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bidisastersanji · 5 months

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"Zoro gets lost because he uses his red string of fate like a compass- and that's why Sanji always finds him" was one of the first things I posted and now it's real! I got three chapters and here's the first part below the cut. Click here to read it on AO3 if you prefer. each part is around 1.5k words. edit: part 2 here, part 3 here

Zoro has always been a simple man; one of actions over words and of tangible things over what he considers trivial. It’s therefore not surprising that, in a world where certain people are bound by fate, each in their own unique way- some rumoured to share markings on their skin, some with changing eye colours, or even some who feel phantom pains from across the sea- in such a spectacular world, Zoro doesn’t really linger on the red piece of thread tied to his pinky finger.

The red thread hasn’t ever really been a question in his mind, it just was.

As far back as he could remember, it’s just been there, infinitely stretching Northwards, unmoving and unseen by others. Subconsciously, he taught himself to use it as a compass to navigate his home island, Shimotsuki. He never had to remember to take it with him, and it reliably was always stretching in the same direction, which was perfectly convenient with the function he’d ascribed it. His odd way of getting around easily became second nature, a habit so deeply ingrained that he barely gave a second thought to the bright cord on his hand.

---

He’s about eight years old when things change.

The first day Zoro gets lost, he thinks he might’ve missed one of the steps he memorised, jaw tight with repressed irritation at being reprimanded for his lateness to practice.

The second time he gets lost he’s in the forest, thick trees towering over him in all directions, and when the sun starts to lower in the sky, frustration bubbles up in his chest, tight and sour, stinging his eyes, threatening to spill out as he struggles to find his way back to the dojo. They must’ve cut down some trees or something, he scoffs to himself.

The third time he gets lost, he’s pretty certain that someone must be playing a prank on him and moved the garden shed from its usual spot. There’s no other reasonable explanation -short of the shed growing legs- seeing as he’s such a natural at getting around.

From then on, Zoro learns to accept that he lives in a world where people mysteriously move landmarks, buildings and roads around all the time. He tries not to take it too personally, being the target of all these pranks, but he does resent the time he wastes when getting around, as its precious time he could’ve been using to be training. Training to finally beat Kuina.

It takes him weeks to realise that maybe the string on his hand isn’t pointing in the same direction anymore.

Once he does notice, he notes that it periodically moves around- sometimes a bit, sometimes a lot, always right when he starts getting used to it damnit and no his sense of direction is just fine thank you. After the first couple of students at the dojo get their asses handed to them for teasing him about it, adults and children alike learn not to poke fun at the glaring, directionally challenged green-haired boy, no matter how often nor absurdly he gets turn around.

The only person that Zoro reveals his little secret to is Kuina.

He’s eleven, still a head or two shorter than her, and they’re taking a little break from sparring, sharing some homemade onigiri her mom made her. They’re sat in a tree’s shade, a pleasant breeze cooling their overheated skin, and she asks him about his infamously atrocious spatial navigation. He denies it at first, ears heating up in embarrassment, but after a couple more bites he decides if anyone were to know, it would have to be her. His friend. His only best friend.

The young Zoro reveals that he’s not really sure why he gets lost in the first place- he's always relied on the thread- not landmarks or maps, as he’s now learned others do- to tell up from down, but one day it just moved. His north star moved, and has kept on moving these past three years, and he still doesn’t know why, just that it’s a real bother.

“Your... thread?”

“Yeah.” he eagerly stuffs his mouth with more onigiri.

Her eyebrow raises quizzically. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

Zoro gestures to his pinky with a tilt of his chin and a wiggle of his finger. “You know. My red string. On my pinky.”

“Zoro, I really don’t. I don’t see anything...” She furrows her brow, thoughtful. “But mom did give me ‘the talk’ last week- maybe this has to do with your soulmate!” Sensing a certain disinterest from her junior, she goes on. “Based on the examples I’ve heard about; I’d say it’s likely that the piece of string on your finger leads to your other half.”

