#i will finish this (manifest)

[novakiart]

gotta nurse the baby boy back to health, part i (next)

🕷️ written by me & nevi

[aniihera]

i haven't posted in yonks (and am currently in honours hell) so take these old af scarecrow + riddler doodle offerings

[artmistersealy]

for when Albion's need is greatest

Arthur will rise again

[cuubism]

The thing is.

Hob understands that Dream cannot be hurt easily. He is an ancient, powerful, nonhuman being. Hob has, in fact, heard a story from Matthew about when some foolish human wannabe-magician had attempted to stab him when Dream had gone to retrieve a spell book that had slipped from the Dreaming library. According to Matthew, the knife had simply gone through his chest like he was made of smoke and left no mark at all.

(Hob still wishes he had been there. He’d have snapped the guy’s arm. Or worse.)

Barring luck and a magical binding, like what happened with Roderick Burgess, Dream can’t be hurt by mortal means. Hob understands this. Hell, he can hardly be hurt by supernatural means either. Only a few very powerful beings would be able to manage it, or else the very laws that govern his existence, coming down upon his head.

The thing also is.

Dream bruises so easily.

Sometimes.

Like now, when Dream is actually limping across the floor of the Inn. Long coat, which usually does not come with him to the waking world, wrapped tight around him. A dark bruise blooms along his cheekbone. Hob doesn’t understand how it’s possible. It shouldn’t be, not when Dream can take a knife to the heart like it’s a gust of wind, but the fact of the matter is that it is possible, apparently. And so Hob’s got to do something about it.

He meets Dream halfway across the room, braces him by the arms. “Jesus, Dream. Are you hurt?” Well, evidently he is. “How badly?”

“I told him he should stay home and rest,” grumbles Matthew from where he’s hopping along the floor at Dream’s side. Hob hadn’t even seen him there, he’d been so focused on Dream. The fact that Matthew’s not even riding on Dream’s shoulder is not a good sign.

“I did not want to miss our meeting,” Dream says. Which is a hell of a thing.

“Come upstairs, then,” Hob says, and doesn’t quite realize he’s grabbed Dream’s arm and is right pulling him along until he’s already done it. But Dream just follows him. Matthew follows, too, which, again, is not making Hob feel confident about Dream not being too badly injured.

“What happened?” Hob asks, as he sits Dream down on the couch, perching carefully at his side.

“A minor altercation,” says Dream.

“He was thrown into a wall,” says Matthew. “The wall cracked, by the way.”

Hob winces in sympathy. “Thrown by who? Or… what?”

Dream says, “It’s of no consequence.”

Matthew says, “I don’t know, but it had a lot of limbs.”

Hob’s kind of glad Matthew’s here as bullshit translator right now.

“How badly were you hurt?” he asks again. Not badly enough to keep him from traveling, evidently, but badly enough that he is limping. As a measly little human, Hob might find himself limping for a while just by twisting his ankle going down the stairs— but he does not like that intersection of facts when it’s someone like Dream.

“I am fine,” says Dream, and then winces as he shifts his weight on the couch.

“Bullshit,” say Hob and Matthew simultaneously, after which Matthew adds, “Uh, I mean, bullshit, your lordship.”

Dream slants a reproving glance over at him, then back to Hob. “Can I see?” Hob asks, more gently. “I’d like to help. If I can.”

Gingerly, Dream shrugs his long robe off his shoulders. Underneath, he’s wearing his usual black t-shirt, and at Hob’s urging he pulls that off over his head, too, though evidently with some pain. His chest and stomach seem uninjured, the unnaturally pale and smooth skin is still just that, unnaturally pale and smooth— so Hob tugs on his shoulder. “Can I see your back?”

Dream turns, and Hob tries not to think too hard about Dream doing his bidding like that—it’s tender and troubling and arousing all at once, and he’s definitely not going to think about that last bit—and sucks in a breath.

His back is a map of bruises, nebulae arcing over his shoulders and the nape of his neck, curling down over his spine like a coiled dragon. Dream bruises prettily, even like this, periwinkle and dusk blue, the purple of sunset clouds. Another reminder of how Night, too, lives within him.

“I told you,” Matthew says, hopping up onto the back of the couch by Hob’s shoulder.

Dream makes a grumbling sound, but doesn’t deny him this time.

