#grief might be easy if there wasn’t still such beauty

[firstfullmoon]

Marie Howe, in an interview with BOMB Magazine

[justwinginglife]

OMG!! Please make a part 2 of Because I Love You! 😭😭😭 it was so saaaaad!!!!!

Part One

Because I Still Love You (Part 2 of a Series)

Soshiro was drunk on the memory of you, again. 

Sometimes he resisted you, reminded himself you weren’t his anymore. Other times he failed to properly reprimand himself, allowing himself a moment of reprieve from his sorrows, allowing himself to dream that you were real, that you were beside him, you were singing to him, playing with his hair, massaging his shoulders, kissing his cheeks. But all the time, all the time he missed you, all the time he ached for you.

If happiness fell in his lap, he wasn’t sure he’d know how to greet it anymore. His grief was his only companion -though it was less a companion and more a jailmate- and he gave it free reign to torment himself as penance for failing you. Sometimes he dreamed of drowning, of succumbing, of letting his sorrows be silenced at the bottom of some river somewhere. But death was too cheap, too easy, and his debt to you required more recompense. He had once offered you his life, and even though you wouldn’t have him anymore, he intended to make good on that payment. If he couldn’t live his life by your side, he’d at least spend his life atoning. He owed you this much. So he accepted his punishment, he welcomed his suffering. The pain was still more than he deserved because even his agony was a reminder that he’d once had something beautiful. That, even in hell, he’d once had heaven. 

He threw himself into his career, like any tortured soul did, but even his work that had once seemed so gratifying, that had once seemed so fulfilling, suddenly felt void of any purpose, of any meaning, when you weren’t there to give meaning to it. He wondered how he used to survive without you. How could his heart beat if it wasn’t keeping time with yours? How could his lungs swell if they weren’t filling up with your hallowed air? If he wasn’t so completely unable to feel anything else but the throbbing in his chest right now, he might’ve felt guilty that he suddenly wished he could turn back the time and unsave people, unmake every decision he’d ever made, unchoose every choice he’d ever chosen that had led him farther and farther away from you. 

What had he put you through? How consuming was the loneliness? How unloved did you feel? How afraid were you that he might not return? Were you relieved that he stopped returning? Were you thankful for a reason to free yourself from your shackles? Were you happy now that you were free? Were you happy?

He hoped you were happy, but selfishly, he also hoped you’d never be as happy as you were with him. And that, that he felt guilty for. How much had you done for him, how much had you saved him, and he still couldn’t find it in himself to wish you a good life without him. He wished you a content life, he loved you that much. He wished you a fine life. A decent life. A normal life. But he could never wish you a good life, a great life, a blissful life, a wonderful life, not when you weren’t by his side. So the guilt continued to wrack him in waves. 

He didn’t want to be bitter, didn’t want to be someone you’d be disappointed in. But suffering changed a man and he didn’t know who he was without you anymore. He didn’t like who he was without you. He didn’t know if he’d ever liked who he was before you and he certainly didn’t like who he was after you. You brought out the only version of himself that he could be proud of and now that you were gone, pride was a stranger again. Happiness was a stranger. 

He was so far gone, so riddled with depression, so drowned in delusion, that his sanity-deprived mind had started to hallucinate you on his way home. He had dragged his feet to the nearest station and that’s where he found you. You were waiting for a train. As the cool evening air fluttered your coat, he caught a glimpse of the swell underneath your shirt. He had always thought you looked beautiful, but something about being pregnant made you radiant, made you heavenly. He wondered if in this hallucination of his, the baby was his. Would his mind allow him the pleasure of having such a dream? He had thought he was past such desires, he had thought he had let go of such hopes. But there you were, rubbing your belly, and cooing to it as you passed the time, and he never thought you looked more beautiful in your entire life. He took a step towards you and time suddenly rushed forward. A breeze slammed into him as the train sped into view. Before he could take another step, you got on the train and the door began closing. 

“Wait!” He called out to you before he could think better of it. 

You looked up and met his gaze through the glass window. His heart stopped. 

Then he blinked and the train was gone. 

If that was a hallucination, it was the most vivid, most wonderful torment his mind had concocted thus far. Your eyes were still just as beautiful and perfect as the day he’d met you, as perfect as they had been every night he’d gazed into them, and every morning he’d awoke to them. But just like in all his nightmares, you were still too far from his reach. And the pain never ceased.

Weeks later, he was still reeling from the shock of such an intense hallucination, when he saw you again. This time you had no baby bump and his heart sank. He missed the image of you rounded with his love, or what he imagined was his. Now, you were making your way through the park with a package in your arms and he wondered what on earth his mind was picturing you doing this time. Whatever you were doing, you were getting closer and closer to him. He held his breath as he waited for the moment when your ghost would simply pass right through him. But you stopped in front of him and time froze again.

It seemed like you were about to say something to him but then the package in your arms started crying.

Soshiro watched in stunned silence as you comforted your baby. He blinked. Had he not hallucinated your pregnant figure on the train? Was he not hallucinating you now? He reached out to caress your face and sparks shot through him as his skin brushed against yours. 

Without missing a beat, you sighed and leaned into his touch, like you’d forgotten how to be anything else but his. Like you’d forgotten about all this time you’d been away from him. It was second nature, being his. His pull was magnetic and you found yourself drawn into his field, like you were settling yourself right back where you belonged.

It was him who pulled away first, still thinking you a hallucination, still grasping for some semblance of sanity. 

“Soshiro?” You finally spoke and he sucked in a breath at finally hearing your voice after all this time. 

Before you could speak again, he sank down to his knees, his arms wrapping around your calves. “Are you… are you actually here?” He murmured against your legs.

You laughed. “I am, are you okay? I’m a little concerned that you’re asking me something like that.”

He shook his head, tears starting to fill his eyes now. “I coulda swore I was dreaming when I saw you. Was that… was that really you on the train?”

You reached a hand down to pat his head. “It’s really me. Then and now.”

Suddenly he stood up straight again, as if he’d just remembered something, and his gaze finally focused itself on the baby in your arms. 

“Ah. Soshiro, meet Suki.” You positioned the baby so he could get a better look at her snuggled in your arms. 

He choked. “S-Suki…?”

You smiled. It seemed he remembered the name he picked out. 

“Is she…?”

“Yours? Yeah.” You said it so simply, but inside, your heart was raging. Wondering what he’d say. How he’d react. It’d been so long, did he even still love you? Would he love her? Would he want to be part of her life, of your life? Did you want him to be part of your life? You had left for a reason. He wasn’t supposed to know. 

But fate, or maybe muscle memory, kept dragging you to his favorite spots, to the parks he liked, the restaurants he frequented, the train he took home from work. It was like every fiber of your being was begging you to find him, to go back home to him. You could work out all the messy details later, all you needed was him. And nothing was more obvious than that as you watched him press a gentle kiss to Suki’s forehead. 

“God, she looks just like you.” He whispered, breathless. “You’re just as perfect as your mother, aren’t you sweetheart?” He cooed as he gazed fondly at her. 

Your heart skipped a beat. It skipped so many beats you thought it’d just clammer to a stop. Could you dare to dream? Did you dare to ask? 

“Baby…” He murmured, his gaze finding you again as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your cheeks responded to his pet name before the rest of you could. 

He winced as he watched you turn red. “Sorry, am I allowed to call you that? Do you,” He looked around for a moment, “Do you have another man now? Does he take care of you?”

You quickly shook your head, not wanting him to misunderstand you. “I could never love anyone but you, baby,” You eased back into the pet names to reassure him, “It’s always been you.”

He sighed a breath of relief, the repose long overdue. “I’m so sorry I drove you away, I know I can never make it up to you, but dammit, I’ll try. Please let me try, I want to try.”

You shook your head again, resting a hand on his arm. “What do you mean you drove me away? You could never drive me away, not even if you came at me with a wrecking ball. Love, where are you getting these ideas?”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “But you… but you left. I wasn’t home. And, and you left. I-I wasn’t enough to… to keep you.”

Your heart sank. Suddenly, the bags under his eyes became all too clear, the paleness of his skin became all too obvious. You wondered how you hadn’t noticed before. You had been so busy focusing on just keeping your breaths even as you took each shaky step towards him, you hadn’t realized he must’ve been holding his breath waiting for you too. He must’ve been suffering as much as you had, if not more. At least you left knowing that he still loved you. But he had to wonder if you’d ever loved him at all. Your own stupidity pained you. Your intentions may have been good but their aftermath was not. 

“You’re more than enough, my love, please don’t ever say that. I’m so sorry I left you. It’s my fault. I wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t want to make you choose between the Defense Force or me and the baby, and I didn’t know how to tell you that.”

“But I would’ve picked you baby, everyday, I would’ve picked you. You never have to worry about that,” He insisted, pulling you closer to him and resting his forehead up against yours.

You sighed. “I know you would’ve picked me and that’s the problem. You would have regretted leaving your job and I didn’t want you to regret anything. But now I regret making that choice for you. I regret every second that passed that you weren’t by my side. I missed you. I still miss you.”

“So come home then. Love me now, we’ll figure out the plan later. We always do. But we’ll do it together.”

You nodded repeatedly. “Okay, baby. Okay. Anything for you.”

He took the baby from you, allowing your aching arms a break. 

Then for the first time in the last 9 months, he smiled. 

“Let’s go home, love.”

[the-case-book-of-fanfiction]

Little Love

Love Bites, Chapter 3 // Love Bites {Masterlist}

Ship: Astarion Ancunin x fem!vampire spawn!elf!Tav/reader

Summary: Appearances can be deceiving, but they can also tell you everything you need to know. A second look at the elf you once called a friend is all you need to fill in the two-hundred year gap.

Word Count: 4,631 words

Warnings: flashback within a flashback (your perspective), alcohol, Astarion's parents (I gave them my own names), grave desecration, grief

☟ Continue below the fold ☟

Astarion never went back to the same tavern twice. Not for many years, at least. But, against his better judgment, he went back to yours, three nights later.

He wasn’t sure what was drawing him back, not really. It wasn’t as if this particular tavern seemed very promising. Its patrons were, well, regular people. Nothing about them seemed particularly special. In fact, it was probably more dangerous to be going back so soon—for all Astarion knew, Rahul’s friends were still loitering there and would kill him the moment they saw the man Rahul had left the tavern with. The last man who ever saw Rahul alive. 

His other victims from the past two nights were inconsequential. They hadn’t insisted on telling him their names, the male druid and female elf who had each been a little more than an hour’s worth of his time combined. They had been easy targets, lonely people who were all too easy to seduce. He almost felt bad for them. But not as bad as he felt about Rahul. Both nights, Astarion had jolted out of his trances with a shout upon hearing Rahul’s screams in his dreams again. Both times, he’d been rewarded by Godey with a whipping. 

Even as he walked into the tavern, Astarion wasn’t sure what he was doing. It was only after the door had swung shut behind him, hitting a little bell as it did, and you looked over from the bar and raised a hand in greeting did he realize why he’d come back.

He locked eyes with you as he made his way toward a small table in the corner. He paused, watching you. There was something in your eyes that made the tension in his shoulders disappear. 

You’d done your hair differently today. It was braided back, a couple strands of it loose around your face, clearly having escaped during your work. Your beautiful face had morphed into an expression of surprise, like you were shocked to see him here again.

But there was something else in it—the slightest bit of repressed hope, an expression Astarion had seen all too often on the faces of his victims just before they died, when they still thought he might save them from his master. 

On your face, though, hope was comforting. You looked almost…relieved to see him. 

Before he realized what he was doing, Astarion turned toward the bar and sat directly in front of you. He heard your breath catch in your throat and your pulse speed up and for a moment he felt a twinge of regret. You, too, would make an easy target. 

You recovered quickly, however. You finished wiping down the bartop and dropped the rag into the sink. You leaned on the bartop. “What can I get you tonight, sir?”

“A glass of your finest red wine,” he says after a moment of thought. 

Something minute in your face changed. You blinked too fast and hid the look in your eyes, but for a moment the façade of a bartender serving a patron disappeared. It was only a second, but was enough for the gears in Astarion’s head to start turning.

You laughed with a smile on your face. “You’re going to have to be more specific, hun. The ‘finest red wine’ changes from person to person. What kind of flavor are you going for?”

Hun. The moniker stood out in Astarion’s mind, dominating every other word you’d said. Hun, short for honey, and for some reason, he could hear the complete word in your voice: softer, gentler, loving. Not at all the way a bartender speaks to her patrons. 

Only after you raised your brow did Astarion remember you’d asked him a question. He shook himself out of his head. “Oh, something full-bodied,” he said. 

“Now that I can work with,” you said. You turned to search your shelves and Astarion watched you release a long breath very slowly. You wiped your palms on your pants before reaching up and sliding a bottle from its place. You presented the bottle to him. “How about this?”

Astarion studied the label and vintage. “I’ll admit, I’ve never heard of it,” he said, shrugging idly. “But if you think I’ll like it, I’m inclined to trust you.”

He watched you cut off the wax seal and uncork the bottle. You poured enough for a tasting into the glass and slid it across the bartop to him. 

“How does that taste?”

Astarion sniffed the wine before swallowing it down. Pleasantly, it didn’t taste like vinegar, like most wines he’d had the bad luck to drink in tavern after tavern. He could taste the alcohol and the grapes and the blackberry undertones easily, all melding together wonderfully.

“This,” he said, passing back the glass, “is absolutely what I am looking for.”

You grinned and filled up the glass. “I thought it might be.”

Astarion swirled his glass while you re-corked the bottle and set it in ice. He watched as you helped another patron sitting at the bar, a middle-aged woman complaining about her husband being out of work and asking if there was perhaps a job for him at the tavern.

You calmed her as you made her cocktail, talking soothingly and nodding in sympathy as she complained about trying to feed their infant. It was your sympathy that made Astarion feel pity for the woman. 

Something about you was achingly familiar. There were times when you spoke, certain words that you said, that struck a chord in him, simply because they sounded familiar. The way you moved behind the bar, so graceful in a space that was unbearably small, seemed comfortable to Astarion, as if he would be able to anticipate your movements and react accordingly if he were to join you behind the bar. 

It was almost painful, this feeling of familiarity and alienation combining in one person. It was like the nights when Astarion first realized he was forgetting his life before being a vampire where he would sit in the dark and grasp at straws for pieces of his life, only for his mother’s face to fade into nothingness and his father’s voice to be lost in the shadows forever and—

A twinge of pain split through Astarion. It was nothing compared to the pain Cazador or Godey regularly inflicted on him, but it was enough to make him flinch anyway. He rubbed his temple as if he could will the building migraine away.

Your eyes flicked over to him, watching the motion with concern, but it just confused Astarion further. You reacted to him so readily, so easily. If it hadn’t been for how innately close and familiar you felt, Astarion would simply have chalked it up to your attraction for him. It wasn’t unlike his prey to keep a close eye on him. But he hadn’t even picked you as his victim for the night, he hadn’t even attempted to seduce you yet. This was entirely of your own accord. 

You gave the woman her drink and pulled your braid over your shoulder as you helped the female tiefling Astarion had seen and considered taking back to Cazador the other day. Suddenly he was very glad he hadn’t; the disappearance of a regular might have been enough to force him out of this part of town for several months at least. 

Astarion glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the tavern. He didn’t see the group Rahul had been with anywhere; perhaps they had already moved on, without a care in the world for their lost friend or comrade or what have you.

Perhaps they thought Rahul had settled into a happy life with a nice young man and would be staying here to live out his days, enjoying nights of passion and drinks at a nice tavern and playing the protector of the pretty boy elf he’d left with. 

Astarion wasn’t sure if it was for his own sake or Rahul’s that he wished that such a fantasy was what they believed. 

As you gave the tiefling a glass of champagne, your eyes strayed back to Astarion. He caught your glance and grinned.

“Surprised to see me still sitting here?” he teased.

You shrugged. “You were here three days ago and vanished without a trace. Forgive me if I feel like you might blow away in the wind.”

“Sometimes it feels like I might.” The words slipped out without any thought behind them. For a moment, Astarion wondered what the hell was wrong with him to dare say such a thing, but your sympathetic smile soothed him.