Zoro shrugs lazily. “Sounds like a drag, couldn’t this just be like, my inner compass or somethin’?”

Her eyes crinkle at that, a grin splitting her face from ear-to-ear. “What inner compass, moron? You always get lost. And aren’t you the least bit interested in the person on the other end?” She pokes him in the chest.

“Not really, no.” Zoro tries to brush off the taunt, lips pursed and palming his neck in a nervous tick.

“Ok, think about it this way,” Kuina calls for his attention, “Somewhere out there, on this wide, wide sea- or a faraway island, I guess, there’s someone meant for you. Your person. Your equal. Isn’t that the least bit exciting?”

The young boy’s scowl shifts into something softer, a pout. “I... guess?” He sighs. “I honestly don’t know- all I care about is becoming the best. Right now, Kuina, you’re my goal, you’re who I’m looking to. I don’t really care about this stranger, or fate, or anything like that. I’m gonna make my own destiny.”

Her shoulders shake as she laughs. “Why am I not surprised- Zoro, all you think about are swords and fighting. You’re hopeless. I kind of worry for whoever’s stuck with you-”

“Hey!” his nostrils flare with indignation. “They’re lucky to have me as a soulmate! I’m gonna be so strong- the strongest- and,” he slows down, realising she’d tricked him into caring, just a tiny bit, “a-and they’ll be the happiest soulmate ever ‘cause I’ll protect them.”

She hums in agreement, amused. “And you’ll cherish them, right?”

“Y-yeah...whatever.” he stands up abruptly, eager to change the topic and get back to training. “But my priority is to be the greatest swordsman- and don’t you forget it! I’ll beat you tomorrow for sure!”

After Kuina’s death, thoughts of soulmates and red threads rarely ever cross his mind.

At her funeral, he briefly wonders what’ll become of her soulmate, if she even had one, but it just brings bile to his throat. They’d never even met her- why did they even matter. They were the ones mourning her, the ones robbed of their beloved friend, daughter, rival- they were the ones left behind with a Kuina shaped hole in their chests. The bitter burn distracts from the heavy emptiness he can’t shake off, the cold wetness of grief seeping into his skin. He wholeheartedly leans into the fury, grateful for a target, a temporarily outlet for the howling tempest of emotions caused by the loss of his best friend.

Zoro’s world zeroes in on becoming the best. Pushing himself to the limit. Sparring, training. Constant practice and meditation. After Kuina’s death, there’s no student at the dojo for him to look up to, no ever-progressing goalpost he can set as a target. If he stays, he’ll continue being a big fish in a little pond.

Zoro leaves.

He sails the East Blue, seeking stronger and stronger opponents, cashing in bounties to get by. The Demon of the East Blue, they start calling him. But he’s still the same boy who gets lost, the ghost of a red thread distracting his steps and getting him turned around as he travels from island to island. His odd navigating system is as familiar and mechanical as the way his muscles move when he uses his swords, so ingrained he rarely registers that he’s eyeing the thin, tightly corded rope in his peripheral vision.

Arms tied back with a much thicker, tangible rope, body sore, throat parched and delirious from the burning sun, Zoro doesn’t have much to do in Shell Town’s military yard. For the first time in years, he lets himself contemplate the implications of what Kuina had explained to him- the implications of having a person out there meant for him. He wonders if they’ll ever meet- it seems unlikely if he died here. Which he won’t, of course. Because he’s going to be the world’s greatest swordsman, and not even death will keep him away from achieving his dream. Then- only then, will he maybe think of looking for whoever was stuck with him, he decides. It’ll be his decision.

For now, he’ll just keep following whatever path he feels will lead him to greatness.

And what an odd path he stumbles into. Zoro joins a pirate crew. He makes friends. They get into heaps of trouble, fighting the marines, a crazy clown, a creepy butler... Zoro is happy to test his mettle, to feel challenged once again, the rush of battle pulsing through his veins like the sweetest nectar, the comforting weight of his blades grasped in his hands and mouth.