Hob traces a light hand along his shoulder blade and the deep, spilled-watercolor of the bruise there. Thrown into a wall, Matthew had said. Ouch.

Dream shivers at the touch, and Hob says, tentative, “Do you usually bruise like that, love?”

He’s seen it before, though not this bad. Lines of strain on Dream’s hands. A red, banded mark on his arm on one of the few occasions he’d taken his coat off in Hob’s presence. He wants to hear it from Dream, though.

Dream says, tentative now, hunched on the couch like a wounded physical thing rather than what he is, “I… suppose.”

Sitting only in his tight jeans and boots, hair a mess, the mark on his cheek makes him look hunted. Hob touches that too, with light fingertips. Dream leans into his hand with a little sigh, and… oh. That’s something.

“Hey, he got the shit kicked out of him like a few days ago and just walked away like it was nothing,” Matthew complains, as if Dream’s I suppose answer is ridiculous. “And then obliterated the other guy, too.”

“Sorry, when was this?” Hob is still holding Dream’s cheek, but Dream doesn’t turn further to meet his eyes. “Why are you getting beaten up all the time, exactly?”

He’s not Dream’s minder. He’s not. He’s not. Hob forces himself to remember that fact.

“In my absence many have forgotten the might and sanctity of the Dreaming,” says Dream, and if Hob’s not mistaken there’s a little whining petulance in his tone which is… endearing, almost. “Other realms have become… impudent. Entitled. I am simply. Reminding them to show respect. Sometimes physical conflict is necessary.”

Hob sighs. “Well, Your Majesty, maybe it’s time to take a break from the ritual dueling, yeah?”

“…Perhaps,” Dream says, which is as much of an agreement as Hob ever gets.

He supposes he’ll take perhaps. Though the more he thinks about it, the more distressing it is to imagine Dream going around getting hurt. Even if he thinks he’s doing it for some important cause.

“Well, there’s not much I can do for these right now,” Hob says, and can’t keep the concern out of his voice. “Other than letting them heal on their own.”

“I see,” says Dream, and if Hob’s not mistaken his voice is small. And he reaches for his shirt, and—

“Hey.” Hob grabs his wrist. Dream freezes. “That doesn’t mean you have to leave?” He hates that it comes out as a question.

Dream wavers. Then he says, “Matthew.”

It’s loaded with more than just Matthew’s name. An order. Matthew squawks indignantly. “Boss! Come on. You’re really gonna send me back like that? When you’re like this?”

Dream just looks at him.

Matthew sighs, fluttering his wings. “Fine. Have your special private time, then.”

Special private time, Hob mouths to himself.

Matthew lifts his wings for takeoff. “You better not send him back with more bruises, Hobert.”

“Excuse me?”

Then he’s gone, winging out a window that Hob hadn’t realized was open. Maybe it wasn’t a moment ago. Who knows.

Dream looks after him, and sighs with real fatigue. “His insolence only grows.”

“Special private time?” Hob says, and Dream glances at him, and then away.

“He is under the impression that you are my…” he says, and trails off.

Oh. Well.

They’re not like that. But.

But?

Dream looks despondent now, staring off into the corner of the flat, back still turned to Hob’s chest. Hob’s become certain that he wants something, he came here for something, not just to make their usual meeting time… but he still doesn’t know what.

Probably he should ask. Not that that ever works with Dream. Probably he should anyway.

Instead he presses his lips to the curve of Dream’s shoulder, where the bruise is deepest blue.

Dream shudders, and then goes slack in his grip, his shoulders caving. “Hob…”

“Is that what you wanted?” Hob says against his skin. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He can’t believe Dream is letting him. “Does it hurt very badly? Is that helping?”

“It…” Dream muses, and sighs. “Is. Helping.”

Hob takes Dream’s chin between his fingers and turns his face enough that he can kiss his cheek, over the horrible sprawled mark of the bruise. Dream’s eyes flutter shut. He braces a hand on Hob’s thigh as he twists back to lean into Hob’s touch. Hob could use his grip to turn his head further and kiss him properly, he thinks, with a trip in his chest. Dream’s lips are right there, soft and open.

Instead, he leans his head on the back of Dream’s neck. Lets his hands fall to Dream’s bare waist, lips brushing his skin as he says, “You don’t… really bruise, do you?”