The talent of a well-practiced bartender, he thought. Get your patrons to loosen up, ply them for more liquor, take home more money—all by smiling and charming and flirting. From one actor to another, I must hand it to her. She’s quite good at this kind of thing.

“Wanna talk about it?” you asked, propping your head up on your hand. The movement exposed more of your cleavage, but judging from the look in your eyes, Astarion guessed that wasn’t your purpose in the movement. You genuinely wanted him to open up.

Your gaze stopped him from speaking. Your eyes were clear and focused entirely on him. You weren’t like the other bartenders he’d chatted up in the past, with their shifting eyes betraying how they were never really focused on him but instead on their tavern and the other patrons they could squeeze more coin out of. 

And, what’s more, your lips formed a soft smile. Joy and love and the sun itself seemed to radiate from you and your expressive face. You looked at him the way a young woman ought to look at her betrothed, with the purity of young love, much more genuine than the pseudo-love and lust he so often saw in his victims. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Astarion whispered, unable to stop himself from asking. 

You realized yourself quite suddenly. Your face dropped and Astarion wanted to beg you to look at him like that again, to apologize and say he never wanted you to stop looking at him like that—he just wanted to know why? Why had you chosen him to be the object of your affections?

Your eyes dipped to the bartop, where his fingers still held the stem of his glass. “I’m sorry,” you said softly. “You— You remind me of someone I know. Someone I miss.”

“A lover?” Astarion guessed, attempting to make it into a tease.

“More than that,” you said, your voice impossibly soft and serious. You fiddled with the strings on your corset. “He was my best friend.”

Astarion’s heart sank in his chest. “Was?”

You nodded slowly. “He died. A long, long time ago.” You shake yourself out of the sorrow that settled on you like a blanket. “You just so happen to look a lot like him. Hells, you even sound like him, just a little bit. I’m sorry if that made…this…strange. You just…sort of brought him back to me, for a moment.”

“Not at all,” Astarion said quietly. “I’m…happy to have brought you that.”

You nodded, lost in your thoughts, your eyes fixated on his. Your lower lip trembled. You sought words, but came up empty handed. All you said was, again, “You remind me of him.”

~❊~

It’s him. By the gods, it’s really him.

You kept busy for the rest of the night, watching Astarion out of the corner of your eye. For he was Astarion, you were certain of that now. Hearing his voice, smooth and suave and the same as you remembered had confirmed it for you. The moment he’d requested your finest red wine, you could hear him calling you darling, could hear your name rolling off his tongue. 

He didn’t remember you, that much was obvious. Some part of you was glad he didn’t, because you weren’t sure what you would have done if he had remembered who you were. You had to focus on that gladness, or else you were going to focus on the disappointment, which made you want to sit on the floor and cry like you had when you’d first received word that he was dead—the kind of crying that left you shaking and never seemed to stop and sounded more like screams than anything else. 

You were also quite certain he would not be flirting with the young elf sitting next to him if he remembered you, his best friend since birth and lover of nearly two decades. 

Perhaps even more obvious than his lack of memory was how he was alive—or rather, undead, for it was quite clear he was a vampire. He was careful to hide his fangs, but the red eyes were enough for you to know, combined with the paleness of his skin and the color of the skin around his eyes. It might have been two hundred years, but you knew your lover well-enough to know he had not been quite so pale in his life. 

The realization of what he was answered a question that had lingered in your mind for years, ever since you’d paid a visit to his desecrated grave. The city had explained the dug-up earth to be the vandalism of the gang that had first attacked and killed him and had assured you and the Ancunins that Astarion’s coffin had not been touched; his body remained inside.

Clearly, they had been wrong. 

You glanced at Astarion. The smug, seductive, confident look on his face was that of a practiced lover, nothing like the goofy and slightly shy boy you had made love to. You wondered what happened, but knew a lot could happen in the two hundred years between now and that terrible night. 

~❊~

The Ancunins walked hand-in-hand. You were just ahead of them, leading the way to their son’s grave, a plot you had chosen to keep their beautiful boy in the sun at high noon. It was far from high noon now; they had chosen to visit the grave in the night, certain they would be attacked by the Gur who had killed their boy if they were seen mourning. 

It was a beautiful night, the kind of night you and Astarion would have loved. He would have held your hand and helped you to climb up to the roof, and you would have sat there for hours, cuddling and talking and admiring the stars he’d been named after. He would have told you about his day at work and played with your bracelets and rings when talking about the difficult rulings he’d made that day made him anxious all over again. He would have wrapped his cloak around your shoulders when you got cold. He would have kissed your nose when you asked to go back to the safety of the bed you shared. He would have helped you climb down and would have put you to bed, only to go stand on the balcony to stare up at the sky for a few moments more. 

He loved the night, and this was the kind of night he would have wanted to have lasted forever: not so cold that you shivered instantly, but cold enough to have a chill bite in the air. Bats danced in the air and wisps of clouds moved across the moon and stars. Pale light illuminated the world in a hauntingly beautiful way. It seemed particularly cruel. 

His mother trembled terribly. Already, silver tear tracks stained her cheeks. You had never seen Selwynn so frail, so scared. Even when she’d found out her son had been murdered, she hadn’t been the skeleton she was now. No, then she had been a fire, screaming and raging and demanding answers until the tears started coming. Now she was a ghost, silent and pale, her veins stark against her skin. All the life and color had drained from her in the past few days. 

His father fared better, but not by much. Thesan’s eyes were sunken, his hair matted and limp, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, though he had not cried at all since he heard the news, unlike his wife. He hadn’t been resting, but then again, none of you had. More than once, your mother had stumbled across you in the night to find you in the kitchen, staring sightlessly into the dark, a glass of water held limply in your hand.

You were glad you hadn’t let them see the body. Looking at them now, you were certain it would have broken them to see their golden boy without life. It had been enough to break you; let them, at least, live out their long lives with their last memories of their son being of him alive and smiling and kissing them goodbye as he left for work. 

Somewhere in the graveyard, an owl called. Another answered. Mice squeaked and scattered nearby, scurrying for shelter amongst the fallen leaves and in the shadows of tall graves. 

“Where is he?” Astarion’s mother asked. Her voice was little more than a faint whisper, lost easily in the slightest breeze. Gone was the strong, operatic voice that had once sung her son to sleep when he was little. “Where’s my son?”

“Patience, darling,” Thesan said, sounding just as—if not more—tired as she. 

“He’s just ahead,” you promised. You looked forward to where you knew his grave to be. Through the grey dark, you read his name on the stone and it felt wrong, like it went against the grain of your life to see him like this—a stone instead of a young man. 

The three of you came to a rest before the headstone. You took a step back and let them crouch before their son. Silence fell heavily over them and the cemetery. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes; you looked down so they couldn’t see you cry. They’d seen enough of your tears. 

“Astarion,” Selwynn whispered, her voice wavering. She reached out to touch the stone, tracing her son’s name carved into it with care. For a moment, she seemed to be at peace, looking at his name. It didn’t last. In moments, she crumbled with a cry that was a cross between a sob and a scream. 

She keeled forward, grabbing the stone and pressing her forehead to it. She inhaled sharply and coughed on her own tears. When she finally cleared her throat, helped by her husband rubbing her back, her cries became wails that shook her entire body. The freshly turned dirt beneath her began to stain her pale grey dress. 

Thesan puts an arm around his wife’s back, comforting her the only way he could, and he put his palm on the top of the stone. He began murmuring in Elvish, too low for you to hear clearly, but you caught a few words and understood he was whispering for his son to find safety in the afterlife, until he was reborn. After a moment, his broad shoulders began to shake and your heart cracked in half as you realized he was crying for the first time. His tears interrupted his speech every so often.

You wiped your tears from your eyelashes and sat on the ground. You hugged your legs to your chest, biting your lip so hard you drew blood to keep yourself from crying again. 

His father looked up at the starry sky, a fist raised in anger. “He’s still a child!” he shouted. “A child! And he’s in the godsdamned ground!”

A sharp cry came from Astarion’s mother and she got to her feet so quickly she knocked her husband to the ground. She looked at you and you rose from where you sat.

“I can’t stay here,” she gasped through tears. “He’s beneath me. I can’t— He— He shouldn’t be… He should be in my arms! In your arms! But he’s beneath me!” 

She looked at the ground like she might start digging it up to see her little boy again. You took her hands in hers, holding her tightly. 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to stay. You can go. It’s okay. He’ll understand. He knows, I promise you he knows,” you whispered. A tear rolled down your cheek. 

Selwynn squeezed her eyes shut. “I just want him to be okay…”

“He is okay,” you promised. “He is with the gods. They’ll send him back to us, one day, in a new body.”

Her lower lip trembled. “But he won’t be my son anymore.”

“There can always be more children,” Thesan started, speaking hesitantly.

“No!” she snapped, almost screamed, at him. She drew in a deep breath and shook her head. Calmer, she repeated, “No.”

He nodded. “I thought not.” He wrapped her in his arms and she cried into his chest. He opened his arm to you and you joined them in their hug. “You are still our daughter, even if you are not marrying our son. You are…the only family we have left.”

A small sob escaped you. Your body trembled as you looked up at him; you had always thought Astarion resembled his mother more, but now all you could see was the man Astarion would never get to be in his father’s face. “Thank you.”

He kissed his wife’s hair. “Come, darling. We should get home. You need to rest.”

You led them out of the cemetery. It was only after you were closing the gate leading into it that Selwynn stopped short, gasping loudly.

“Flowers! I— I forgot to put flowers on his grave,” she moaned, folding her hands above her heart. She glanced at the flowers outside the gate door. “I have to go back—”

“I’ll do it,” you said. “Get some rest. You need it. You deserve it, after all of this.”

“He deserves flowers from his mother,” she said weakly.

“In the morning,” Thesan said. “When all of this has died down, we can come back and pay him our respects.”

You shared a look of understanding with him; even if it took weeks, months, years for Baldur’s Gate to stop reeling from this crime and for the Gur to calm down from the ruling—which was being reversed later in the week, much to the relief of everyone else who the Gur had believed complicit in Astarion’s actions and who had feared for their own lives—the Ancunins would visit their son again to say farewell when they could finally do so in peace.

You watched them go. Several long, silent minutes passed, but you waited until they were out of your sight and you were alone before you bent to pick flowers for your lover. You chose them carefully, plucking only the most vibrant and tallest and fullest for him. Once you had a sizable bouquet of wildflowers in your hand, you headed back through the cemetery and search out Astarion’s headstone again. You found it easily, but your heart stopped beating when you saw it.

Something was wrong. You knew it instantly. The already chill air seemed to turn frigid as you looked at the plot. It was too dark, too big, spilling into the spaces next to it. It looked nothing like it did only minutes ago. 

An iron tang filled your nose, distinct and wrong and laced with something you could only describe as evil. 

You ran, dodging around headstones to get to the grave—to get to Astarion—as fast as possible.

I couldn’t protect him that night. I have to protect him now!

Mud squelched beneath your feet, smelling strongly of blood and death. You looked at it in horror; it was a mix of dirt and gravel and clay from deep in the earth, all of it soaked in blood. All of it in piles, coming from the center of Astarion’s grave. 

The smell was worse than the sight: chemicals of entombment, the body’s natural gasses, blood, vomit, sweat, urine. Something about it seemed alcoholic and heady, making you sway on your feet, though you knew that could easily just be from your disgust. 

But worst of all, his stone was splattered with the terrible mixture. 

Your stomach dropped to your feet and then rose to your throat. You cupped a hand over your mouth to keep back your bile. Tears streamed down your face.

A moment. You had been gone only a moment. And in that time, someone—or multiple someones—had come and desecrated your lover’s grave, as if killing him had been enough. 

You fell to your knees with a gut-wrenching scream. You bent in half, clutching the flowers to your chest, clenching your teeth tightly. You bit down on your hand to keep from screaming again.

Muffled sobs ripped themselves from your chest. “Astarion,” you gasped. “Astarion, I’m sorry! I’m so fucking sorry! I— I— I’ll fix this! I promise! I’ll…I’ll speak to the town’s jury, I’ll get them to punish whoever did it— Gods, your grave. Your beautiful stone…”

Mindlessly, you put the flowers aside. You stepped around the muddy mess of chopped up dirt and pulled out your handkerchief. You cleaned the stone with it as best as you could, using your fingers and spit when the cloth was too dirty to do anything else but push the gunk around. 

“There,” you said when it was as clean as you could get it. “Clean. Clean like you.”

You looked at the turned grave dirt. “I have to fix this, too. Your parents—I can’t let them see you like this, can I? They’ll be devastated.” 

You got back on your knees and began shoving the dirt back over the grave, patting it back down and drenching your hands and arms with bloody dirt. As you worked, you spoke to him: “I’ll get this all sorted out in the morning, love, I promise. I’ll get you justice. I won’t stand for this, Astarion. I’ll talk to someone first thing tomorrow morning. They’ve already killed you, can’t they just leave you be? Is dying not enough for—for a simple ruling? Yes, I admit, it wasn’t the best decision you could have made, but there had to be a better solution than…than mugging you in a godsdamned alleyway and then desecrating your grave! At the very least, if they can’t respect you, can’t they have some respect for your parents? For me? Your mother doesn’t deserve this endless pain!” You sighed, leaning back and wiping your forehead. Some part of you, the rational part, was aware that you had streaked blood and dirt all over yourself, but the part of you working didn’t care very much. “Of course, I can’t make you too pretty yet, Astarion. I’m sorry, but no one will believe me if I fix you up perfectly. But I can at least make it look like you haven’t been graverobbed.”

You worked for several more minutes. At last, you staggered to your feet, a wave of exhaustion passing through you. 

“You know what?” you said to the headstone. “I’m not waiting until morning. I’m going to go talk to someone right now. I can’t let you stay like this all night. Not when your stars are shining down on you.” Dimly, you were aware that you looked like a graverobber and that you looked insane—but that would probably help your case. “I’ll be back soon, Astarion. I promise I won’t leave you alone like this.”

You began to walk away from his stone. Only a few paces away, you paused and turned around. You stared up at the sky and pointed up at it as if you could command it to watch over your dead lover while you were gone. 

Once more, you knelt to kiss his name. 

☞ ❊ ☜

[Image Caption: I do not give permission to repost, translate, or publish my work on any other site or app by anyone except myself. I do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI (for audio, art, or writing).]

Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Ancunin

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[dilf-issues]

Your Eyes Tell: 3 | T.S

Synopsis: Tommy could never accept a whore to love. But he did anyways, however his ego and pride might be the death of him.

Chapter Summary: Tommy is trying his best however, his efforts might not be noticed when an American mercenary meddles in their lives.

Warnings: None?

A/N: SPECIAL APPEARANCE BY CHRIS EVAN’s STEVE ROGERS WHOOOO. It’s my fic I can do whatever I want even if it means connecting two universes in one. Everything is non-canon. Should I change it to Thomas Shelby x Reader x Steve Rogers? Lol 🤨

PART 1 | PART 2

.

Y/N's once vibrant life had faded into a gray, monotonous existence. The colors of the world seemed muted, the laughter and joy of others an alien sound. The mere act of getting through the day had become a battle against her own mind, her thoughts constantly haunted by the memories of her lost baby. She longed for a way out, a ray of sunlight to penetrate the darkness that enveloped her soul, but the weight of grief and despair held her fast, refusing to loosen its grip.

Tommy had changed. He had changed completely, well, at least it was with her. He was still the same terrifying man in the Peaky Blinders. People had still feared him, and now they had feared approaching Y/N too.

Tommy had never put her under Peaky Blinder’a protection, he thought it wasn’t necessary. However, now, if any man or woman would as much as lay a single finger on her they would make their maker and Tommy wasn’t going to make it easy and smooth either, he would make them suffer.

These past few weeks, Tommy had tried everything to lift her spirits. He spent countless hours trying to cheer her up, showering her with words of encouragement and reassurances. He planned romantic dates and surprised her with small gestures of affection, hoping to bring back a glimpse of the woman he had fallen in love with. But no matter his efforts, the cloud of her depression remained over her, seemingly impenetrable, as if the very mention of the word ‘happiness’ was a foreign concept to her anguished heart.