It’s been a couple of days since they left Syrup village now, and from her spot on Merry’s bridge, Nami has been giving him weird looks.

“Did you hit your head?”

He huffs, miffed at being bothered during his nap. “No. Why’re you asking?”

“You haven’t been getting lost as much lately.” she smirks when she adds, “And I’ve seen you get lost on a smaller ship than this, once.”

His eyes roll. Fucking witch. “Dunno what you mean, my sense of direction is great.”

“And Luffy’s a great swimmer.”

They glare at each other for a moment. Sensing she won’t get any more info from the swordsman, Nami turns away first and sighing, returns her full attention to manning the ship’s helm.

Truth is, the thread had barely moved since they left Usopp’s home island, always pointing in the direction the Merry was sailing- not that Zoro had noticed. This rare situation enabled him to get the hang of the ship’s layout relatively well, and he’d been enjoying how easy it’d become to move around, even though he chalked it up to personal atunement to the Straw hats’ already beloved ship.

A few hours before they get to the Baratie, he thinks it’s a funny coincidence that the thread is pointing in the direction the Merry is going.

#zoro gets lost #zosan soulmate au #zosan #zoro x sanji #one piece zosan #one piece fanfiction #zosan fanfiction #zosan fic idea #red string of fate #part one of three #let me know what you think!#might get impatient and post part two pretty soon haha

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ghouljams · 10 months

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Living vicariously through Bee, can we have Bee either impulsively purchases or has new livestock bestowed upon her, except…she has no place to put them. And Königs like god dammit (affectionate) and helps her build a ramshackle paddock to keep them in for the time being. Can include whatever kinky or plot shit you want, competency kink, size difference, stronk, whatever. I just need validation cause I just had to help my dad build a quarantine paddock in the burning sun this afternoon cause he impulsively bought more sheep 😭

Maelstrom you fuckin beauty I am so here for this. Bee is exactly the type to fall victim to the supply store chicks and bring home way too many because she wanted them to have friends. She is not made for farming but she loves animals and is so stupid. This is going to be very little relevant plot stuff and mostly me making König's life harder.

You call König as soon as you get home, worrying your lip with your teeth and staring at your new family member. You need to have a good long talk with yourself about impulse decisions and saying no to your neighbors. The line hardly rings twice before it picks up.

"What's wrong?" König asks instead of a greeting. You don't know why something has to be wrong for you to call him. Although thinking about it there's usually something wrong when you call him.

“You have to promise not to be mad.” You hear König exhale over the phone, a slow release of pressure.

“I promise I won’t be mad.”

"Ok, I- actually don't know where to start," you tell him honestly, that seems to work best with him. There's a short beat before he tells you,

"I'll be right there."

König stares down at the little pig you hold aloft for him to see. It’s eyes are almost as big and shiny as yours, it's little nose snuffles as you stare entreatingly at him and god dammit he can't say no to you.

"You need a paddock, and a shed." He tells you, already making a mental list of what he’ll need to grab from his place.

"Is a paddock like a little fenced area?” You ask, holding your squirmy piglet like a baby. König nods.

“Do you have a paddock?” Sometimes it feels like he’s really holding your hand through a conversation. You swear you’re not normally this stupid.

“I have a busted up fence behind the house.”

“Show me.”

König crouches next to one of the old fence posts behind your house, testing its stability before nailing up the wire netting he’d grabbed from home. He tips the brim of his hat with his finger to glance at the rest of the posts in the area, quick mental math buzzing and filling in where he’d need to put missing posts. When he stands again the roll of his shoulders as he straightens to full height is mesmerizing. You don’t think you’d properly internalized just how strong he must be. Watching him work is certainly… enlightening.