Dream still has his head tipped back; Hob’s hair brushes his cheek. “It affects you to see it,” he says quietly.

“Of course it does,” Hob says, equally hushed now. “I hate seeing you hurt.”

“Even,” says Dream, almost tentative, “if I am not truly hurt?”

“You are hurt,” Hob says, and finally draws the strength to lift his head from Dream’s neck. Dream is still looking at him, over his shoulder. His eyes are very dark in the dim light, rimmed red, he looks soft and fragile as a flower petal and Hob would do anything for him. “You were thrown into a wall by ‘something with a lot of limbs’, after all.”

Dream huffs. “Matthew exaggerates.”

“It’s okay if you want it to matter,” Hob tells him. That’s what it is, isn’t it? “To… be seen.” He slides his hand over Dream’s where it still rests on his thigh, twines their fingers together. A flicker of stillness runs through Dream’s body, the way a human’s breath might catch. Hob thinks he might pull away.

Instead he yields, and Hob exhales hard, a breath that had coiled far too tight in his lungs unwinding. Dream caves into him, and Hob wraps his arms around him, pulls him close, kisses the curve of his shoulder and watches a bruise disappear in the echo of that touch.

“Just wanted a hug after a rough day, in the end?” Hob says, and Dream huffs again as if such a desire is offending even to imply. He doesn’t move away though.

“Is it that easy for you?” Dream’s face is close enough that his hair brushes Hob’s temple as he speaks.

“And what if it is?” What if Hob had wanted to hug him when he first spoke of his imprisonment, and held back, and still regrets it? And what if it’s so easy to fall into it now? To slip into a world, this world where he can pull Dream into his arms, like he’s wading into the ocean for the first time, into foreign currents powerful beyond imagining but primordially known. Resonant as a familiar dream.

In some sense it would be accurate to say that Hob has known Dream all his life—he is, after all, dreams. But Hob doesn’t think of his friend as dreams. Maybe it’s a limitation of his human mind not to see the endless scale of the picture. But when he thinks of Dream, he doesn’t think of all of life or anything like that.

Instead, he goes back to their meeting in 1689. When Dream had thought he might no longer want to live, and Hob swore he saw a tear nearly break that usually stern countenance. Hob had always been fascinated by him, but he thinks that was the first moment he really saw him, beyond the cloak of distance and fantasy Dream liked to wrap around himself.

He’d like to think that Dream saw him then, too.

That’s the Dream he thinks of. The Dream he’d like to say he knows. The person, not the incomprehensible entity that Dream sees himself as. An incomprehensible entity can take a knife through the chest and dissipate around it like smoke, but not a person.

“If it is,” says Dream, pulling back to properly look at him, “then perhaps I might… impose.”

He looks so… cautiously hopeful. How can he not know already? “You think it’s possible for you to impose?”

“Imposition is easy,” says Dream, quietly. Hob lifts a hand to cup his cheek, and at the same time, as if of the same mind, Dream leans in and fits his face to Hob’s palm, eyes falling shut again.

He looks so gaunt now, with his bruised cheek and shadowed eyes, sharp collarbones and the swooping curves of his ribs. Hob had thought it had gotten better since his imprisonment, but now he’s not so sure. Maybe it’s just that without the shielding of his shirt, and his robe, he looks smaller than Hob’s used to thinking of him, and angular and fragile. He’s still so impossibly beautiful, delicate like a tree glazed in post-storm ice.

It makes Hob feel unexpectedly bold. His heart trips over, but he leans in and kisses the corner of Dream’s mouth.

Dream makes a quiet, surprised sound. Turns his head, blind, seeking, and then their lips connect properly.

When Hob had let himself imagine the possibility of kissing Dream, he had seen a force of nature. His friend would kiss with the chill of the rain that night he’d left Hob standing behind the White Horse. With the encompassing darkness of the night sky. The full experience of him would be overpowering and that was okay, because even a taste of him had already turned the course of Hob’s life.

But this Dream caves. Tips his head back in Hob’s hand, opens his mouth under Hob’s. Stiffness bleeds from him, regality flees him, and what Hob has left in his hands is a soft, horribly bruised thing leaning in for a deeper kiss.