Every time Tommy wanted to take her somewhere, she would refuse but Tommy never gave up he still tried. However, Polly had assured him that sooner or later she would move on but it would take some time. The once impatient man suddenly felt like he had all the time in the world

Tommy was is his office, as he always is--when he heard a a soft knock coming from his door, “Come in!” He grumbled as the door slowly opened.

“What?” Tommy questioned nonchalantly, his eyes never leaving the papers he was reading over.

“T-Tommy”

His heart had seemingly dropped at the voice that he recognized so well, for some reason his heart was pounding in his chest as he felt chills coarse through his body. It’s been a while since he heard her call his name.

“My love...” He breathed out, stopping whatever he was doing as he immediately stood up and walked towards her, leaning over his desk as he gestured for her to take a seat, “Is everything, alright? Is there anything that I can do? Anything?”

His voice had sounded so soft, hopeful, laced with a hint of happiness when he had heard her voice. Something she still wasn’t used to. Tommy sounded like this for the first few months she had met him but for some reason, his demeanor quickly changed as the years went by.

“I w-was thinking...” Her voice that were once soft, was now husky. She had spent so much time screaming and crying that her voice had changed but that didn’t make her any less beautiful in Tommy’s eyes, “I want to cook in the Garrison a-again”

His eyes softened at her request. He wanted so badly to impose, he wanted her to stay at home and continue to heal. Heal everything from her mind and her body. However, there was no danger if she wanted to continue working at the Garrison, it was filled with his men, and anything that happened to her, Tommy would end the world. Burn everything down to the ground if anybody tried to touch her.

“I’ll make the Garrison yours, love. If that’s what you want, you can do anything with it. You can bake again? Remember? You used to love to bake ur meat pies and everyone loved them” Tommy acknowledged, he remembered those days when Y/N would cook for everyone and they loved it. Tommy just wished he appreciated her meals more.

“No... I just want to do some work, make myself useful... And I’m sure Harry wouldn’t be too happy” The reason why she was keen on working in the Garrison is because she is trying to distract herself. Nobody knew about it but every night she couldn’t sleep due to the nightmares she was getting from what happened to her. She just felt so tired of having the same thing replaying in her mind over and over again, maybe if she kept herself busy, everything would be okay.

“Harry doesn't mind, I can make sure of that” Tommy protested, however, Y/N shook her head at his offer, “Well, fine then... I guess I can make some arrangements with Harry. If that makes you happy, it’ll make me happy”

Tommy had reached out, wanting to embrace her in his arms but Y/N flinched at the sudden contact, making Tommy stop in his tracks.

“I’m sorry, love... I shouldn't have done that” In his mind, he was disappointed and his heart was broken. He pushed his feelings away as he softly smiled at her.

Y/N turned around without saying anything else, leaving Tommy all alone with his thoughts.

He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, it seems like every day the only thing he could feel...

…Was regret.

.

“Uh… alright Y/N, just do whatever you want, yeah? But don’t push yourself too much” Harry mumbled, avoiding her eyes. It was unusual for Harry to treat her this way, however, his mind recalled back at what happened yesterday.

HARRY’S FLASHBACK.

“You be fucking nice to her, yeah? If not I’ll fucking kill your granny and shove her dead body in your mouth”

We could all guess who had said that to him.

END OF FLASHBACK.

Y/N simply nodded, patting down her apron as she wiped the bar clean. They were opening in a few minutes and she felt at home. Being here in the Garrison made her feel so much better and she was in her element.

Y/N shuffled through the pub, her figure blending into the shadows. The patrons, most of whom were locals, glanced up briefly, their gazes lingering for a moment before returning to their drinks. She could hear their whispers. talking about the incident and Tommy. Y/N found her place behind the bar, her usual expression replaced by a mask of friendliness. She was uncomfortable with the gaze and people talking about her but she stayed positive either way. As the day wore on and the pub filled, the patrons grew more raucous, their conversations and laughter filling the air. Y/N mechanically poured drinks and served customers, her eyes never lingering on any one person, almost as if she were simply going through the motions.

As the Y/N was swiftly wiping down the counter, an unfamiliar voice cut through the noise of the pub. Not only that, his accent was different. He was an American. She looked up to see a man she hadn’t seen before. The man who had ordered a drink was tall, with a chiseled jaw and a certain air about him that she couldn’t describe. He was certainly a looker, she wouldn’t deny that. His blond hair was styled in a neat way, framing his intense blue eyes. He sported a worn pair of jeans and a fitted T-shirt, the casual clothing contrasting with the hard look in his eyes. She glanced down on the necklace hanging on his neck, he was wearing a dog tag.

His gaze fixed on her with a strange curiosity. He ordered a drink, his voice smooth and polite. For a moment, Y/N’s apathy was disrupted, a flicker of curiosity flashing across her face as she caught his gaze before she quickly masked her expression and began pouring the drink.

“Hi, I’m Steve” Y/N, who had been lost in her own thoughts, looked up as the man introduced himself. His sudden greeting caught her off guard, her expression betraying a hint of surprise before it settled back into its usual apathetic mask. She simply nodded in acknowledgment and hummed.

“Um… Hi, nice to meet you. You’re not from around here” She cuts straight to the chase, her curiosity getting the best of her. She had never seen a foreigner before and as everyone knew she always had a childlike curiosity.

Steve chuckled, “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” She blushed, looking down as she felt slightly embarrassed by imposing on him. “Yes, I’m from Brooklyn actually”

No wonder it had sounded nice in her ears, Y/N didn’t know why but Steve’s voice sounded like the ones you hear on the news or movies. He seemed... Perfectly American.

“I’ve never met an American before” She muttered shyly, wiping down on the spot that had already been cleaned to make herself seem busy. Steve smiled softly as he tilted his head at her.

“Well, I’m glad I’m your first” She had stopped in her tracks, no longer wiping the counter as she felt the heat rush to her cheeks. Steve merely grinned at her reaction, taking a sip of his drink as he watched her with an amused expression on his face.

Suddenly, Harry lightly tapped on her shoulder and leaned into her ears “Alright love, get back to work yeah? I don’t think Tommy will be too happy if he sees you talking to another man”

Y/N was shocked. She wasn’t shocked at what Harry had said, instead, she was shocked at how he had said it.

“Tommy doesn’t own me now, does he?” Y/N uttered nonchalantly, filling the next customer's order as Harry trailed behind her.

“Well, he doesn’t own you but you are sure his. Just don’t make this hard for me, alright? I don’t want him to kill me in my sleep” Harry shuddered at the thought of Tommy burying him right next to his already-dead granny.

Y/N sighed deeply as she nodded and Harry smiled widely, holding his two thumbs up. She rolled her eyes, is the verge of death what it takes for people to be kind to her?

“So, will I ever get your name?” Steve questioned, catching her attention once again.

“I can’t talk to you in here...” She muttered cautiously as Steve raised his eyebrows in curiosity.

“Oh... Let me guess, you have a husband? My bad, it wasn’t my intention” Y/N’s shoulders dropped disappointingly, she wouldn’t say it out loud but he did want it to be his intention.

“He’s not... My husband...” She grumbled quietly.

Steve chuckled, “Well, then... That means I can still see you around?”

She returned a soft smile at him, she knew she shouldn’t but there was something about Steve that seemed so... Pure. She had never seen anything like it. He was nice and polite, he was the exact opposite of who Tommy was.

“Sure, I’m always here,” She said softly as Steve threw him an adorable grin. She had never seen a man smiled like that before, Tommy barely smiled.

“Great… I can’t miss the chance to know your name”

.

A/N: HHEHEHE DRAMA BOUTO COME UP

[sweetercalypso]

Around the Tree || Joel Miller

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary: For their first winter in Jackson, Joel plans to surprise Ellie with a Christmas tree. When he runs into a problem with his decorations, he turns to you for help

Notes: no warnings! mutual pining, Hallmark level fluff, kissing, no reader pronouns

Winter in Jackson is like a scene from a movie.   

The mountains surrounding the small Wyoming town are topped with fresh, white snow, embracing the settlement in a picturesque seclusion that lasts until spring breaks through the frozen landscape sometime in March.

The streets are lit with decorative lights and displays that take weeks to set up, and the townspeople are eager to spend the last days of the year outside despite the bitter cold and the icy conditions that should keep them indoors.

Their dedication to the holidays is an admirable feat in a world that has largely forgotten about tradition.

Shortly after settling down in Jackson, Joel realizes that Ellie has never experienced the joys of the holiday season, and he’s determined to show her what she’s missing. For his first gift to her, he brings home a Christmas tree.

Born and raised in the heat of the South, Joel hadn’t had much experience with snow until after the world had already fallen apart. By then, the winter season was a dreadful grievance rather than something to be celebrated.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen a Christmas tree, but the one in the center of town was clearly cherished by the community, and it inspired him to celebrate the holidays for the first time since he’d left Texas.

Finding the tree was easy enough, and getting it back to his house had only required a bit of goodwill from Tommy and the help of some neighbors he’d yet to learn the names of. They’d been more than happy to lend a hand, brushing off Joel’s offer to pay them back. Maybe there’s still some good left in the world after all.

The fresh-cut tree gets placed in the corner of living room, tall enough that it skims the ceiling, still smelling of fir and camphor from the thick, Wyoming forest. Joel scratches the growing scruff on his cheeks as he stands back to admire it’s grandeur.

Beyond the beauty of the bare Christmas tree, Joel’s house is decidedly lacking in holiday spirit. He’d scrounged up a handful of trinkets from the previous homeowners’ belongings, but there were surprisingly few ornaments left behind, making him wonder how many houses they’d cleared out to supply the festivities in the center of town.

This is a problem he hadn’t expected to face.

He’d found a stand for the tree and cleared a spot before bringing it home, and he’d even sought out a collection of comic books to wrap and give to Ellie on Christmas morning. But without any ornaments to decorate it’s many branches, the tree looked too rustic, too ordinary to fit the Christmas scene he’d envisioned.

With his jacket bundled around his broad frame and his pair of snow boots laced up tightly, Joel sets out to find the one person who might have a solution to his problem – you.

As their next-door neighbor, you’d been the first person to welcome Joel and Ellie after Tommy and Maria brought them to town. There weren’t many people who were willing to look past Joel’s initial gruff demeanor, but you’d never once doubted his slow and hesitant acclimation to life in Jackson.

Joel struggled to balance your friendly relationship and the growing interest he felt towards you, fearing that it’d snowball into something that he wasn’t ready for after twenty years of grief and persistent bad luck. Instead, he’d kept you at a distance, swallowing the feelings he had for you.

He finds himself checking his appearance in the reflection of your front room windows after he knocks, an anxious string of thoughts running through his mind. What if you have company over? What if you’re not home? What if you think this idea is dumb? What if-

“Joel?”

The scent of cinnamon and a nostalgic warmth greets him along with your voice, soft and cheery against the sound of winter wind.

“What’re you doing out here? It’s too cold to be outside- you’ll freeze.”

He shrugs and offers a sheepish smile, trying his best to look unbothered by the brisk temperature. Boston winters were brutal and grey, nothing like the crystalline scenery that graces Wyoming. Even still, the idyllic frost has been known to turn deadly.

“I, uh- I need your help with something.”

“Oh,” you reply, shifting to lean against the door. “What’d you need?”

He explains the situation in full detail and you grow more interested with each word, practically beaming by the time he finishes his story.

“I have just the thing,” you tell him. “I’ll be over in five.”

As if by some miracle, you’d found an entire box of Christmas ornaments when you were pulling out your winter storage earlier in the season, but you didn’t have a tree to display your newfound treasures. This seemed like the perfect way to solve both your problems.  

You’re standing on Joel’s porch five minutes later, just as you’d promised, holding as many boxes as you could carry. Joel’s eyes widen when he opens the door, and he ushers you inside with a quite huff of laughter.

“What is all this?” he asks, taking his share of the boxes and guiding you towards the living room.

“I brought everything you need for your first Christmas in Jackson,” you reply, admiring his choice of tree with a nod of approval. “Ornaments, tinsel, wrapping paper – it’s all here.”

He breathes a sigh of relief and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I can’t thank you enough for this.”

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth as Joel turns his attention to the boxes strewn out in front of him. Maybe it’s the serenity of the holiday season, but it feels like you’re meant to be celebrating together rather than spending Christmas apart. Before you can make a move to leave, Joel surprises you by grabbing your hand in his.

“I really appreciate this,” he says earnestly, thumb rubbing across your knuckles. There’s a bright glimmer in his eyes that you’ve never seen before, one that you silently hope you get to see again. “Would you want to… stay?”

The burning apples of Joel’s cheeks betray his nonchalant demeanor, and you’re sure you look just as flustered by his unexpected offer. A warmth settles in your chest when you think about spending the holidays with the older Miller brother.

“Yeah,” you reply, lips curling into a smile. “I’d like that.”

An hour later, you’re both covered in glitter and tiny strings of tinsel, laughing about the state of Joel’s Christmas tree.

A constellation of lights and shiny garland decorate the many branches, twisting around the tree in an awkward spiral that you’d given up on keeping straight halfway down. It looks better this way you tell yourself. More personal.

“Careful with this one, looks like it’s seen better days.”

Joel hands you a frosted glass bulb with snowflakes printed on it, one of the many ornaments pulled from the supplies you’d brought over. You find a place for it between a faded plastic reindeer and an angel dusted with glitter.

All of the ornaments seem to have a story behind them, each a sentimental piece of someone’s lost traditions. You hope you can add your own meaning to their cherished forms.

Joel hands you the last ornament and takes a step back to observe the whole scene, nodding to himself with one hand tucked in the pocket of his jeans. When you’re finally satisfied with the tree’s arrangement, you join him in admiring your handywork.

“It’s perfect,” you say, glancing over at Joel with a sincere smile. He turns to meet your gaze and he’s suddenly aware of how much he appreciates your presence. There’s always been an unspoken affinity between the two of you, but this day has made Joel realize that he wants more.

In a pleasant surprise to you both, Joel dips down and molds his mouth to yours, gently cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer. When you part, you’re too stunned to speak, opting instead to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He hums lowly and wraps an arm around your waist, content to stand here as long as you’ll stay with him.

This is exactly how the holidays are meant to be spent; not flaunted with flashy celebrations or spent alone in a QZ apartment, but rather by creating cherished moments with the people you care about.

Joel might’ve brought home a Christmas tree for Ellie’s sake, but he’s the one who needed it the most.

[sailorshadzter]

Spring finally arrives and along with it, forgiveness and warmth. Home. He is finally home. A time in which Jon finally forgives himself and the weight in his heart that once banned him from going home was lifted (the only ban that every existed because everyone knows he was always a hero)

hi anon!

thanks for the (VERY VERY OLD) request. i really wish (or maybe i dont lol) tumblr dated these.

i hope you see this!!!!!!!!! and you like it if you do!!!!

send me prompts

He wakes to the sound of the birds singing. 

What a strange concept, he thinks, rolling over onto his side, opening his eyes so he might observe the morning rays of light peeking in through his curtains. Pushing back the furs, all while making a mental note to ask for some lighter blankets, he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of his bed. 

It’s been something like six weeks since his return to Winterfell and somehow in that time, spring had made itself known. 

Almost as if it had been waiting for his return. 

A sigh escapes him and he stands up, stretching, before he makes his way across the room, reaching for the white shirt he’d draped over the back of a chair before going to bed the night before. It was a new shirt, one which was stitched by the hands of the very queen he’d come to serve. Queen or not, Sansa still thoroughly enjoyed sewing and she’d provided him with many new clothes upon his return to Winterfell. 

When he’s fully dressed, he slips away from his rooms, heading down the hall, pausing only a moment at the door that belongs to her. But, from within he hears the voices of the maids, telling him she’s already left for the morning. So he continues on, taking a flight of stairs down and taking a left down another hall. There on his right he stops at another door, raising his hand to knock- three quick knocks, one she would know anywhere.

And then he steps inside. 

She stands at the window, the morning sun framing her in the most beautiful of ways. 