He’s really good at this, and you- you have nothing to add that could help. If you’re being totally honest with yourself, you would’ve been completely lost without him to here. Your heart clenches in your chest watching him twirl his hammer idly. You should really be doing something besides watching him. The flex of his bicep as he wraps his hand around the next post and shakes it, the tightness in his back as he raises the hammer and brings it down hard on the top of the post to force it further into the ground... You let out a pleased hum involuntarily. Are you proud of your ineptitude? No. Is seeing König work sort of worth it? Absolutely.

“You sure I can’t help?” You ask, more to be polite than to actually offer. König glances at you, the soft patterned sundress, the sandals, and shakes his head. No, the only thing you need to do is keep looking at him like that.

“Don’t need any help,” He sits back on his heels, staring at the fence post for a moment, before he looks back at you, “actually, if you had something to drink?”

You nod quickly, feeling like just the worst host in the world. You’d been so busy drooling over how hot your poor neighbor is you’d forgotten how hot he must be working out here. You can see the sweat on his skin, the wetness of his shirt where it sticks to him, of course he’s thirsty.

“I’ve got some lemonade, how’s that?”

“Perfect, thank you Hummelchen.” You smile at the nickname, whatever it means it feels affectionate and it makes you happy. You’ve never had a nickname before.

You steal a last look at the flex of his biceps before scurrying back to the house. This you can do, piling ice high in a glass and pouring lemonade just to where you think it might spill. You pop another glass in the freezer for later and feel fairly pleased with yourself, thinking ahead for once. You grab the glass to take out to König, careful not to spill as you cross the grass.

He's back to working hard, tapping nails into fence posts, and making sure everything is as secure as possible for you. For you. He's doing this for you. Just like he does everything for you, and doesn't ask for shit in return. It would be hot if you weren't starting to worry you're taking advantage of him. He looks up when he hears you approaching, his eyes crinkling pleasantly at the edges. He doesn't seem to mind helping you out. You should really find a way to return the favor.

You hold the glass out to him, "Looking good!"

He hums, fingers bumping yours as he takes the glass causing some of the drink to spill over your grip. He wants to tell you you're more than welcome to stay and watch, that he likes feeling your gaze so heavy on him, so appreciative, but he stops.

You lick the sticky sweet drink from your fingers without thinking, a terrible habit you've picked up living alone. König's eyes trace the motion, the soft pink of your tongue as it slides over your fingers. His own fingers tightening on the cool glass, feeling the creak of it trying to hold up under his grip. You don't know what you do to him, making an inquisitive noise at his staring, wiping the wet of your fingers on your skirt.

"You need something else?" You ask, König's voice catches in his throat. You. You. God, only you. You're all he needs and then some. You really must not know. Fuck, he wants to show you, wants to make sure you know how your every movement affects him. Maybe then you wouldn't be so spectacularly naive.

"No," he finally grits. You grin, just happy to have helped even a little.

"Just grab me if you do, I gotta finish up the laundry but I'll be back for your glass." You pat the post nearest you with finality and turn back to the house. König watches you go, thumb rubbing at the condensation on the glass.

König's hand settles on your shoulder as you're pinning sheets in place on the line. It makes you jump a little, you'd been thinking and hadn't heard him walk up.

"Paddock's done," His hand is damp with sweat and dirt, his voice almost as warm as the air. You glance over your shoulder at him and have to pretend you're not staring. It's weird he'd lose the shirt and not the bandana but you're not complaining. He's littered with scars but they only add to the appeal of the cut musculature, did he walk out of a museum? He's gorgeous, and your throat feels dry for any sane words but "wow" and "Holy shit" and "do you mind if I just touch you for a little." You tear your eyes away from his abs to look at the paddock.

Perfectly straight fence and evenly spaced poles, your new critter already snuffling about in the grass. There's even water and food troughs, you wonder if he found those in the old shed or if he brought them from his place. Somehow the well fit fence makes him all the more attractive.

"You'll need a shed for it, but it should be fine for tonight." König tells you, you nod a little and swallow the drool you're working on.