So he kisses Dream deeper. Swipes his tongue into Dream’s mouth. He tastes slightly metallic, like he might have bitten his tongue and bled, were he human, and he makes a soft sound as Hob breaks the kiss for an unfortunate but necessary breath.

He keeps Dream close, hand to his cheek. Dream, eyes still closed, says, “A kiss just to comfort me, Hob?”

It hurts, just a little, that he thinks so. “How about a kiss just because I wanted to kiss you? You really think I’m more selfless than I am.”

Dream chuckles. “I see.”

Finally, he opens his eyes to look at Hob again properly. He looks tentatively happy now, it’s there in the slight crease at the corners of his eyes, the little spark that’s returned to them. Hob’s heart swells to see it, to think that he could do that.

“What then,” says Dream, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, “would you do… selfishly?”

“Same thing,” says Hob, and kisses him again. Dream hums into it this time, pleased. “And tell you to bring me with you next time you’re asserting your dominance around the galaxy or whatever.”

“Why?”

“There’s some guys I want to throw into walls,” Hob says.

Dream huffs, but Hob thinks he looks secretly pleased. “I am not certain ‘guys’ is an accurate description.”

“You think just because the fifteen-armed thing is a lady that I won’t—”

And Dream actually laughs, a startled choking laugh. “Your definition of chivalry is—” he gathers himself— “appalling.”

“Take it or leave it, Your Majesty,” Hob says, grinning. Nothing feels better than getting a rare laugh out of Dream.

Mirth sparkles in Dream’s eyes. “I will take it,” he says, turning his head to kiss Hob’s palm, “of course. When you offer me haven and defense both, how can I not?”

Hob presses his kissed palm back to Dream’s cheek, over the dark bruise there, watching it start to fade. “Bring me your bruises, darling,” he says, “and I’ll protect you.”

Dream leans back in, and rests his forehead against Hob’s. He doesn’t need to ask for another hug. Hob just wraps his arms around him, and lets Dream’s contented sigh be its own question, and answer, at once.

[mmm-eta]

collected all my struggles drawing him :) and added background so that it's an actual drawing lol ↓

[volosdarling]

[crunchchute]

an assortment

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Having the Pool Dream again, handsome?

[moomeecore]

cool that adventure time has blood now! i think betty should get to kill someone extremely violently.

[madin-writes]

“So, this is meant to be a representation of you?” Nico asks, holding up the figurine. When Leo nods, he quirks his lips in an amused smile. “You see yourself as a dragon?”

“I—” Pausing, Leo blinks and feels heat rushing to his face. “W-well, of course! What else would I be?”

Nico thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “If we're talking about animals, you seem more like a rat to me.”

“A rat?”

“Hear me out,” Nico says, trying to act serious despite failing to hold back giggles. “You’ve got the pointy ears and you’re clever, resourceful, in unexpected situations. That’s not a bad thing, right?”

“Shut the fuck up. Oh my god.” Leo hides his head in his hands, mind reeling as he reconciles with the knowledge that this apparently is how Nico perceives him. “I can't believe you broke through my window and came into my dorm room just to call me a fucking rat—”

Laughing openly now, Nico peels away Leo's hands, takes in the comically offended look on his face, and bumps their shoulders together lightly. “I’m kidding, Valdez. The dragon is really cool,” he says, voice soft as he glances down again, tracing the edges of the carved wood with his finger.

[mabaki]

He's got a voice in his head... that's his but not his. (Tower of Nightmares era)

Oh, all the things he hears and endures.

I only wanted to do the first panel but then I added more sketches and sometimes I dont know when to call it quits.... until I get lazy LOL

Me: Im gonna draw Lore The Lore: gay LMAO

Without the extra cropping. I mean i might as well, i drew it all out after all LMAO

He's the reason why he can use the vines and Dreamthistles the way he does, but the more Mabaki uses it, the stronger he becomes, at least in terms of influence. And if he wants to, he can take away the ability to control the vines. (Totally didn't hurt someone because of this as Mbk watched, not able to control them at all, no no).

Bonus, he's the reason Mbk didn't fall to Mordremoth.

[governmentmandatedryujinstan420]

I FORGOT TO THROW OUT AFTER THE EPISODE RELEASED NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

[ratective]

pearl with a pearl earring: a possibly grotesque adaptation

[heartorbit]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NENE 🐠💚

[viric-dreams]

I've said before that Roberts is incredibly good at darts... I don't think I ever specified why.