To his surprise (and delight) she’s done away with her heavy winter gowns, replacing it with instead a sage green damask, its sweeping sleeves trimmed with elaborate gold thread, the hemline mimicking the very same pattern. She turns at the door, her rosy lips curving with a smile at the sight of him there, head tilting just enough to send her hair cascading across a shoulder. “Good morning,” his queen greets, sending his heart fluttering. 

It was not always this easy, he thinks, for it was not that long ago that he lived in a dark world. One full of regrets and fear, one where he worried he was not enough for her, one where he worried his presence would tarnish her good name. Hundreds of letters from her went unanswered, though they were all kept, even now tucked into the corner of his trunk. He had murdered one of his own- for the greater good, of course, and truth be told killing Daenerys was the least of his issues. But the war… The fighting… If only he’d done things differently. If he’d handled the situation differently, perhaps thousands of innocent lives would not have been stolen. 

The grief of that had nearly taken all of him, left him bereft, left him lost to drink, the only way he could ever feel any relief. It had taken time, over a year of it in fact, to come to realize that missing her was far worse than any of the other pain he felt. And so he’d sent her a letter back, thinking the worst that could happen would be her not bothering to answer him at all. Instead, she wrote him back, summoning him with her queenly demand. 

So he listened, coming to his queen’s call. 

“You are a spring queen,” he says with a grin of his own, approaching her where she stands, watching as she blushes pink. “I can’t remember when I last saw you in such a color.” For the last two years or more she’s worn nothing but gray and black, a sign of her mourning, a sign of her place as Ned Stark’s daughter. There wasn’t a single man in Winterfell that could recall their old lord ever wearing anything but black and gray. But she was not Ned Stark, she was his daughter, and she was their queen. “It suits you.” The soft green is a lovely contrast to her ivory skin, to her vibrant red hair. 

“Thank you,” she says, still blushing. 

They make small talk for a while, she seated there in the window seat, he atop the desk. He had forgotten how easy it was to talk to her like this- then he had to laugh, because until now, they never had anything but war and grief to speak of. “You know…” She’s saying now, drawing him back out of his own thoughts. “I have heard that the first seedlings have sprouted in the gardens, I thought I might take a walk through them to see for myself. Won’t you join me?” She looks his way, blue eyes bright and shining, a beauty unlike anything he’s ever had the pleasure of seeing. 

“Of course,” he replies, rising up so he might offer her his arms, which she takes when she stands up. 

Together they make their way down the hall and down the flight of stairs to the main hall, out the double doors and into the bright spring sunlight. 

Jon smiles, wondering how he ever could have stayed away. 

After all this time, he was home.

[jreads]

Unexpected Constellations (Part 14)

Rating: No crazy stuff

Word Count: 6.8K

Warnings: Warnings: Angst, Mentions of blood, Canon-level violence, Dark themes, Foul language, Din being a cutie

A/N: Sorry I pushed this back for so long! It was giving me such grief but I think I am okay with posting it now. I was overwhelmed with the love from the previous part and I am so so happy that everyone liked it. As it stands, this is the penultimate part! As always, comment on this post or the masterlist to get added to the taglist. So much love 🤍

Waking up next to him was bliss. Your body felt tired and achy and sore, but his head was resting on your chest, curls tickling your chin, body pressed possessively against your own. Breathing even. It was so new to see him like this, and it had quickly become one of your favourite things. You ran fingers through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp and his sleepy groan was so deep that it might have been a purr.

“You’re so beautiful.” It sort of slipped out. You were becoming loose lipped around him.

“You keep saying that.”

“It’s true.” Maker, and his voice. Rich like sweet candy. 

He huffed into your skin, arms tightening around you like a band. 

You stilled your fingers in his hair. “You don’t believe me?”

No answer. But he lifted his head, brows raising quizzically, eyes still heavy with sleep. It was impossible. Intolerable. 

“I mean… Have you looked at yourself?”

Din answered too matter-of-factly. “Yes. In the fresher sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“I don’t look at my reflection a lot.”

“Why not?”

He seemed to get fed up with your line of questioning, collapsing back against you and nuzzling into your stomach to avoid an answer. But you weren’t letting it go so easily.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

“I think you’re biased.” He kissed your navel.

You tried to ignore the flutter that went through you. “I think you’re insufferable.”

He pressed you to the bed then, hovering over you just slightly. “I guess you’ll have to suffer then. You’re stuck with me now.”

Snarky, gorgeous, unbelievable. “Can’t imagine how I’m ever going to survive—”

“Shut up.” He captured your laugh in a kiss, slow and sensual and lazy, and you lost yourself in it. You let him guide your wrists above your head, where he pinned them with a broad palm. You let him trail the other hand down your side, over the curve of your waist. 

You let him, you let him, you let him. 

It took the both of you far too long to make it out of Boba’s guest suite. Din had even quipped about him starting to charge rent. But eventually, and quite unfortunately, you were reminded that a galaxy existed outside of each other, and that you needed to get back to it.

Din had only told you about the Imp that morning, reluctantly. And perhaps that was lucky, because if you had known earlier, there was little chance you would have been able to sleep let alone focus on anything else. Focus on Din.

But you knew now.

What Din had done wasn’t lost on you. He could have killed the man himself; he had had plenty of time while you were still unconscious. He could have drawn it out, made it bloody. You knew he enjoyed that sometimes… when given the right circumstances… when the victim was deserving. But he had captured him instead, left him alive. Not just so you could kill him yourself if you pleased, but because he knew you needed closure. Thus, the day’s responsibilities would be far from easy and would also take some time. 

A quick comm chat with Peli had ended with the lady practically demanding that she take Grogu to a podrace, and that if you two were early to Mos Eisley this evening, you ‘would just have to park your asses down in the hangar and wait.’ It was so good to hear the child’s coos from the other end of the line, though it only eased your trepidation by a fraction.

“You don’t have to do this.” Din’s presence was unyielding behind you as you made your way down darkened sandstone steps. “Say the word, and I can—”

You silenced the rest of his sentence, stopping abruptly on the staircase and spinning on him. A step above, he towered over you. Ever the protector. “As much as I’m sure you’d love to…” You rose onto the tips of your toes and caressed the indents in his helmet. “…I have to handle this myself.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be here. If you need anything—” Before he could finish, another voice sounded from behind you.

“You’re awake. I was getting worried.” 

It was enough to make you reconsider the rest of the descent into the Rancor’s cave. Truthfully, you might have preferred coming face-to-face with the Rancor instead. Powerless. You had to remind yourself. He has no power here. Over you. Over anything.

With a shaky breath, you reached the bottom of the pit, advancing on a menacing portcullis. Though he was silent, you knew Din followed.

He was grasping onto the gate bars with white knuckles. He looked a sight. Usually pristine Imperial uniform now torn and singed, he was covered in dirt and dried blood. A nasty gash had crusted over on the top of his head, staining his hair. You wondered who had done it. Your money was on Boba. If it had been Din, he wouldn’t have stopped there.

“Leaving you alone with two Mandalorians and a bounty hunter?” He scoffed, as if the idea were preposterous. “Their kind are ravagers. I’m relieved you’re alright.”

To act as if he was concerned about your well-being at all was almost insulting. What was worse was the assumption that the ones who had cared for you would have put you in harm’s way. A reversal of roles… a projection.

You tried to summon an air of phony assertiveness, though your hands were shaking. Fear? Anxiety? Rage? It was anyone’s guess. “Here’s how this is going to work. You don’t insult my friends. In fact, don’t speak unless you’re answering a question. Are we clear?”

He seemed to pay you no mind. “Look at you! So confident. Perhaps those years apart were a blessing in disguise.” He seemed comfortable, assured even, but his knuckles, blanched against the gate metal, gave him away. 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you… what you did in that control room. It was amazing. Magnificent.”

The control room? When you knocked him out?

“I always knew you had it in you.” His eyes were glazing over with some sort of sick admiration. “Your master would be so proud.”

The control room. The water, the cables. The electricity. Oh. Stars. He thought you had summoned lightning.

“I don’t… I didn’t.” You suddenly felt the need to defend yourself. Not to him, but to the man behind you. The one you were trying to convince that you were good. The one you were trying to convince yourself that you were deserving of.

“You don’t need to be afraid.” His smile made you feel sick, whatever calm mask you had put in place quickly slipping. “This is what you were meant for. Don’t you see? Everything we—” He was quick to correct himself. “Everything they did was for this… And look how strong you are now.” Dirty fingers reached past the bars, grasping for you. You stumbled back into Din’s chest. 

He ran a hand over you side, squeezing at your hip, barely a featherlight touch but grounding nonetheless. You breathed a few times, timing your inhales with the rise and fall of his chest.

However, the Imp was now surveying the Mandalorian with a repulsed expression. Looking from him to you… and back again. He sneered. “Wow, really?” He waited, as if for an answer. “You could conquer worlds, topple governments. The galaxy would bow at your feet.” That petulant entitlement had found its way back into his cadence. “Is this what you’d throw it all away for? A trivial romance?” Disgust dripped from his words. “You could be a god.”

When you broke his eye contact, he turned to Din instead. “And you could be rich.”

“I’m not interested in credits.” There was a sharp edge in his modulated voice, a promise of violence.

“No, I’m sure you’re not. It’s power you’re after.” The hatred between the two men hung so thick in the air that it was starting to suffocate. “What is it? Planning on using her to retake your home world?” Din stilled. “Who would dare to stand against you with a Sith at your side?”

“Enough.” Your tone was sharp, but not sharp enough.

“How long has it been since your people have even seen Mandalore? Set foot on the scorched soil? I wonder what they’ll find beneath its surface.” His tone was all too knowing. Din’s mind roared like a wildfire behind you.

“I said enough.” Your raised voice finally seemed to break their murderous concentration on one another. “You don’t get to ask questions. But you can answer mine.”

His energy changed immediately. “Anything you want to know. I’ve only ever been honest with you.” A flicker of a glare over your shoulder. “But your bodyguard will have to leave.”

You could feel Din reach for his blaster. No, not the blaster… that was on the other side of his hip. 

You spun, a hand on his own to halt him. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.” There was a beat of silence as he considered. Rage, violence, bloodlust. This wasn’t Din; there was nothing of the man you knew in him. This was The Mandalorian.

“You don’t open the gate; you stay away from the bars.” His voice was hushed, steady, lethal. “He tries anything, or you sense anything, you call for me.” You nodded. Still, he hesitated. 

“I’ve got this.” You ran a thumb under the edge of his glove, over the soft skin of his inner wrist. Over the pulse point. It was jumping rapidly, a sign of him. “Go.”

With what you could tell was one more glance at the man behind you, he turned, footfalls heavy, and made his way back up the steps. Before he could disappear from sight, the man spoke. 

“Good. Now we can stop pretending.” You knew Din had heard it. He was egging him on. Did he not understand that you were the only thing stopping Din from shoving the saber through his throat? Or maybe that was the whole point.

Without Din’s protective presence, you instantly felt more unpredictable. You needed a moment to calm, recenter yourself. You paced in a circle. However, the Imp had other plans.

“So, this is the company you’re keeping nowadays? Bounty hunters and criminals?”

Focus. Don’t get carried away.

“You understand it, right? They’re not on our level. Nowhere near it. Completely inferior. I suppose it’s my own fault for letting you go.”

Letting you go. As if you hadn’t tried to remove his head from his shoulders in your fight for an escape pod.

“Won’t you say something? As much as I’m glad you’re okay, I’m not overly fond of the hospitality here and would like for us to get going as soon as possible.”

What?

“You think I’m going anywhere with you?” You practically hissed it. Only once he smiled did you realize you had given him what he wanted… engagement.

His head tilted. “Aren’t you? What life do you have here, amongst the rabble?”

You have one. You have one. A place, a purpose.

“Don’t you remember?” You hate his smile. You could slice lines up his face, from the corners of his mouth to his hairline. “You were made to serve.”

There’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop the onslaught of memories, the mere utterance of those words enough to shake them loose. Even through the haze of repression.

You’re shaking, so weak that you can barely keep your head from drooping. Your hands are tied with binders to the ceiling, so high that you have to rise on your toes to release the strain from your shoulder. A rib might be broken, maybe two. Not that it mattered; the droid would patch you up anyway. It always did, after every round, over and over and over…

“Let me go.” It was a pathetic wheeze, croaky and quiet.

Two of the men leer. “Sorry? What was that?” One caresses your face before rearing back and throwing a fist. You’ve numbed to the pain a bit, but you still feel the sharp sting of your own teeth cutting into the inside of your cheek. You lose purchase on the floor and hang, the impact brutal on your shoulders.

“Please.” You would beg, on your knees if you needed to. “Please, let me go.”

He’s there. Lifting your head with an iron grip on your chin. “And where would you go, dear?”

You have no ship, you can’t fly, your knowledge of planets is minimal. You have nowhere to go.

“What life could you have outside of this?” 

Your head is throbbing. You might pass out.

“This is your purpose. You were made to serve. Don’t ever forget that.”

Your vision goes black.

Perhaps it’s because you were squeezing your eyelids shut, trying so hard to block out the vivid recollection. You shook your head like a crazed person, grabbing at your scalp. Like you could feel the pain. The pounding ache of having been hit too many times. Oh maker, the pain.

Breathe. You’re out. Din’s just outside the stairwell. Listen. You can hear his heartbeat. He’s right there. Breathe with him.

He was solid as a stone when you sensed him, leaned against the wall. You wondered if he could hear—probably not. You could remember what it was like to kiss him, feel his skin against your own, his hair, trace the angles of his jaw. It was so recent, so fresh. Not like the other memories. You could forget the agony, replace it with pleasure. Softness and warm pressure. 

Your eyes opened in their natural hue. The Imp was clapping, a slow, sharp staccato. “Impressive. Is that a Jedi technique? Does it help to play pretend?”

Get the info. Get it done and get out. You took another deep breath.

“You answer my questions, or I walk.”

He didn’t reply, just assessed you. It wasn’t a yes, but it also wasn’t a no. But you could feel that he wanted to answer—or rather, he wanted to talk—but either way, he didn’t want you to leave. It was beyond unsettling.

“Have you found him?” Please no, please no, please—

“So, you believe me now?”

“No. I just want to make sure Palpatine stays dead.”

His smile was absolutely vile. “There are more ways than one to ensure that that doesn’t happen.”

He could be lying. Trying to extend his relevance, his usefulness. Half truths. Half answers. Always cryptic. You were so tired of this. Of the worry, the fear, of looking behind you anytime the light dimmed and the dark intensified, just in case.

You stepped closer. “What do you know?” 

There was a sparkle of crazed excitement in his eyes. “I know that it’s inevitable. There’s not a single thing you can do to stop it from happening. All you can do is be ready.”

“Ready for what?” But he was already on the uncontrolled ramble of a zealot.

“I’ve made you ready. I’ll be a hero. I’ll get what I was promised. We—”

“We what?” Every muscle in your body was tensing dangerously. Warning alarms. “What were you promised?”

“Look at you.” He was breathless. “You’re perfect. I crafted you—”

He believed it. All of it. It may be bullshit, but it was the truth from his tongue. There was a pain in your chest. You wouldn’t go back. Couldn’t. Because if he was right and Palpatine did come for you, you knew that Dinwouldn’t stand aside. Grogu wouldn’t. And you knew what he would do to them, what he would make you watch him do. Din was a powerful warrior, but he wouldn’t stand a chance against the Emperor. Palpatine would break him apart.

“What were you promised?” You didn’t notice the walls start to tremble. The loose sandstone start to fall in small puffs of dust.

“The Force. I was promised the Force.” His eyes were blown wide, rimmed with red. “We would be equals. We will be.”

Shaking. Your bones, your eyes, the very structure of the palace around you. “That’s not possible.”

“Times are changing. Why do you think Gideon wanted the child so badly?”

Grogu. Everything stilled. He looked triumphant.

“I could just kill you right now.”

“You won’t do that.” He reached an arm through the bars, as if he expected you to take his hand. “Because if you do, you prove me right. If you do, you become everything you insist you aren’t.”

That was it. That was all you could take. Because as you turned for the steps, blocking out the voice behind you, you knew that he had a point. You wanted to kill him. You wanted to take your time with it. Make it hurt. And what did that make you?