"Piggy smalls can sleep in the house, he's little so-" you cut yourself off, the questioning concern in König's eye makes you think you've said something wrong again.

"Is that what you've named it?" You nod quickly and hear him snort.

"You like it?" You ask, just to hear him tell you no.

"It's very... you." He says after a moment, smile wide enough you can almost see the edges under his bandana. Butterflies kick up in your stomach and you twist your fingers into your skirt so you don't reach to try and touch him.

"Are you staying for dinner?" You ask quickly, before you lose the nerve to say anything to him.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes."

He likes the way you say it, like a sigh. Like you could never say anything else to him. "Then I'll stay."

#cowboy!König #oc: bee #könig x you #könig modern warfare #könig x reader #x reader #god theyre so silly #hes stalking you queen!! stop inviting him over!!!#bee reads dark romances shed probably think it was hot #thats Love levels of crazy

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pommunist · 11 days

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Hello!

I've been nervously hovering around your blog as you've always been a level source of info.

As of late it seems as though many people don't seem to quite grasp how different US laws can be for POC. The laws weren't made with us in mind, in fact its extremely common for laws to be thrown at us or twisted against us at all fronts when the other effected party is Anglo.

It's very easy to look at laws and assume the country they preside over would respect them entirely. But for POC that's not the case. This place isn't safe for us. It's corrupt In many ways so it's extremely important for us to be extremely careful with every step. Or we are killed. There is no other way to express the type of danger we face simply for being POC.

I am Mexican, I know that it looks bad that Q has been very silent on many fronts. But speaking even an apology could lead to the entirety of this case being blamed on him. All of it. When the people who caused the damages were on the team and not Q himself. What's worse is that if the people who did cause the damage in the first place are Anglo and have gotten their own Lawyers... they can also be let off the hook from their crimes if Q makes apology statements.

I know its awful.

But even if he contacts those effected personally and apologized personally, there is nothing stopping those individuals from speaking online about his apologies and that being used against him. It would make everyone feel better if he genuinely could apologize without risk of letting those bad actors off the hook. But here in the states it's stacked against those who bend at the knee first. Kindness will get you killed. We as POC cannot exist here safely. We just can't.

Its very easy to look at this whole case from an outside view, especially if you've never faced the American legal system. It's even harder to fathom how a country could have laws so clearly lined and yet disregard them simply based on your race. But it's very common here. I've had relatives lose homes, land, businesses, livelihoods, and lives over the laws out here not being kind to us. All it takes is for one Anglo voice and we are once again reminded how we are nothing. Our hands built these buildings, our sweat is in nearly every structures walls and floors. We clean, we cook, we are still regarded as rabble. Our native tongue isn't even seen as something respectable. It's dirty. It recieves glares and snide remarks.

I digress.

I know you can't quite understand how strong your voice is alone in this. Even now I must hide under this anonymous guise because I can't be Mexican in public. I can't speak my truth... so I am reaching out to you, to perhaps held shed some light on all of this.

Your voice is worth more than mine.

Thank you for all the work that you do. Truly.

Hello anon ! First of all I wanna say I’m sorry that I’ll going to write such a short answer when your ask was long and heartfelt. But as I’m neither Mexican nor from the US I don’t have much to add to what you just said. Though I am aware, at least to a certain extent how bad the xenophobia against mexicans can be over there, and I don’t wish for Quackity or anyone else to suffers the consequences of it.

Also don’t even worry about coming here as an anon, I don’t mind and your safety comes first anyway. My voice isn’t worth any more than yours is, I’m just glad if I can help share your thoughts on this situation.

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courtforshort15 · 1 year

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Chapter 4

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem reader

Word Count: 5,600

Summary: It's a Wednesday when the sky quite literally opens up above you. The Battle of New York rages around you, and the only thing that gets you through is the stranger standing next to you. Matthew Murdock is more than he seems, keeping you safe in a city that is literally crumbling around you, and even once the dust settles, his hand is the only thing you don't want to let go of.

