the mix of shock and libidinous in his wide-eyed gaze. It feels good to have his length throbbing against your hand, how you manage to have him under your control.

It feels so good to deflect him to you, to have captured your captor.

“Gods…”, his moans are sensually low, the pleasure stamped in his features making you wet in your legs.

What is meant to be an instrument of domination is now domineering you. And oh you want more… But then, you stop.

“Y/N…” Aemond groans in between annoyance and disbelief.

“I cannot do this”, you say, detesting to break the spell, but then…

He gives you a quizzical look, perhaps thinking many possibilities of why you are doing this to him after he let himself be so crudely open to you.

Precisely why you are surprising him again when you tell him.

“I am not your whore, Aemond. You either make me your wife and queen, or my life ends right here, right now”, you indicate with your head in direction to the opened window. “I am a Kraken’s daughter. I am the sea, I cannot be caged for longer.”

Maybe it’s the wine, but you are scarcely afraid of holding back a character that hasn’t fitted you for long.

“I grew to love you and even though I am forsaken by my family, more painful would be if I were deserted out of your heart.”

Aemond’s features sooth before your words. Indeed he’s been taken by surprise, a deed few would have claimed to do.

“You could have said this earlier”, says he, shortening the distance between you two, cupping your face with his. “I meant not to dishonor you, my lady.”

“I was afraid you would not…”

“…love you?”, he chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “I fucking do. Hence why I said I’m not prepared to let you escape. I cannot do so. And I am ready to make you my queen.”

One smile is enough to firm the peace between hearts in array.

***

• I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror. It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero…

Aemond admires the wild beauty that sleeps next to his side. His queen, at long last announced before the whole realm notwithstanding the disapproval of his council, his wife.

He begins to kiss your face, before burying his face against your hair. No more sorrow when your sea salt scent envolves him in a jolt of happiness never before experienced… not before Alys.

No more past to daunt his heart and torment his mind as his tongue slips to your ear, biting your earlobe and sliding to your neck, his hand pressing against your waist. His eyes remain glued at your peaceful, serene face, despite the shivers that begin on your skin and, as he discreetly pulls off the blankets, sees the exposed nipples hardening.

Aemond is careful not to wake you yet. Admiring your nude frame as his lips move to your neck, he keeps in mind the events of the day before. No protest came from Pyke as one of them is crowned their queen. But you are still resented to write them letters, despite the efforts of your brothers in renewing a direct alliance with the crown—to the Lannisters’ preoccupation.

The king is not here to please anybody, but you. He recollects how beautiful you were in a green, silk gown, appropriated for summer feasts. His mother’s tiara was placed above your head, and your hair down reinforced your sparkling beauty.

As his mouth leaves bruises against your skin, you move lightly, making incomprehensible noises. Aemond smirks, slowly turning over your body, always careful when doing so.

Contemplating your nudity under his gaze, he recollects the night before—and the nights beforehand where he took you as his wife, never able to leave your body, remembering how you mewled under his touch, how humbled you were when you begged.

“My lady likes to be commanded in bed”, he said in the occasion.

“Only you has possessed this right”, so you snapped in between short breaths.

Smiling at the retrospective moment, his lips now move delicate to mouth out your nipples, finally awaking you as his fingers move down to your womanhood.

“Oh Aemond!”, you cry out in pleasure, eyes open with despair, as your body reacts like a big wave sets to hit the shore violently.

“Yes, my lady?”, he takes his time in each nipple until your cries get louder, all the whilst his now two fingers make way deep inside you, already familiar with the walls that clench around it, the spot that is soon making you call his name.

And then…

“I need you!”, you whimper.

Your wishes are prompted complied. What a good way to start your tenure, you remember thinking. When looking at you, Aemond Targaryen knows he is not merely a king, but a man who finally found love in his lifetime.

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