You made it to the top of the steps and turned the corner too sharply, bumping into a wall of beskar. He didn’t say a word, just held you. You couldn’t find the energy to hold him back. You were still seeing flashes of imagined images. His helmet, splattered with blood. The handsome head you were just starting to become familiar with severed from his broad shoulders. Grogu’s cry of anguish. There was something numbing about the information he had given, a sense of futility to every action you had taken and would take. What if none of it mattered?

“I’m going to get some air.” You pushed away from him, and he let you go.

He had seen you through many moods recently, but never such empty hopelessness. And he felt hollow himself, watching you walk away, because he had no idea what to say to make any of it better. Din could tell you what he believed, but this wasn’t up to him. There was, however, one thing he could do. Maybe it was petty and stupid, but Din descended the stone staircase with a muted smile on his face.

The Imp was facing the back wall of the Rancor pit, kicking at a pile of picked-clean bones in the corner. They might have been human; Din wasn’t sure. He must have heard the footfalls because he called out without turning: “Made up your mind that quickly?”

“Oh, my mind’s made up.” It was satisfying to catch him off guard. “My mind was made up the second she told me about you.”

“She told you, did she?” Din had no mind-reading abilities, but he could easily sense just how much this man despised him. And he had a nauseating hunch as to why. “What, exactly, did she tell you Mandalorian? I’m curious as to which parts she conveniently left out.” He pulled down the dirty collar of his uniform. “Did she tell you about this?”

You hadn’t. But he found himself smiling wider. The pale pink scar practically stretched from ear to ear. You had tried to slit his throat. Good girl.

“Did she tell you about how she slaughtered my men? How she left a trail of blood to the escape pod? She was still young then. She murdered them like animals. Did she tell you about that?”

Din crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. He was actually quite enjoying this story.

“What about the choke? I doubt she’s learned to control it.” He cocked his head. “But, then again, maybe you’re into that sort of thing.”

Ah. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Din could tell he had struck a nerve. “It’s jealousy.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

He pushed off, stepped forward a touch, into the light of the opening above. “You wish you were me. You wish she saw you the way she sees me. As an ally, a protector…” A vein was starting to bulge in the Imp’s forhead. “…a lover.” 

He threw a fist against the bars. “You’re fooling yourself, Mandalorian. You’re like a child holding a blaster. You have no idea how dangerous she is. She’s some pretty girl to you… a trophy.” He spat at Din’s feet. “You make me sick.”

Struck a nerve. He had to laugh, though it was humorless. He still believed in your superiority, truly; next to him you were practically royalty. But you had chosen him… and that was enough. His riduur. 

He pondered for a moment, about telling the Imp of the vows you had made last night, the depth of them. If only just to piss him off. But it was none of his business. He didn’t need to prove himself. So instead, he said: “You’re going to die here. And maybe she won’t be the one to kill you, but if she doesn’t then I will. And if she doesn’t want me to, then Fett will, or Shand. You won’t leave this palace alive; you’ll bleed out in that cell. That’s a promise.”

“What’s your point, Mandalorian?”

“My point is that I suggest you make peace with the things you did to an innocent girl.” He turned to leave. “And I sincerely hope you don’t believe in the afterlife.”

It was a scorching day on Tatooine, but you had been lucky enough to catch an edge of the rounded palace walls that welcomed both shade and a light breeze. It was there that you had sat for the past hour, staring out over the dunes, lost in an endless free fall of thoughts.

Since the day you escaped and crashed onto Sorgan, you had taken part in a never-ceasing internal battle between light and dark. Trying to prove to yourself that you weren’t the culmination of your history. And this—the decision to kill him or leave him alive—it played directly into that conflict. He was right. But he had to die. And it was no one’s responsibility but your own.

You heard him coming, you always did. But Din still didn’t say a word, just sat cross-legged to your left. You were both silent for a long time, the hiss of shifting sand the only sound. But you eventually leaned closer, like magnets drawn together, until your head met his shoulder.

“He’s right, you know. About me.”

“Bantha shit.”

“Din…”

He straightened and you moved your head, already loathing the loss of contact. “No. Stop. You don’t get to do this now. I know you.”

“You know who I am since I met you, that’s different.” You pulled at your scalp in frustration. “Who I was before, the things that I did—”

“You did to survive. You didn’t have a choice. With me, you do.”

“So then what about the Weequay in Mos Eisley? The crystal, Din. And on the Razor Crest when I had that nightmare, and you woke me?”

“Stop it.” His tone was harsh in a way you hadn’t heard from him very often. “I have never…” He trailed off, voice straining. “I have never met anyone like you. Who acts for others, cares so strongly, even after what you’ve been through.” You can hear his shaky inhale. “Cyare, you’re a fucking miracle.”

You were trying so damn hard to keep your bottom lip from trembling.

“Killing him won’t change that. It won’t change a damn thing. Not to me.” He cupped your jaw, turning it to face him. “You’re still you. You always will be.” A light laugh. “Even with yellow eyes.”

You managed a smile through the few tears that had already fallen. He wiped at one with a gloved thumb.

“He might be right about some things, but the depth of your character is not one of them.”

That got your attention.

“What do you mean?” He didn’t reply. “Din. What did he say to you?” 

He kept stroking a thumb absentmindedly over your cheekbone. When he finally spoke, it was only a breathy whisper. “You are. Above me. I don’t deserve to touch you; I don’t even deserve to breathe your air.” It felt like you were being gutted. “I don’t deserve to want you. He’s right about that.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “As if I could even help it.”

Oh, stars. What a fucking pair the two of you made, both so convinced you were unworthy of the other. It was almost hilarious. “This is stupid,” you said as if it was an epiphany. “That is so stupid.” You punched him, square on the breastplate. He barely even moved, but your hand hurt so badly that you had to shake it out.

That eclipsed your problems. Din Djarin, singlehandedly responsible for teaching you to trust again, for bringing you back from the brink maker knows how many times, for making you feel love and pleasure so strong it burned a hole in your chest. He thought himself unworthy of you.

“I’m going to kill him.” Din’s helmet cocked to one side at your quick change of heart. “And then I’m going to show you why that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

“I love you.” Those three words, the way they rolled off his tongue, crackled through the vocoder, they were so charged with emotion that they singed through you like a blaster bolt.

He stood and then offered a hand down. “Do you want me with you?” You took it, rising to your feet and brushing sand off of your trousers.

“Yes. Please.” Always.

He only nodded. Waited for you to make the first move. And when you finally stepped ahead of him, walking back to the mouth of the palace, he had a hand on the small of your back, as if he knew the depth of comfort that it offered.

You didn’t want to keep looking over your shoulder. Because you would. If you left him alive now, no matter where the three of you went in the galaxy, there would always be the possibility of him looming, of Palpatinelooming, just around the corner. And it wasn’t just about you. This was about keeping Grogu safe too. And you would do absolutely anything to protect him, even if it meant… whatever it meant.

The roughly hewn rock cavern was cool, mercifully. Though it did little to stifle the heat of your nerves, the sweat rolling between your shoulder blades. The clamminess of your hands. Din stayed a few paces behind.

“So, what’s it going to be?” His ability to remain unruffled in the face of possible death was almost admirable. You throat was too dry to reply, so you focused instead on the gate control panel. It rose up with an unpleasant screech. You could see him assessing your own features, Din’s stance. He didn’t believe you would do it, but he was smart enough to realise he wasn’t escaping.

“Really?” His eyebrows rose. “You’re going to make him do it for you? At least have the decency to kill me yourself.” A last ditch attempt. If only he knew that your mind was made up. You reached a hand behind you, not taking your eyes off the Imp. You weren’t taking any chances. Din understood; he always did.

But you had expected the blaster. A single shot to the head and it would be over. That wasn’t what Din handed you. The handle was smooth, heavier than you expected, all sharp angles and cool steel. Harsh? Maybe. But people had been known to survive a blaster bolt. 

It ignited smoothly. You swung it low, experimental. The blade hummed in response.

And suddenly there was fear—real fear—in his eyes. And oh, how it made your blood sing. 

“You won’t.” I sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He gaped at you, mouth opening and closing, searching desperately for words that might spare his worthless life. “He’ll come for you!”

You advanced, rolling the darksaber’s hilt in your grasp. Palms slick with sweat. “You’re delusional.” You wish you believed it more. There was no fanfare, no grand moment. You drove the darksaber through his chest without pause, without hesitation. And it didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel evil. You were glad to see the light leave his eyes. But the words he uttered in his last breaths would stay with you for a long time, rousing you from nightmares for years to come.

“The master… needs an apprentice.”

You looked majestic holding the saber. It didn’t seem as heavy for you as it did for him, perhaps because you were already used to the weight of power. Din felt pride swell in his chest like a blooming flower.

The symbolism that the Imp had put upon his own death was bullshit, but he had known it would affect you, cloud your judgement. The truth? It was that he deserved to die, brutally, and that regardless of who made the killing blow, it was justified. Din only thought, fleetingly, that it was too easy. That he deserved a slower demise, more painful. That perhaps your actions had even been merciful. Maker knows that if Din had been the one to do it, his methods may have blanched even Fett’s already Sarlacc-bleached skin.

He had crumpled to the floor, the edges of his wound glowing slightly as the skin cauterized. You were heaving, lost in the moment of death. So he brought you back, and hand on your elbow snaking to your hand, helping you to extinguish the darksaber. You let it happen, leaned into his touch. Turned to him and smiled, because it was over, because this time he wasn’t coming back. He loved being the one to center you. That smile was haunted, tinged with some far-reaching darkness that he knew wouldn’t pass easily. But it wouldpass. With time.

“Let’s go get our kid.” 

You nodded, and he watched the stiffness ease from your shoulders. You looked tired. So tired. Din pulled you into his chest.

“It’ll be okay.” He would burn the galaxy down to ensure it.

You went to take a shower. You had stumbled over your words, trying to explain why. Din had stopped you, knowing the reason innately, having experienced it himself. A need to wash the deed off, to clean the blood that hadn’t even stained your hands. He sought out Fett while you were gone, thanked him, refueled the Crest. 

They were both quiet as they worked, a lack of words available to describe what they wished to say. Finally, Boba broke the silence.

“Take care of her. Protect her. She needs you. They both do.” 

Din nodded in acknowledgement, not trusting himself to speak stably. Boba seemed to catch on quite easily, stopping his tinkering with one of the hull’s new outer panels. 

“I know what it’s like… to feel like you don’t deserve happiness. After everything you’ve done.” Din stilled, hand hovering over the fuel tank lid. “Learn to be selfish sometimes, Djarin. It’s the one thing you’ll never regret.” 

Fett didn’t wait for a reply, clapping him once on the back before moving to exit the hanger. “You’ve always got a landing pad with us. Don’t forget that.” His murmur of thanks came too late; Boba had already left.

The shower had only half helped, but seeing Din again, bent over and fussing with wiring, was much more effective.

“Need a hand?” He jumped a little; you must have been too quiet on approach. “Sorry.”

He rose to full height, and you shrunk under what you could tell was an assessing look, even with the helmet. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now.”

 His head tilted. “Be honest with me, please.”

You sighed, because of course he could read you. “I’ll be okay.” He was too quiet, probably running through ideas of how to put a smile on your face. The idea of it was enough to do just that. You swore that you could see his stature loosen. “Let me help with the cables. Your hands are too big.” You swatted Din to the side, crouching over the panel he had been studying.

“The ramp’s been fussing. I came in too hard when I landed, probably shorted something. And the cockpit door doesn’t close. Um. It’s dented.” You knew why. But the information made you study him, looking up into the dark T of the visor. Fennec had told you briefly about how he had practically stormed the palace, leaving a trail of incapacitated Gamorreans in his wake in his rush to get to the throne room. ‘Panicked,’ Shand had said. You had never seen him panicked before, even when the kid had been taken. Always cool and calculated.

Wires momentarily forgotten, you rose steadily and circled your arms around his middle, cheek resting against that divot in his breastplate. He stiffened at the suddenness of your movement. 

“Thank you. I haven’t said it… I don’t say it nearly enough.” His body felt nice in the circle of your arms, warm and sure and real. You could feel the shudder of his inhale as he hugged you back.

You had pushed your boundaries with him recently, physically. But this… the simplicity of being able to curl your arms around each other, share breath, feel his heartbeat on the other side of a beskar plate, and know what it meant; you wouldn’t trade it for a single thing. 

And to think that you thought you might never experience this. Such an all-consuming type of love, a fierce protectiveness, a family. 

Maybe the stories had been right; perhaps the stars did align sometimes.

Even with all the events of the day, Din and you were early to Mos Eisley. The suns were getting low, but only enough to cast that warm reddish glow upon the sand. You both sat on the ship’s extended ramp, looking out towards the street. It regaled you with memories of only a few days prior. And how impossible it seemed that so much had happened in such a short period of time. 

Din had kissed you before opening the Crest, once… twice… more times than you could count. Your lips felt swollen, but you doubted you would ever get enough of him. The crowds were getting louder as spectators made their way back from the podracing track, their ruckus travelling into the landing bay and echoing off the walls. It was… nice. Really nice. One thing could make it perfect.

A shrill cry stood out over the commotion. One that you knew all too well. He tried his best to run towards you, short legs tripping over the long fabric of his cloak. You and Din met him halfway, scooping him up from the sand, dusting it off his clawed feet. Grogu cried out in joy, and you tried and failed to stop the wave of emotion before it crested. Because from him you felt such love that it bore a hole straight through your heart. Love and happiness and bone-crushing relief. 

“He was worried about us,” you told Din, laughing through blurred vision. You were holding the child in your arms, and Din was holding you in his. Grogu messed with your earlobe with one clawed hand, and the fabric of Din’s cowl with the other. 

So this was what home felt like.

“We’re good, Grogu. We’re okay.” Din was fussing with his ears, such a tender motion. “Hope you minded your manners, kid.”

Peli’s high pitched voice cut through the moment. “Well, what am I? Chopped liver?” All three of you looked up at the same time.

The tiny woman had both hands on her hips, a fond smirk across her lips. She closed the distance between you. “Kid’s an absolute joy. A menace… but a joy. You two sure you don’t have any more galaxy-wide adventures you need to take care of?”

Din squeezed your waist. “We’re on sabbatical. Extended leave.” 

She nodded in appreciation. “Good. Take them both somewhere real nice then. Five-star resort, renowned chefs, the works.” She muttered under breath: “Maker knows you can afford it.”

Grogu cooed. You wondered if he was starting to recognize the word chef, given its association with his absolute favourite word, food.

“Something like that,” Din answered. You hadn’t really discussed you plans to follow this, your priority having been getting the kid back. It didn’t matter too much to you, not really, not as long as you had the two of them at your side. 

He had already punched in the coordinates when you came up behind him, Grogu on your shoulder, your hand on his own.

“Can I ask something of you?” You were wearing the vambraces. He was momentarily speechless, forgetting you had just posed a question. They fit perfectly. He wondered, awestruck, just how the Armourer did it. She had once said that each piece speaks of its wearer as she strikes it into shape. He wondered if she saw you.

Beautiful. And all his. 

“Din?”

“Anything you want.” His voice was breathy, caught off guard. Your bashful smile was heavenly. He wanted to kiss you… kiss the beskar… fuck you with nothing but the gauntlets on. Grogu squawked sharply at the both of you, as if to say ‘Get on with it.’ 

You laughed, before the smile faded into something more muted. Apprehension, curiosity.

“I want…” You fiddled with the tattered edge of his cape, toying with a hole in it, taking a deep breath before meeting his eyes again. “I want to go see Skywalker.”

“I thought you might say that.” He noted your look of well-camouflaged surprise. “There’s a box for you in hull storage, when you’re ready.” He knew that you knew what was in it. He was going to get choked up if you kept looking at him like that. Din spun back around to face the dash. “I’ve got to redo my calculations now.”

“I’m sorry.” He had to smile at the dismayed tone of your voice.

He was quick to reassure. “Don’t be. It’s the right choice. I’m proud of you.” He let the words settle and it was quiet in the cockpit for a time, apart from Grogu’s occasional babble, which was starting to sound concerningly more like actual words. Maker, forbid.

As he circled Tatooine and emerged into the inky blackness of space, you asked: “Where were we going to go?”