Trigger warning: This one has a fairly graphic description of something towards the end regarding death.

Masterlist

Chapter Index

The small bookstore looks nothing short of a location where a bomb had been detonated.

It hardly resembles the haven you had run into a little less than an hour ago, dust-covered and shaking, head and body increasingly vulnerable with every second that passed by. When you’d entered the building, numerous bookshelves had been standing throughout the floor space, symmetrically and strategically placed for maximum efficiency and exposure, each one bold and welcoming in the face of new and experienced readers. Rows and rows of colorful books had been placed lovingly on the shelves, every single one of them looking ready and eager for someone to pull it out and bring it home. Displays and racks of reading materials ranging from cook books to self-help guides to religious texts, and it was as if each item was a swift and earnest reminder of New York City’s diverse population and their reading needs and enjoyments.

The small shop had likely belonged to a small business owner, their blood, sweat, and tears shed in its foundation, a testament to their love for the written word and the journeys it could take a person on.

And it was just…gone.

“Jesus.”

His response is soft. “I know.”

“If you hadn’t pulled us into the bathroom, then we—”

“Let’s not go there, okay?”

Your heart aches as you take in the scene, and your eyes lock onto the lone bookshelf that had somehow endured the chaos. It’s as if it exists solely to offer some sort of twisted and miserable reminder of the way the shop had stood so proudly only minutes before. Books are strewn across the floor, and though some are relatively unharmed, there are others that are burnt with only the spine and a few pages remaining, nothing left but words that have turned into ashes.

Glass crunches under your shoes as you leave the bathroom and walk slowly into what remains, a soft breeze drifting in from the large hole in the store that had once been wide, clear windows. Heat drifts in, too, the feel of it sweltering, and where it had once been the simple heat of a beautiful spring day, it’s now sticky and bitter and utterly unwelcome.

Matt walks cautiously ahead of you, hand slowly dropping yours as he makes his way to the front of the store, dark head tilting here and there as if focusing intently on something before deciding to move on. He expertly navigates his way around fallen bookshelves, sidestepping piles of books that have fallen and huddled together, and you follow behind slowly, your feet instinctively taking you through the same path he’s seemingly mapped out for you.

When he reaches the space where the windows had once rested, he stops and situates his body so that he’s angled halfway between you and the street, head once again cocked to the side. He lifts a finger to his lips as if encouraging you to be as quiet as possible, but it’s a hard task to accomplish with the way your heels continue to press into the glass, and each step clinks far too loudly. Your shoe catches on something, and you can’t help the swear word that loudly leaves your mouth as you regain your balance.

Somehow you manage to make your way to his side, cringing as you take in the full view of the street. You don’t have words for the destruction, to be honest. A slowly burning car lies on its side up the block from you, the freshly planted trees and flowers across the street are crumbled and smashed into the sidewalk, buildings are torn apart, gaping holes yawning wide with heaps of glass and brick spilling onto the street. The sight is something you’ve never seen before, and each second you spend staring at it, the further it stains and bleeds into your memory.

You guess you’ve joined the millions of people who have witnessed a New York tragedy. It’s a club you hadn’t ever thought you’d have to join, the kind of club that offers memberships with PTSD as the recurring charge, and it rocks you to your core.

“This isn’t…this isn’t something we’ll ever heal from.”

Though he only says it in a barely-there whisper, the tone that manages to seep in is solemn and grave. “No. No, it’s not.”

Utterly sick to your stomach, you turn your head to face Matt, needing to see something besides the trauma seeping out onto the road. The cut above his hairline is still bleeding, leaving a small line of red trailing down the side of his forehead, and in this lighting it seems to be more severe than you had maybe thought it was. With a wince, your hand twitches at your side as if you want to wipe it off, but you force yourself to remain still. He had seemed surprised when you’d tried to help earlier, and you don’t want to throw him out of whatever he’s focusing on.