Bonus:

[thefrogdalorian]

Weather The Storm Together

Din Djarin x Neurodivergent GN!Reader

Summary: Despite repeated reassurances that Din loves you regardless of your struggles, you find it difficult to believe him. But when you are engulfed by a particularly strong wave of emotions and fail at your latest attempt to avoid letting him in, it only serves to strengthen your bond.

Word Count: 1.6k ✯ Rating: General ✯ Content Warnings: Reader has a panic attack/meltdown, physical symptoms described, negative thoughts (but with Din's help, these emotions are resolved!). ✯ Author's Note: Well it really has been one thing after another for me this week, so I really needed to write this for myself. Very cathartic to write your fave character being understanding of struggles, but I do think it fits Din so well. He spends his entire life wearing a literal mask, he would be very compassionate and gentle. Hope you enjoy this one!

✯ My Masterlist ✯ Read on AO3 ✯

As you lay face-down, sobbing your heart out on your bunk, your senses were too overwhelmed to hear him approaching. It was too late to turn away when your drained brain finally perceived the sound of his familiar heavy footsteps. 

Your stomach drops when the rhythmic sounds stop.

Now, there is nowhere to hide. 

You never intended for him to catch you in such a state. You remain convinced you look repulsive, with your swollen eyes burning from the endless tears shed. You fret about your messy hair that surely sticks out at all ends.

How will he retain his attraction to you after seeing you this dishevelled? How could anyone love someone capable of getting into such a distressed state?

The pain from such realisations will come later.

For now, you are too preoccupied with the way your chest aches from the exertion of the sobs which wracked your entire body until only moments ago. 

As you roll over, you wipe your eyes to get a better look at him, but the sniffling continues. Once your eyes are suitably clear of tears, your stomach churns with unease as you stare up at him, suddenly feeling pathetic and tiny in his presence. 

Somehow, he appears unfazed by your distressed appearance. As comfortable before his distressed cyare, as he would be encountering a band of mercenaries with deadly intentions. 

“I’m here,” Din’s familiar deep voice cuts through the anguish, and you start to feel the clouds lift.

He moves to sit on the edge of your bunk. Instinctively, you cover your face with your arms, nuzzling into the soft material of the clothes you wear to sleep in. 

Now that the shock is beginning to wear off, the equally unwelcome emotion of embarrassment begins to rear its ugly head, ready to add to your distress.

As he sits there gazing at you, his ordinarily warm brown eyes cooler and widened with concern, you think of recent events from Din’s perspective.

You blamed stomach ache for your abrupt retirement to your bunk. Despite his immediate concern for you, you successfully convinced him not to worry. Insisting it was a rogue ration pack, rather than an impending tidal wave of distress. 

When you hurried to your bunk, you left Din engaged in one of his favourite ways he soothes his soul and self-regulates. He would have remained there for a while longer, meticulously cleaning his armour, were he not abruptly interrupted by the unmistakable, gut-wrenching sounds of your sobs. 

You feel terrible that it struck at that moment, during such an unassuming afternoon. The constant storm that brews within you does not discriminate with timing. Sometimes, like today, there is a little warning, but just enough for you to get away and fall apart in peace. Things were perfectly fine, until they weren’t. A combination of the way the cloth Din was using squeaked against his armour and the seemingly endless monotony of hyperspace had caused you to tip over the edge. 

Din has reminded you time and time again that he is by your side every step of the way. But after an entire life spent keeping this side of you hidden, believing it is far easier said than done. It will take more than his supportive words to undo the years of damage inflicted by the repeated negative reinforcements that breaking down like this was due to poor behaviour rather than being a natural, unavoidable response to feeling overwhelmed.

Still, Din is your anchor, something to cling to during the ferocious storm. You reach for his hand, relieved that he has forgone his gloves, as you lace his thick, callused fingers with yours. To your relief, some of the familiar warmth returns to his eyes, matched by the heat radiating from his skin.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Din tentatively questions. 

You nod your head, taking shaky breaths to compose yourself so you can let him into your anguished state of mind rather than keeping him locked out. 

“It was just all too much. The noise of the cloth against the armour and being stuck in this ship for another day. I couldn’t take it. I hate that I have to go through this,” you murmur.