He grinned under the helmet. “I’d rather keep that a surprise for now, if that’s alright with you?” You probably knew anyways; you could probably guess.

You slept with him.

Not like that; you were both a little apprehensive with Grogu only metres away. The pram was closed, as was the door to the cot, but it was still new. Simply sharing a bed with Din, however, was just as nice.

He snored—albeit lightly—but it made you smile. He had tugged the helmet off once the kid was asleep and had let you run your fingers through his tamped-down hair. He had said you were fussing. You had told him to shut it. So he had fallen asleep with his head on your lap, a broad hand curled over your knee. He had bent his spine at an impossible angle, but you could wake and shift him as soon as you put this damn datapad down.

You were looking up Luke Skywalker, ‘doing your homework,’ as Din had said earlier in a gruff and sleepy voice. However, it had only worsened your nervousness. He was a hero, known across the galaxy for his role in the defeat of the Empire… of the Emperor. He stood against everything you were taught, a figure of unyielding good in the face of what was once impending darkness. Practically a deity. Would he loathe you? Because you might remind him of his past, what he fought against, what he lost. Or would he be sympathetic? Vader was his father, after all. Would he understand corruption, a turn to the dark for survival, because there was no other choice? Would he see you as someone who could be redeemed?

You sighed, sweeping a hand across your face. Your vision was starting to go unfocused, eyelids getting heavy as you fought against your own fatigue.

“Put it down,” he mumbled, squeezing your knee. “I can hear you overthinking; it woke me up.”

That made you laugh. “No, it didn’t. Liar.”

Din grunted and rose on his elbows, plucking the tech from your hands and depositing it in the makeshift hammock above. He then grabbed you by the hips and dragged you down, until you were flat on your back. You yelped. “Sleep.” It was a command.

You couldn’t have resisted even if you wanted to. Because he had caged you into him, arms winding around your waist and tightening. You melted to fit his body.

“Love you.” It was barely intelligible, just a string of syllables muttered into your neck, but it was enough. More than enough. It was everything.

“I love you, Din,” you replied. He hummed in satisfaction.

You left your worries behind for another night.

Taglist: @that-girl-named-alex @aavengingbucky @prismaticpizza @blub-senpai @a-phan-of-youtube @jaguarthecat @lizajane3 @come-hell-or-eldren-fire @graciexmarvel @soobinsrose @simply-maggie @alwaysdjarin @minky77 @tinytinturtle @tae27 @groguspicklejar @slightlyuglierbeyonce-blog @willow-t @abbyhaslongshorts @andrewshotspot @racetrackheart @leithatnight @messageinadaisy @lostinsideourminds @wren-2-d @goth-cowgir1 @aphterthoughtt @sleeplessskeleton @teawrites01 @dashlilymark @imherefordeanandbones @sunshine96 @kalea-bane @http-onie @focusedarrow @tremendum

[writemekpop]

Possession | Lee Taeyong

Summary: You fall in love with a strange boy, but never suspect he is a vampire… until it’s too late. 

Genre: Dark academia, suggestive

Word Count: 1.2k

You had heard the phrase to die for, but never experienced it.

Until you met Taeyong. 

That still October night, you had to ask yourself the question: was his love to die for? 

---

When you got a scholarship to start in New England’s most elite college in the fall, you were thrilled. 

During your first college dinner, four of the strangest people you had ever seen stalked in.

They seemed to walk straight out of another era. They wore frilly high-necked blouses and trench coats. And they were beautiful. Their eyes were a perfect black, like the inside of a heart. 

You couldn’t take your eyes off one of them: a boy. He twitched in his chair, the movement making his black curls dance ever so slightly.   

“Who are they?” you whispered to the girl beside you. 

She rolled her eyes. “They don’t mix with us mortals… they’re General Studies majors.” 

“They still offer that?”  

“If you’re a Lee. They’re some mega-rich family. Half the libraries are theirs – or so they say.” 

“H-how do you choose General Studies?” you asked.

“Blood sacrifice.” She laughed. 

Suddenly, the dark-haired boy turned and stared directly at you. You face flashed with heat. His eyes weren’t black – no, they were emerald, violet, midnight blue. Your head clouded with a thousand dizzying fantasies. You looked down at your plate.  

“Huh,” the girl said. 

“What?” 

“The guy you were staring at – Taeyong…” 

“What about him?” 

“He never notices anyone.” 

--- Taeyong occupied your every thought.  

He haunted your dreams, always walking away from you. Just when he’d turn around to flash a dazzling smirk at you… he would disappear. You would wake up, sweaty despite the chilly fall weather, grief gnawing at your chest. 

One night, you woke from a dream of Taeyong… to see his burning violet-green eyes just inches from your face. His face was contorted with fury, but that only made it more earth-shatteringly beautiful. His icy fingers were clutching your neck, squeezing. 

You blinked, and he disappeared.  

One night, after dinner - Taeyong himself was standing at the end of your table. 

His shirt was slightly unbuttoned. You found your lost in the dark planes of his chest. 

“Y/n, right?” he said. His voice was deeper than you’d expected. How did he know your name? 

You nodded slightly.

And then he did something you’d never seen him do before. He smiled. His face broke into a stupefying, angelic beauty. “I heard you like the forest. I can show you a great spot for hiking.” 

You, him, alone? What could he possibly see in you?

But when he took your hand in his, and all your questions evaporated. 

Taeyong led you to the edge of campus, then deep into the woods. 

As you walked, two things changed. Two little things. Two things that, if you’d noticed them, might have saved your life. 

First, the restless look in Taeyong’s eyes was back. 

Second, that there was something unusual in the way he spoke. You basked in the glory of his voice, not really hearing individual words as he murmured, again and again:

“This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.”

Or at times:

“Y/n. Oh, Y/n, sweet Y/n. Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like a young princess out of a Disney movie?” 

Slowly, suspicion did rise out of your gut.  Taeyong’s ice-cold grip on your wrist was just a little too tight.  

Tears sprung to your eyes. “You’re hurting me!” you cried. 

He turned to stare at you, eyes wide. He let go of your arm. 

Seeing the tears in your eyes, something seemed to change in his expression – like it was the first time he’d noticed you were there. 

Taeyong backed against a tree, clutching it as if to restrain himself. Light shudders ran through his body. 

“Go… away,” he ordered, his voice trembling. “Now.” 

Your heart swelled at the sight of him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was in pain. 

“Why?” 

“Because – I’m going to hurt you – the way I hurt all the others.” 

You gasped. He took in a shaky breath, putting on a wavering smile that was as gorgeous as it was painful. “I’m afraid I - brought you here to kill you.” 

He laughed, running his fingers through his hair. “Now don’t judge me too harshly! I never was hard or self-denying enough. When people are soft – soft people can’t help but make a few mistakes, listen to the devil on their shoulder…” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’ve been watching you every night this week – ha! – looking for moments to snare you in.”  

Taeyong voice wavered, and you sensed the true pain behind the bravado. “Oh, but what was I meant to do? You’re the one following a strange fellow into the woods at night. Don’t humans have any instincts at all?”

Humans. Your gut instinct had been right. “So, you’re not. Human.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

“Oh dear.” he murmured. “Blood sacrifice? Yes, that’s about right. There have been many… blood sacrifices.” The word vampire appeared, in swirly silver writing, the title scene of some awful 90’s movie. 

And yet… it was the only explanation. 

“But you didn’t hurt me,” you urged.

He continued his confession, and the phrase, if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you, sounded in your mind. You ignored it. 

He laughed a strange, choked laugh. “You are so pretty when you sleep, do you know that? Like a… a little paper doll. I could just take you in my hand, and…”  

You knew that should scare you. You knew that would scare most humans. 

Your breath stuttered. “You were there… as I slept?” So that explained the dream. Or… not-dream. Your heart kicked into overdrive, but it wasn’t due to fear. It was due to the fact that he was in your bedroom each of these nights, inhaling your scent, close enough to touch… 

He clutched his arms around his body, like he was restraining himself - or maybe just trying to keep all the pieces together. “Go, now, love. I can save you – I think. But you must go.” 

But you did not go. Instead, you stepped forwards, slowly, never leaving his majestic eyes. I stroked one steady hand over his cheek, his lips. His skin was cool and stunningly smooth. His eyes fluttered shut under your touch. 

And then you couldn’t resist, and you brought your lips to his. 

You knew you were bringing yourself face to face with death. 

And yet you didn’t care. 

Because you’d never felt so alive. 

—

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[extravagantwolf]

A snow-covered grief. Story beneath the cut. TW for animal death, grief, and murder.

The soft exhale creates a puff of white. It fades gently into the white abyss as if it never was there to begin with. Closing her eyes does not part the image of white from her eyes. A lingering constant, ebbing at her, and refusing to leave even when her voice cracks to plead, “Please go.”

So many cats seem to come and go, flickering in and out brutally and cruelly. No matter how many times she screams, begs, or yowls, there’s never a budge in the sky nor a miracle. Her worn and callused paws can only carry her across barren ground, picking up burrs as walks, to the graves she built to take their place.

Crude is the only word she can think of whenever her eyes lay on the snow-covered mound of rocks with the roots of a mangy tree sprawling across its surface. A family grave should be more dignified, but she found herself wallowing in despair. The only sign that this can be considered a “proper” grave is the broken pillar sitting in front of it. Each day, she tells herself to wake up with conviction. Pride, maybe, too. It’s all she can do for them now.

Belief is not something she can give anymore. Uttering prayers never helped ease the agony of loss. Perhaps they are frolicking in the sky above and watching her with their myriad of emotions. It isn’t that she hopes they aren’t in a beautiful world of full bellies and warm pelts. She wants to believe death is as wondrous as the nursery tales told; where stars fleck their pelts and they are honored warriors serving the Moon.

“But why? Why let everything be taken from us?” she asks, to which she receives no answer. She never expects one. StarClan does not follow her pawsteps, and she has come to accept such realities. Aspenstar often rambled that her warrior name was a gift from the stars. Hence why suddenly she took an interest in her doings. When the mural of the left behind was discovered, it only furthered Aspenstar’s silly rhetoric.

Another breath touches the frigid air and becomes another lost sight. Sitting down, her paws whine about the sting of the cold. How ironic it complains when they can’t anymore. Her head tilts to the side, lingering on another grave made only a year ago on a starless night. But tonight, the stars gleam and watch the living from their haven. If she could ask them to come down and answer one thing, it would be a simple question on the surface.

“Did I do enough?” she murmurs as she outstretches a paw and brushes away the snow from where a nameplate should sit. Every time she attempts, she throws it off of the cliff and storms back to camp. No cat asks her what happened now. They all know of her self-made graveyard below. Some attempt to comfort her, but it feels hollow. She knows – well, for most cats here – they do mean what they say. Yet the ostracizing will always linger.

Perhaps that is why she got along with Chikoritabreak. Cats often whispered about his past too, and they were not secretive about their distaste. Jokes about kittypets, twolegs, and all that comes with them was nothing but normalcy too. Even though he was Aspenstar’s apprentice, that did not silence the meowing. Specklefire, while careful, still spread such rhetoric on occasion. She thinks she did too unknowingly. Those words were bred into her.

It’s far too easy to turn someone into an outcast. Easier yet is when no cat realizes they are. Now… It’s too late to ask any cat about the whys. Bleakchest might be shunned, but she cannot bring herself to turn her back to her. Revenge wasn’t the answer, she knows that, but what if she was there that night? What if she was staring down Chikoritabreak, her dear friend, and heard him confess to the crime of killing Specklefire? To the crime of killing…

“Stars, I wonder if you enjoy my misery,” she bitterly chuckles. Her shoulders crash in, leaving her head to fall and linger on the pathetic and wilted plant trying to grow. Doesn’t it know that few ground-dwelling plants can survive on cold and wretched nights? Is it a fool too? “You want something you can’t have, you miserable thing.”

Unsheathing her claws, her paw wraps around the pitiful sprout. It would be so easy to pluck it from the ground and toss the weed away. Whisk its legacy into nothing more than a forgotten memory. Yet her heart knows better, and it sheathes her claws for her. “You’ll be forgotten if I keep waiting and dawdling and failing and…” The rambling trails away as her eyes steady onto the brilliant moon hanging above. White clouds her vision, but even then she can see Silverpelt gleams brilliantly without cease.

No cat can lose their way whenever Silverpelt stands above them, or so Specklefire said. Perhaps a few nights of work will forge passion. Seoli said not to stay up too late, to get some sleep for once in her life, but apparently she’ll be able to sleep endlessly when death comes for her. For now, if only to appease her heart, she’ll ponder a mural again. Think from the angles of these cats only she knew and saw. Imagine a beauty that can carry their legacy far into the future.

“And maybe…” She chuckles with a lop-sided smile. “Maybe it’ll be something so wonderful you’ll descend from the stars.”

[theabysssceamsback]

[pandoraimperatrix]

Wandering Worlds

DickKory | Core Four Centric | Cannon Divergence | Longfic

Summary:

The story begins with the death of Dick Grayson. His life taken by his own brother, Jason. Consumed by grief, Rachel gives in to despair, losing control, a portal opens, but from it no destroyer of words come through. Instead a man who looks just like him, how can he be? The Titans, and especially Kory has to mourn their fallen leader and deal with this stranger with a lot of issues of his own. After that, when everything seem to be settling, Kory is forced to return to Tamaran, but she wasn't as alone in her destiny as she thought, neither her family of choice was willing to let her go that easily. But politics in Tamaran can be as complicated as travelling across universes.

————————————–

Part Four – Voyagers

Chapter Twenty-two – I tempted fate and I acted smart

Kory’s fortune was one of extraordinary blessings. Yes, there was pain, so much loss. How many times had her life shifted to something unrecognizable? How many times had she felt alien in the widest and deepest meaning of the word? Still, one could consider fortunate to be born a Princess. To have been loved the way she had, to have loved too, in return, so fiercely. How many other souls had the luck of touching the stars and threaded the grounds of so many different worlds?

However, the blessing to which Kory was most grateful for would never hold a royal title or had the grandiosity of a planet or the might of stars.

Yet, to Kory, nothing in this world or another could ever compare in beauty or value than the baby in her arms.

“How is she today?”

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Princess Koriand’r rose a soft smile to Prince Karras. He was not in his armour today, instead he wore casual courtly robes of large shimmering golden see-through fabric over the inner fitted embroidered top and trousers. Was always easy on the eyes, Prince Karras, with his copper long braids and mischievous almond eyes. There was a youthful aura that he used to carry, with his easy smiles and cracking jokes. It faded a little after his elder brother Harras died in the war, Kory could see little glimpses of it now and then, but mostly her friend was gone, buried under the responsibilities forced upon him and loss that had not time to be truly felt and worked through. Kory did not held this change against him, nor she felt the desire of stop seeing him as a friend even though they changed so much and knew so little about each other that for all practical purposes, they were mere strangers.

“Sleepy, a belly full of milk does the trick.”

“I’m glad that she is faring well…” He said, and even sounded honest, and Kory wanted to believe he was, he had helped her all this time and never once seemed hostile, but if having her by his side gave them both great advantage in this war, the baby complicated a situation that was never simple to begin with. “And the name?”

Kory sighed, and pressed her teeth just a little tighter, she was getting really tired of that conversation. She was grateful to Karras, of course, she even loved him, how could she not? They had grown together in Okaara and been lifelong friends. And if wasn’t for him, X’hal… She didn’t even like to think about it.

“Karras…”

“She needs a name, your highness.”

“It’s not my right,” she said with gritted teeth. This was not about her daughter’s name. Not at all, but a subterfuge to make her name the child and by that cut both of their ties to Earth, to the Titans, to Dick.

“Princess, she is not the first baby to be born without a father to name her.”

“She has a father,” Kory snapped. He didn’t answer, Kory sighed again and walked across the room, putting the baby on her crib and closing the veils around her sleeping form. The veils did not only protect her from the insects but also hid her away. Her daughter, after all, was a secret.

“You can’t possibly hope-“

Kory rubbed her face with her hands in frustration.

“Karras, honestly, what else can I have other than hope?”

“Tamaran, my lady, your crown.”