Your eyes shift back to the street reluctantly, and you note that, for some reason, you’ve been instinctively waiting on his go-ahead to begin the arduous journey to the subway station. Opening your mouth, you start to ask him what he’s waiting for, but he interrupts you.

“I think we’re good to go,” he says as his head snaps back towards yours. His mouth is twisted in a grimace, and you can see the glimmer of fear that flashes over a face that’s just as weary and exhausted as yours. “I don’t hear anything nearby.”

You nod immediately, sucking in a deep breath. “Okay. Which way?”

His head swings to the side. “The subway station is a few blocks north and two blocks west, right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Matt blows out a loud breath, and you watch as he steels his spine in front of you. “Then we need to go right.”

You don’t question how he knows, instead choosing to gather your strength and wits for a journey that would normally be considered a short walk. But four blocks feels like a marathon away, feels like you’re making the walk between the Shire and Mordor, the trek likely to contain danger and trauma and fire lying in wait at every twist and turn.

The whisper of your name pulls you back to the bookstore, and the tone conveys a softness that is at an extreme clash with everything going on around you. Your head turns so that you’re facing him head on, his body seemingly undaunted and thrumming with an energy you haven’t yet seen on him. It’s almost like he’s taken all the chaos around him and suddenly focused it into something even stronger, something more determined than the things flying around the city like they own it.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice shockingly calm for someone who is about to leave behind the only semblance of shelter he’s had since this all began.

It’s your last chance to back out, but you wave it swiftly aside. “Yes.”

His nod is almost curt in its movement, the jerk of his head brusque and determined. Without a single second wasted, he steps over the small wall of brick that had once held up the glass, only a foot or so in height, dress shoes making their way from the carpet of the bookstore to the concrete of the sidewalk easily. He turns back to you before he’s even finished stepping outside, wordlessly offering his hands to you to help you clear the brick as well, fingers grasping yours tightly to help you maintain balance.

Matt lets go of your left hand once you’re settled next to him and swiftly takes a right, pulling you along behind him for a few seconds as if to make sure you’re still by his side, before releasing contact altogether.

You can’t run, not without risking a major fall or sprained ankle, but you trail after him as fast as you can, walking briskly and jogging at random moments to keep up with him. He notices pretty quickly that you’re unable to keep the pace he has set and immediately slows, keeping himself just a few steps ahead of you. He’s somehow able to dip and avoid large pieces of fallen debris that litter the sidewalk, and you once again follow the path he’s all but laid out for you.

His coordination and agility is far beyond what you had anticipated, even far beyond what you would expect from someone who has perfect vision, and you’re left feeling both confused and grateful for his navigation through the wreckage.

There’s a haze that’s settled over the city, one filled with ash and dust that’s been both kicked up from the normally filthy streets and created through the destruction of concrete. You do your best to breathe through it, do your best to see through it, grateful that the lenses of your glasses offer some sort of protection from something getting into your eyes.

You try your hardest to focus on the mission, focus on the goal of finding shelter, but you can’t help the sheer horror and sadness that hits you whenever you look up long enough to see the level of devastation present. Your heels feel more unstable than ever as you walk, and each step you take is clouded in fear and anxiety, even as you move as swiftly as possible with every ounce of determination you can drag up.

“You with me?”

“Yes,” you quickly reply, fleetingly puzzled, because surely he can hear your heels scraping along the concrete and the way you’d stuttered out the word fuck when a distant crash startled you. It only takes a split second to realize he hadn’t been asking if you were behind him, but rather checking in on you to see how you were doing.

What strikes you, perhaps the most, is how deserted the streets are. Or, at least how deserted these specific blocks are, though, to be fair, you aren't super close to the hole in the sky. It could be a completely different story closer to Stark Tower, which sits a few blocks south and a few blocks east, and you're exceedingly grateful that your little slice of Hell's Kitchen is just far enough away from the main action. But still, even once you turn the corner, there’s no one. You’re not quite sure how it's possible. The island of Manhattan is home to over one million people alone, and the number of people around the city doubles during the work day. It’s a place where people flood into and recede from daily, like some sort of tide that washes up and retreats.