“I know, cyare,” Din squeezes your hand as he shakes his head, “I wish you didn’t have to suffer. But we’ll be landing soon. By the time you wake up tomorrow, we’ll be back on solid ground.”

You nod. You know that Din is reminding you of your impending return to Nevarro as a reason to stay optimistic, not berating you for being unable to last just one more day. He understands how frustrated you are that you could not see this journey through without being overwhelmed. Still, the shame does not dissipate entirely.

“I hate that you have to see me like this. I feel so embarrassed,” you confess shakily, deciding there is no point in hiding your true feelings from him.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Nothing,” Din reassures you, “No one would choose to get themselves into such a state. I hate to see you like this.”

“You’re not mad at me?” you clarify, optimistic that he does not appear annoyed that you attempted to hide your acute distress from him. 

Din shakes his head, “I could never be mad at you. I wish you didn’t feel the need to hide this from me, but I understand why you do, and I hope that one day you will no longer feel a need to.”

You nod, relieved that Din does not berate and lecture you like others in your past have. His words fill you with optimism for the future, too. 

But the dread lingers. Now that you have discovered your fear that Din was angry with you was unfounded, your anguished, racing mind turns to the future. Feeling even marginally less distressed than you do at the moment seems unthinkable. 

“Will it ever get better?” you pathetically ask, picking at the threadbare blanket with your free hand as you avoid his gaze. 

“Of course, it will,” Din responds immediately, his tone so firm that you dare to look up at him, “Right now, it’s hard to imagine not feeling this awful. I promise you, this won’t last forever. I will help you through this.”

“But how long can you go through this, Din, before it’s too much?” you pose the question which makes your heart constrict. 

“You will never be too much,” Din shakes his hand, incredulous at the notion he would ever leave; unwavering in his devotion to you. 

Your bottom lip trembles at his words, a few stray tears leaking from your eyes and trailing down your cheeks. You are about to move to rub your cheeks with your sleeves when, in an achingly tender gesture, Din gently uses his thumb to wipe them away. 

The caring gesture and adoration apparent across his handsome features make you feel as though a Wookiee has taken a seat on your chest. It is difficult to breathe in the face of such unconditional love, especially at such a vulnerable moment. 

"There will be better days and I'll be standing by your side through all of them," Din whispers as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, before leaning his head against the very spot he just brushed his lips against.  

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep, steadying breath. You will yourself to believe Din's encouraging words, though you remain powerless to help the lingering doubt that gnaws somewhere deep inside. The two of you spend a few moments drawing strength from the closeness. You cannot resist how your lips curve upwards slightly at the way Din strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. 

“Do you believe me?” Din finally asks, his breath hot against your face. 

You pause for a few moments, considering your response. Then, you bring your free hand up to Din’s stubbly cheek and run your thumb along his surprisingly soft skin. You wordlessly answer his question by meeting his lips with yours softly, pressing your lips so faintly against his that it is a ghost of a gesture. 

Din pulls away, his expressive face overcome with emotion. You can see the hope, relief and devotion in his eyes. 

“With you by my side, Din Djarin, I believe that Mustafar could freeze over,” you smirk, then grow serious, “You make me feel like anything is possible.”

Din closes his eyes in gratitude, nodding as he swallows thickly. Relieved that he has, once again, pulled you back from the abyss with the patient, gentle way he loves you.

“Why don’t we get some rest?” Din offers, knowing the impact such distressing episodes have on your energy reserves. 

You eagerly nod. Din quickly moves to shed his outer layers of clothing. He is already back before your side before you can truly mourn the loss of contact, pulling you into his strong arms so tightly that you believe he will never let you go. 

As you lie back on the bunk together, you come to rest in your favourite position; with your cheek on Din’s strong, firm chest as his hands settle on your waist, rubbing soothing circles across your back. 

You are so exhausted that it appears sleep will come easily to you, as your eyelids are already growing leaden while your breathing becomes heavy. Safe in the arms you love, the distress of before seems almost a distant memory. 

Before falling into sleep’s warm embrace entirely, you hear Din whisper a final reminder:

“We’ll weather the storm together,” his deep voice vibrates underneath you. 

You nod in agreement, reassured that Din’s affection for you will never diminish, no matter the severity of your distress. 

The strong man whose arms you lie in will always be your anchor.

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