And it broke her a little at how delusional he sounded saying that with a straight face, even though, before her daughter, they would agree, and she would maybe not wholeheartedly, because her heart still would be in another galaxy, but earnestly their beliefs would be in unity.

“Your crown, you mean?” Kory spat, finding that she couldn’t make herself regret the words uttered despite hating to hurt Karras to whom she owed so much.

Karras’ jaw tensed, but he didn’t lose his composure.

“Let’s not fight… Please? I know you are unhappy, but it doesn’t have to be that way for ever… Word had come from the south, your return brought new life to our people, they are fighting with all their might to win back everything the Citatel stole, because of you.”

“I should be there with them, fighting too,” it was her intention since the moment she took the most difficult decision of her life. At the time, it seemed the right thing to do no matter how it hurt, no matter how ripped her heart apart to hear him begging her to stay… But when Karras’ ship found her trying to breach into the outer defences of Tamaran in the middle of the war, they scanned her over to be certain of her identity and impossible hybrid life growing inside her kept Kory away from any real fight. It had been politics and strategizing since then while her people died, bleed, and where shipped away to be enslaved and experimented on.

“I hope that it won’t come to that.”

“It is my duty.”

“Remaining safe and alive is also your duty.”

Kory tsked and turned around, she could feel Karras confused but unrelenting gaze on her back. She never thought that one of the things she would miss from Earth was their little nonverbal social cues. While most people on Earth would understand that she wanted to be left alone, Karras would only leave if she asked him too, directly. It used to drive her crazy, how people on Earth hated to say what they wanted and took offense easily at the most mundane display of verbal honesty. Now, all she wished for was an understanding silences and meaningful gazes, one meaningful gaze... The comfort of a cup of tea brought by the sweetest boy in the universe when she had never asked but appreciated so much, the tight embrace of her eldest daughter instead of a million questions that she didn’t have the answer for.

“Is that all?”

She could see in Karras’ face that he was frustrated by her and the cool tone didn’t exactly help. X’hal she didn’t want to antagonize him. She was not doing this on purpose, but just looking at him made her angry. And It was not his fault, but…

“No. There’s something else. We are moving,” that picked Kory’s interest, and fear. As if noticing her mother’s distress, the baby fussed and Kory, approached the bassinet, pulling the veil aside, relieved to find her daughter still asleep, Kory put her hand over the baby’s belly, letting her daughter feel her presence and warmth until she calmed down.

“Moving?” asked Kory, urging Karras to pick up from where he had left off.

“Yes. I have the honour to announce that our forces have taken back control of the Palace of Palamar and we intend to make it our new home base.”

Funny how nobody thought of discussing with her about it before making such decision.

“What about Queen Lyndus?”

“Unfortunately those monsters from the Citatel didn’t have the mercy to spare the Dowager Queen,” he took a shaking break and Kory approached him, sliding her hand through his arm in comfort, Karras had been knighted at Queen Lyndus court after Okaara, “General Xoyan’g is yet to report the finding of her remains.”

“So, there’s still hope?”

“No, your highness, there were many witnesses of her assassination…”

“And Princess Myndus?”

“Last we’ve heard of her, she was to be part of Komand’r’s household…”

And Tamarus was still technically under Komand’r’s rule… Of course, Komand’r was dead. But the flock of traitors and few true loyalists of her cause that aided Kory’s sister in her coup still resided in the Planet’s capital. They had helped then Princess Komand’r in killing her own parents, the true Queen and King, declaring them traitors for trying to forge a treaty with the Citatel using Komand’r as ransom. Even now, after their Pretend Queen had followed her parents to the grave by Kory’s hand – X’hal… Their bloodline must be cursed – a fact still held secret by Kory, they still were making the people and the Citatel believe that the throne was occupied by Komand’r. 

“When do we move?”

“Tomorrow, first light.”

He didn’t move, that was driving Kory crazy.

“And?”

“Koria…” Kory pressed her eyes shut, he used to call her like that when they were children, and later as they grew in Okaara, and found comfort in each other, “the council and the generals think this reunion of delegations under one of the ancient Palaces is a great opportunity to show a united front and to make official our engagement.”

“Another major decision in which nobody saw fit to include me in making.”

“Your highness-“

“No.”

“Koria-“

“Don’t! Don’t call me that. X’hal…” she sucked a breath in. “I’ve already agreed to the damn engagement, I just don’t understand why those decisions are being taken behind my back? Have I complained about anything Karras? Have I shown anything other than loyalty and unity to our cause?”

“I know, I know… But you left and…”

“And they blame me for everything that happened since.”

Karras didn’t answer. That was very Earthen of him, she thought but didn’t say, he wouldn’t understand. “You too?” She wanted to ask, but feared the answer.

“I’ll be ready,” she finally said. “We both will,” and Kory turned away from him, her feet leading her back to her daughter, seeking her presence, her smell. She was the only thing that made sense in all that mess. “You can go.”

He left with a measure and Kory remained there by the crib.

Karras was right, and that was what hurt the most wasn’t it? She shouldn’t hope.

She lost the right to hope by making wrong decision after wrong decision.

That life she had, that person she were, it was over now, forever.

Dissolved like a shadow blasted by the light of the true life she was destined from birth to have. And all Kory could do was to be grateful for that part of that dream was made flesh in the form of her beautiful daughter.

Her miracle.

And just like her father, her baby did not belong. If Tamaran couldn’t accept a defective princess, there was no delusions to Kory that her hybrid offspring would be offered more grace or kindness than her full blooded Tamaranean Royalty late aunt.

Not her daughter, who didn’t have the privilege of a name.

Still…

In those first months of her return, locked away in the hideout commanded by Karras’ delegation, Tamaran felt alien like never before. It’s thick tropical forests that used to embrace Kory as a girl, to were she ran to play with the psychic animals and sentient trees, way from the eyes of her household members and various teachers, now seem to swallow. Not that she was free to roam as she wished, of course not, it was not safe, they were at war, Karras reminded her often. Spies were everywhere.

Going back meant losing her freedom, she knew, she always knew, but it still scared her how fast her autonomy was curtailed. It made Kory see how fragile that freedom had been. And when her belly began to grow, she had to hide even from those protecting her, not unlike a princess in an Earthen fairy tale, she had been moved to a tower, a construction made of actual cave stone, a keep long abandoned by the only body of water large enough to be considered an ocean in the far East.

How many nights, with only the Tamaranean twin moons as company and witness, Kory held her growing baby bump, wondering what if she made things different. She caught herself regretting Komand’r’s death, not out of selfishness or self-pity, but because, now, better than she had ever while her sister was alive, Kory understood Komand’r. But she also understood that her sister would never prosper as queen. If not for her defective sickly condition, for her choice of attachment to an alien, and, of course, because a whole life of rejection and suffering had fractured her mind. Even after finding love, even after the crown was in her head and her biggest tormentors were dead she still couldn’t find peace.

Still, Kory could have found a way. A way in which her sister lived, Tamaran was safe, and the child growing inside of her wouldn’t be condemned to the same alienation and loneliness she felt right now, her sister felt before her. Her baby should not pay for the errors of her mother, nor her grandparents’.

But now it was too late for Komand’r, too late for Kory herself. Her daughter on other hand, still had a chance.

She had a family on Earth, even if they didn’t know yet. She had a father whose super-power was embracing children in need of guidance, that would never reject their daughter despite of any rightful resentment he might have of her mother, that would love their daughter, she had no doubt in her heart. On Earth, her daughter had waiting a big sister who loved to fiercely that worlds bended and ripped to help her reunite with those she cared about. And a big brother who was the most courageous and sweet soul and that, Kory was sure, once he knew of the baby’s existence he would become her favourite person in the entire universe.

A family rightfully hers, no matter if her mother had lost the privilege of belonging with them and was bound to duty elsewhere. And, if Kory played her cards right, her daughter would have almost everything that was rightfully hers. Family, freedom and love. She just wouldn’t have a mother.

Kory’s heart would just have to be a little bit stronger to do what was right.

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

Hello, I’m back. I’m sorry for taking so long. Can you believe if I tell you that life happens a lot and never stops? Because it does.

Also, as I learnt about Tamaran a little more I had to change the script, I just had, it didn’t feel right before what I had planned. Even though I’m not promising a Tamaran canon compliant in any faithful way. This story, although not an AU in my understanding as a fandom dinosaur, it is a ‘What If’ and that gives me freedom to bend and twist canon as long as the characters and world setting remain plausible with the canon, whatever canon means.

Karras changed a lot, and I didn’t plan to add Mar’i initially either. But I’ll also keep a lot of what I have planned, I’m excited to show you some of my favourite ideas planning this fic soon. But it’s nice that not everything is as it was planned because, remember, I’m telling this story to myself too and if I do know everything that will happen, what’s in it for me?

So, tell me what you think, remember that comments keep me motivated to write instead of doing literally anything else in my small free time.

See ya.

[firstfullmoon]

Albert Goldbarth, from “One Continuous Substance,” in The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief and Losing

[cdyssey]

Ninth Doctor Era Rewatch Rankings:

1. “Father’s Day” → I think script wise, #2 on my list might be a little bit higher, but when it comes to the emotional impact that Series One episodes had on me, there can be no other entry at the top. It has to be “Father’s Day,” through and through—a story about intimate, personal grief and the utter importance that even an “ordinary” man has on an entire world. I love this story for plainly talking about how a person’s life is elevated after their death; Jackie built up Pete to be a perfect man for her young, fatherless child, someone to be absolutely proud of. And I equally love this story for briefly deconstructing that fantasy by showing us the rocky reality of Jackie and Pete’s marriage and some of his less-than-admirable traits, and yet, still coming to a similar conclusion at the end of the day. Yes, Pete wasn’t perfect—far from it, in fact—but he was still someone to be proud of. He was human, and he was good. He loved his family. He died to save them—save the entire world. It’s all so beautiful and poignantly done. Billie and Shaun Dingwell put in wrenching performances. I cry every single time.

2. “The Empty Child” / “The Doctor Dances” → Oh, these episodes will forever fuck me up in the best of ways. I STILL remember being in middle school when I first watched them and being terrified of the masked people and their insistent refrain. But this episode is so much more than the terror, or really, it’s about the terror. The terror of war. The terror of not having a future. The terror of intimacy. The terror of never being able to heal from what has been done to you—or perhaps even, from what you yourself did. The Doctor sees his own trauma echoed back at him all over these episodes—in brave, selfless Nancy, in the bombs that are slow-cooking London, in Rose’s desire to know him at a new level. And it’d be so easy to offer the conclusion that there’s no escaping the terror; there’s no healing from a critical wound; there’s no hope at the end of a long day. After all, in Nine’s adventures that we’ve seen so far, nothing has exactly contradicted that. Someone has always died despite his best efforts. But, oh, man, in this fucking episode, just this once, everybody lives, and it’s a triumph that is absolutely the defining moment of Nine for me. As he laughs in that sea of golden lights, we see the exact moment that he finds his inner joy again. We see him begin to heal. Fucking fantastic.

3. “Dalek” → Genuinely my favorite Dalek episode of all time. Christopher Eccleston’s stellar fucking acting alone sells the horror of the species—what they are and what they have done, what even a single one can accomplish if it’s let loose in the world. And as we witness the carnage, both within our terrified Doctor and in that facility full of bodies, we also immediately see the idea of a pure Dalek turned on its head through Rose, whose influence turns a literal hate machine into something else. Something entirely new. God, “Dalek” is just a brilliant episode all around, one that interrogates the effects of war in so many ways. War only creates lonely, broken creatures. Like the Doctor. Like the Dalek. The corrective is purposefully choosing not to perpetuate that violence, so it doesn’t change you into becoming something that you can’t stand to look in the mirror.

4. “The End of the World” → Okay, I don’t have the deepest things to say here, except that it’s just an iconic fucking episode of television ALAKDJAKKS. LIKE, on one hand, you have moments of just outrageous camp—“Toxic” and Cassandra the “bitchy trampoline”—but in the same space, you have existential musings about how even though the world will one day be gone, the connections that we thread with our loved ones will always be meaningful and profound. Brilliant and funny and touching. A second episode that’s already firing on all cylinders.

5. “Aliens of London” / “World War III” → Didn’t think that these two would be so high on the list, but god, if the opening of “Aliens” and the close of “WWIII” didn’t absolutely spear right through me on this rewatch. I think these episodes do the best job (in Series One, at least) of showing exactly what the personal consequences of time-traveling can be. It’s something Jackie and Mickey had to agonizingly experience when Rose was gone from them an entire year. And it was something that Rose and the Doctor have to grapple with as well upon their return and in the subsequent battle with the Slitheen. The Doctor gets it better than Rose (understandably so). He can never guarantee her safety, and that’s a fact that perpetually haunts his entire companionship with her.

6. “Bad Wolf” / “The Parting of Ways” → URGHSHDHDJDHS, I like RTD finales because they’re balls off the walls crazy, but also, it drives me crazy that the series-long lead-up to his big twists tends to be minimal. I think I would have enjoyed the Bad Wolf ex-machina far better if we could have gotten consistent references (beyond unremarked upon appearances of the phrase) to it throughout the series. I’m also never the biggest fan of when legions of Daleks are the big enemy™️ because I’m still in awe of how perfect the episode “Dalek” is in showing how just one Dalek is a considerable foe. When they’re innumerable, the threat just sort of dulls to me. BUT for all this, there is so, so, so much to love about the finale episodes. I love the game show pastiches in “Bad Wolf.” Nine sending Rose away and her theme playing over his goodbye message is a top tier moment for me. And his regeneration is just pitch perfect. Nine was my first Doctor, and he’ll always be so special to me.

7. “Rose” → God, the iconic pilot. Really, just a pitch perfect introduction to the world of Doctor Who through the eyes of someone who is inexorably pulled into the Doctor’s mad, dangerous, and fantastic orbit. “Rose” does what a good pilot is supposed to do. Get us involved with the characters and make us want to know more. And Christopher Eccleston really sets the tone of this specific series in the climax of the episode, hinting at the devastation of the Time War and his utter guilt at playing a part in it.

8. “Boomtown” → SEE, OKAY, here’s the thing. “Boomtown” has all of the elements of the things that I typically love in an episode of a TV show. It’s got camp. It’s got banter. It’s got deep philosophical examinations of the characters and their moral motivations. And I REALLY loved Annette Badland’s performance of Margaret… but I think my ultimate qualm with “Boomtown” always ends up being that you can see the seams of the finale set-up just a little too clearly. I wish the Bad Wolf climax had been introduced more gradually throughout the series. And some of the dialogue here was just a wee bit too on the nose.

9. “The Unquiet Dead” → Honestly, there really wasn’t a bad episode in Series 1 for me. Just ones that were a bit more interesting than others. I still liked this episode. The guy who played Charles Dickens was incredibly convincing, and I loved the bittersweetness of the Gwyneth storyline. Her bonding moment with Rose was so lovely and human.

10. “The Long Game” → Simon Pegg was great as the antagonist is this one. The worldbuilding was fun, too—it was cool that the Satellite V plot came back in the finale! I think I just disliked Adam that much djsjfjjsjs. Watching his subplot gave me secondhand embarrassment—though that was definitely the intent.

[claudiajcregg]

Hoo boy, I'm behind on tagged stuff. (After this, I owe the last line I've written, the 8 tv shows, and who knows what else!) But this one was rather easy, even if formatting took me longer than I thought.

Tagged by the incredibly talented @onekisstotakewithme, whose stuff you should absolutely read because she's so good. (And prolific, too!) Thank you, Ally <3

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written fewer than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

I have eleven (for now? hopefully?) and I'll put them under a cut because this might get long for my mobile peeps. (I'm not the best at first lines. Or all that follow. I noticed a pattern, lol.)

Tagging anyone who wants to do it, of course! Feel free to ignore it if you don't want to do it, or if you've been already been tagged, etc. I probably missed some posts here and there. ♥️ @miabicicletta, @ballroompink, @holy-ships-x-red-lips, @district447, @eyes-onthehorizon

From most recent to oldest. They are all for The West Wing. Will I come out of this hating my writing even more? We'll see!

still you never took your hand from mine

The idea of writing a book by herself had always felt like this thing she wasn’t sure she wanted to do, at least not at that point in her life. 

The (in)famous memoir fic. CJ starts writing a memoir while pregnant with her first child.

haunted by the notion somewhere there's a love in flames

Filomena Ristorante was an enchanting establishment she hadn’t heard of until earlier this afternoon. 

Set during CJ and Danny's business dinner in S1. It's two chapters long!)

just your smile lit a 60-watt bulb in my house that was darkened for days

When the President summoned her to the Oval Office on Tuesday, the last thing C.J. was expecting was for him to invite her to their Thanksgiving festivities up in the Residence — that was, if she didn’t have plans already.

Thanksgiving 2006 in the Residence, with a dash of thanks and trivia. CJ/Danny, with Jed/Abbey, Josh/Donna, Charlie/Zoey

don't want you to go but I'll be okay

The flight back to Andrews Air Force Base had been pushed back until the morning for various reasons; not least of which had been avoiding a repeat of everyone’s protests on the way to Portland due to the late departure time.

C.J. finds some unexpected closure when she goes out for dinner during the Portland trip. (Yes, I'm copying some of the summary for some of these, lol.)

I'll be your friend in the daylight again

If C.J. was asked to name whatever meetings she had been a part of this week, she would fail.

C.J. and her complicated feelings about her NSC card resurface once Josh gets his during the Santos administration. (No, but I'm actually surprised by how accurate and succinct some of these summaries are.)

catch my pieces as they fall apart

His beautiful wife was sad and exhausted and likely sick, and Danny didn’t know how to take her pain away.

After her father passes away, C.J. grapples with grief and what her future might hold.

say it's here where our pieces fall in place

The sun over the plains was unforgiving on this late winter day.

A series of glimpses into C.J. and Danny’s lives, together and apart, from 1998 to 2008. It's 11 chapters!

we could be the way forward and I know I'll pay for it

The second the call with Hogan disconnected, she stopped walking around the secluded garden area and was hit with a cold breeze she wasn’t prepared for.

St. Augustine, FL; spring of 1998. C.J. wrestles with her burgeoning feelings for Danny when she runs into him outside a campaign event.

maybe everything's turning out how it should be

This wasn’t the same without Leo.

As a way to honor his late mentor, Josh brings back Leo’s Big Block of Cheese tradition during the Santos Administration. Unbeknownst to him, he ends up having a special crackpot meeting of his own. (This has implied CJ/Danny and Josh/Donna.)

all's well that ends well to end up with you

The sun was setting over the small mountain range in the distance, coloring the sky with a pink-orange hue that was breathtaking. 

C.J. and Danny find a moment of quiet in a hectic day and reflect about how they got to where they are. Their wedding. It's set after their wedding.

... and +1, because I felt bad leaving it behind

maybe we'll sleep here covered in star shine

At four in the morning, the sky was beautifully dark with just the slightest hint of the day that would soon start on the horizon. 

On a sleepless night, C.J. finds herself staring at the stars and reminiscing about her childhood.

[avatarvyakara]

Encantubre: What It Means to Me

Dos: Strength

It’s not exactly something tangible, thinks Señora Madrigal, on one of those rare occasions where she allows herself time to think and just be Alma again. Of all the Gifts given, only Pepa’s has any real connotation with power per se. Julieta and Bruno, well, theirs are more for empowering others. And she wasn’t given a Gift.

(Being given a Gift would mean giving up her old house for a new Door. And she wasn’t…wasn’t strong enough to do that.)

But, she thinks, as a cool evening breeze dances across the encanto (she just hopes Pepa isn’t going to have nightmares again, poor girl), that’s not really what it is. It’s about control. Not power. Any thug—any centauro (she will not call them human, even now)—can have power. But reaching out to the universe and saying, “This is what I want and I can make it so,” that’s something to be proud of.

In that respect, Julieta is the strongest of them. By far. Bruno has haphazard control but he’s getting there, and Pepa, for all her might, has never learned to hold it in and let it flow when she needs it. And Alma couldn’t—can’t—teach her how.

Because Alma is weak.

(And that’s another part of it. The encanto sprung up from a moment of weakness in the face of courage that brought only death. If she ever, ever falters again, if she ever thinks for a moment it wasn’t worth it, then she’ll have doomed them all.

Nineteen years on and she still spends almost every night cursing herself for not being strong enough, in her head.)

* * *

Honestly it’s something her brother and sister have. Not her.

Julieta isn’t brave like Pepa. She can’t pull the sky around her and bend the universe to her will, the same way Mamá did in legend. She isn’t wise like Bruno. She doesn’t know what to look for in the future, can’t plan like Mamá can.

What she can do is make certain they can keep going when things get too tough.

They’re all so strong. Not just her family—the whole village, the whole encanto. The magical landscape is there to allow them to live in peace, to come back from their grief and pain and terror and be themselves.

Giving out a piece of her soul to them—that’s what Bruno’s Teacher called it once; odd man—to keep it that way is the least she can do to help.

* * *

“You!” Suddenly Pepa feels mildly enraged, and crackles accordingly. “How on earth are you so happy all the time?”

Félix just smiles at her, sunshine incarnate.

“Because it’s always a beautiful day out,” he says. “Even when it’s raining.”

Darn it. He can’t keep saying stuff like that to her with those eyes, it makes the temperature rise.

(But it’s nice. Where other people seem so weakened by her change in mood, Félix powers through. She can’t hurt him. She never wants to try.)

* * *

“So, Bruno,” says Señor Originario, “what do you think the most powerful magic is?”

The taita is speaking English, which sounds a bit like someone trying to swear through a mouthful of very potent coca leaves. More importantly, he’s using Deep Words—words that reach down into reality and twist it the way you want it to go.

It takes a lot out of you. Animals won’t do it at all—Paloma the Rat calls it Lying, something any Animal fears for in case it wreaks terrible havoc on the world. But humans are just clever enough to be stupid enough to use it.

Deep Words. The Speech. The Song. The Sight. The Dancing Shadow. Summoning and banishing creatures from folklore, creatures far too real for Bruno’s liking. Cosmic Detachment. Birth-Without-Birth. And now Madrigal Magic, that wide and wonderful collection of powers—Gifts—granted to three triplets and localized in one valley that may or may not be in the same reality as the rest of Colombia.

All of it so close. So easy to touch. Knowing how to do magic and not doing it is like not scratching an itch. Never mind that visions make him feel exhausted—not doing visions would make him waste away entirely. When you’ve seen the world from the outside, wouldn’t you do anything to get back there? Learn what you missed the first time?

And all of it’s sitting right there. When God made the world, He left His powers scattered around for people to use, and thank Him that so few people do.

Bruno thinks about the question for some time, up in the taita’s hut on the hill, watching the town of San Ambrosio beneath.

Finally, he says in English, “Not doing any magic at all—but when you know you can and don’t need to.”

“Got it in one, kid,” says the taita, grinning.

* * *

“Wow,” murmurs Félix dreamily after she literally pulls him off his feet for a kiss that seems even better than the last one.

Pepa giggles.

Mán, his girlfriend is strong.

* * *

Agustín isn’t always the best at competitions of muscle or stamina, he’ll admit this freely. But—he cracks his fingers—when it comes to music—

He matches Félix’s tiple and Diego’s accordion note for note, and throws in a few little twists that feel oh so good. He glances sideways at the look his wife is giving him and nearly misses the keyboard entirely, but manages to play on through the blush.

—he can be pretty forte when he wants to be.

* * *

Any centauro can have power. What’s important is control. That’s been the lesson of Isabela’s life. Perfect flowers in perfect poises, that’s the way to be strong.

And then she loses control, just for a moment. She smashes poor Mariano’s nose in. She lets her emotions get the better of her, like Abuela never would. She’s ruined seventeen years of perfection in the span of a single dinner.

She grows a cactus.

And suddenly the Kingdom Plantae explodes within her mind, and like hell is she strong enough to hold it back.

Like hell, she thinks, as her baby sister sings along and they rise to the skies, does she want to.

(If there’s one thing she’s learned from Papá, it’s that forte also means loud.)

* * *

“C’mon, parcero, it’s Luisa. No question there.”

“Couldn’t Camilo technically replicate Luisa’s powers if he wanted to?”

“Nah, nah, it’s Tía Pepa—”

“Got to be—”

“There’s a giant chunk taken out of El Caballero that can attest to that—”

Dolores thinks about eavesdropping the same way other people think about not scratching an itch. And she is, unfortunately, incredibly itchy. It’s a bit like having chicken pox on the brain. Listening in on her boyfriend and her cousins (on her father’s side) and their friends at La Costeñita is honestly just a harmless way of relieving the surface pressure.

“How about you, Mariano?” asks Orlando Morena.

“Dolores.”

For half a second she wonders if she’s just been found out. It’s unlikely, given that she’s helping Papi and Tía Julieta make dinner, but not impossible. (Makes her feel kind of funny. Not necessarily in a bad way.)

A dual snort that can only have come from Cristóbal and Pedro.

“Come on, Mariano.”

“We know you’re making up for lost time courting our dear cousin—”

“Having finally opened your eyes to her magnificence—”

“And of course we’ll maim you slowly and painfully and completely silently if you ever break her heart—”

“But it’s not like she’s listening all the time.”

“You don’t have to go nuts with it, parce.”

“I’m not, though,” says Mariano. Dolores pushes her powers a little further, hears his steady heart-rate, the absolute conviction in his voice, and mildly melts. “I do genuinely think she’s the strongest.”

“You might have to explain that one,” says David Velázquez, scratching his head.

“All the other Madrigals bar her and Señora Pepa either have powers that don’t hurt them or have powers they can turn off,” Mariano explains. “And Señora Pepa’s powers are based on her own emotions, and she can use them to make the weather do incredible things. But Dolores has to sit and hear everything that goes on in this valley all the time, and she can’t stop it. Every argument, every accident, every time someone kills an animal for food, every festival. She heard me every time I bumbled my way through another courting session with her cousin. She’s surrounded by noise all the time. But she puts up with it. She still finds time to help others with their problems. She finds time to comfort people, or to direct Camilo or Mirabel or Señora Julieta to help. And she doesn’t hold grudges. She stays strong.”

All of this has been in a simple, no-nonsense voice. The last bit is tinged with such warmth she’s not entirely certain what to feel. “Dolores is La Corazón del Encanto, amigos. She’s the strongest person I know in the whole world.”

Darn it, Mariano.

“…Dolores?” says Cristóbal.

“Keep him,” suggests Pedro.

Way ahead of you, cousins. Way ahead of you.

* * *

“Uhhh, Camilo? I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

* * *

One very short game of Catch-the-Mirabel later, a somewhat bruised nine-year-old Camilo is inclined to agree.

On the other hand his best friend is laughing her head off after having been in a slump for over a week, and he honestly has never felt stronger.

* * *

Mirabel can feel the Song threading itself across the world, now that’s she’s finally paying attention to it. And she knows, she just knows, that it would be so easy to stretch out and start singing. Start changing things again.

She won’t, though. It’s a terrible temptation, but she won’t. She helped the family bring back Casita. She doesn’t need the Song anymore.

Well. Except on special occasions.

“¡Feliz cumpleaños, Antonio!”

Although where the out-of-picture marching band came from is beyond even Tío Bruno to figure out, it seems.

* * *

“You don’t have to do it all on your own,” says Antonio, simply. “That’s not what being strong means.”

Beside him, Parce the Jaguar grumbles low in silent agreement. Pico the Toucan clicks his beak approvingly. Chispi the Capybara blinks slowly. Mariana the Kinkajou stares expectantly.

Abuela smiles.

“I think I’m coming to learn that, Antonio. Thank you.”

[theofficersacademy]

TEAM TAG: #KEVillage2023

WEEK 3: Where do you sleep, my golden city?

(TW: child death, brief suggestion of suicide)

“Don’t wander off too far!”

It’s not your voice, but your raw throat and racing heart suggests that it is. That girl, she’s always been curious. Always an explorer. Curse yourself for not keeping a better eye on her. Market stalls melt into the craggy mountainsides, a treacherous path through the Oghmas that you had crossed a thousand times before on your way to your missions, a path you now take with caution as you don’t know what lies ahead.

No. You do know. You know it as you see your daughter dangling by her ankle, held over the edge of a cliff by one of the aliens. Their cruel, sinister smiles, their scaled arms and sharp claws that dig into the child’s soft skin, they make a mark into your very soul.

We will take all that is precious to you.

Unmoved, they toss Arke off the cliff. The girl screams in terror, a scream cut short as her body falls upon the rocks.

There will be nothing left for you.

Despair floods your heart. You might feel compelled to run after her, to fling yourself off the cliffs in hopes that you catch her, or that you might not live another second without her.

—

You wake up curled in soft grass, under the warm blanket of night. A soft lullaby hums in your ear.

Yes… this was all a dream, a terrible dream. At last, the storm is over. At last, you can rest.

Dream Logic

As in all dreams, you have a vague sense of place and purpose, though they are up to your interpretation.

Your sense of place is returning to you. Though this location is more surreal than the last, there is also this lucid understanding that wasn’t present in the village. You might even remember what your mission was.  

Speaking of, those of your group are not the only ones here. It’s not something you can really put to words, only that there are people to find. Not just the ones you’re looking for, but a greater presence, almost like a god. She surrounds you all as the night sky, the breeze that cradles you, the moon that smiles down at you, the warm air that embraces you. You can feel her thoughts in your mind, the affection she already has for you, the sharp grief she still holds. Enter NPC: ???  

You don’t quite know what this place is. What you know is that it’s flooded with grief, the grief of anticipated or actual loss of love. It pervades this place, to the point where it’d be easy to drown in it. Worse, whenever you try to find higher ground, you start to feel ill the higher you go. Even climbing up a hill makes you nauseous. It takes a few minutes for your body to adjust to the change in altitude, so don’t rush yourselves when you need to go up.  

Edelgard is here when you arrive. It looks like she is being held by an invisible person, the way she floats up in the air with her hands held close to her chest. For Edelgard, it’s like being held by her mother again. When she thinks about moving or going somewhere, she is unable to escape that person’s embrace and is instead rocked like a fussy infant. She begins the week at 1/10HP and with the KO status: Unit cannot collect materials from threads.

Places of interest:

This place is a dark forest, but not in a foreboding sense. This is a beautiful place, a peaceful place dimly lit by moonlight and fireflies. You hear gentle birdsong in the trees and a low, constant hum as the “god” sings a lullaby. The night sky encompasses this place, covering it like a blanket. The stars shine, pinpricks of light shining through the weave.

Goal:

There is nothing to worry about anymore. 

If you’re set on rescuing the knights and escaping the dream, then you must prepare for the journey. There is nowhere to go but up.

The toys are ruined from the fall, but they can still be salvaged. Take 20 toys, break down what materials were used to make them, and return half of those materials to your inventory rounding up (half the wood, half the stone, etc)

Warning: In the upcoming dungeon, you will be taking continuous damage. Please keep this in mind as you decide what you will craft and how you will use your team’s heals.

Tasks

If you want anything from here, you need to ask for permission from this god of night. Without her say, nothing of use comes to you.

Herbs? Those are easy. The idea that you would want to go and pick flowers endears you to her, and her mind betrays this. She manifests a field of flowers for you, flush with the herbs you need. 

Grants 3d2 Herbs per post.

Wood? She abhors the idea of you brutishly cutting down the trees. You’ll have to make do with sticks and twigs. She also refuses to leave you be, for there are dangerous knights in the woods, those that align themselves with the aliens. Those with white and red armor, bearing the symbol of a dragon… 

Grants 2d2 Wood per post.

Stone? Even if you wanted to, she bans you from the mountains. If you insist on stone, you will have to collect it from the running river nearby where she can keep an eye on you. There are river stones to collect, but also flecks of gold and crystal that flow past your feet. You may be able to filter them out with your shirt… 

Grants 4d2 Stone and 1 Chalkos per post.

Chalkos? The god is no mage, she tells you. That said, she is emotional, and the emotions stirred from holding Edelgard and listening to your requests occasionally causes chunks of Chalkos to fall from the sky. You may have to play with her emotions. 

Grants 4d4 Chalkos.