You leave your answer at the yes you had responded with, figuring it’s easier to leave it there rather than explain the way your heart continues to drop with every step you take. You don’t expect to get to the subway station unscathed, there’s too much going on around you, and far too much out there that can cause you harm.

It’s the city that never sleeps, but even with the crashing and the explosions and the police sirens, it’s never felt more quiet.

Where the fuck is everyone?

You guess, you hope, that people have found shelter. The opening of whatever portal had appeared over Stark Tower had caused widespread panic, people fleeing for their lives, crashing into and around each other in an effort to get away and get inside. But it doesn’t explain why New York suddenly feels like a ghost town.

He may not be able to see the streets, but you’re completely positive he can feel the emptiness of them.

You suppose the invasion, if that’s what this should be called (how could one word ever begin to accurately describe the chaos?), had first happened approximately forty five minutes ago, give or take, plenty of time for people to find somewhere to go to wait out the shit storm that’s reigning down. For a quick moment, it makes you suddenly second guess your decision to head towards the subway station when everyone else is staying indoors, and you briefly wonder if Matt is feeling the same way.

But you don’t know how long this is going to last, and while the bookstore had been a temporary solution, it certainly had not been a sustainable one, and right now the focus needs to be on finding something that could outlast the onslaught for as long as possible.

The first crosswalk lies not too far ahead, and some part of you slows as you would at any other normal instance, but he keeps moving swiftly, clearly aware that there’s no need to pause for traffic. Cars and vans and trucks have been abandoned and left for fate to decide what will happen to them, many of them already damaged beyond any hope for repair. Most have their driver side doors open, as if the drivers barely had time to exit their vehicles, much less worry about closing the doors. Some vehicles have crashed into others, and you’ll never know if it was purposefully as someone tried to escape, or if cars were thrown into each other from the force of various explosions and blasts.

But all vehicles, or at least the ones you can see, are empty of people. You’re grateful for that, at least, knowing it means that the people on this particular block were able to find relative safety.

It’s a pretty straight shot from one street corner to the one across the intersection, and Matt makes his way across briskly, you hot on his heels, doing your best to keep the pace despite the way your feet are throbbing with each and every step. He’s extremely patient even in the urgency of the moment, somehow knowing every time your foot catches on something, quickly turning around and placing a hand on your arm for balance.

It happens more often than you care to admit, knowing that each tiny tumble, however miniscule, is delaying the progress to the subway station.

You’re not too far past the intersection, crossing in front of an alleyway, when he turns abruptly on his heel and pushes you into the gap between the two buildings.

“What–”

But he’s shoving the two of you down behind a giant green dumpster before you can finish your question, and his body twists slightly over yours. You cling to his suit jacket for balance with one hand, and place your wrapped up hand on the brick of the wall for additional support, your quads burning slightly as you hunch over. His form may be covering you slightly, but your face is still turned towards the entrance of the alley, and your eyes are wide as they stare over his shoulder, waiting to see whatever had spooked him. Nothing happens, not for a few seconds at least, and it rattles your nerves, your body already anticipating another round of terror.

Matt abruptly shifts, moving as if to cover you more completely, and it momentarily pulls your attention from the mouth of the alley. But you don’t think his movement succeeds in his goal, largely because your head is still completely exposed, and it certainly doesn’t stop your eyes from suddenly tracking the things that fly past the gap of the buildings, some sixty or so feet above the ground.

They come out of nowhere, sliding into your vision as quickly as they leave, too far away and too fast for you to get a clear glimpse, but you’re one hundred percent certain that it’s one of the things that had been standing outside of the bookstore when the glass had shattered, stalking down the street looking for people to kill in cold blood, no remorse or empathy for the humans who call Earth home.

“They’re too fast,” he mutters, the sound harsh even in its low volume. “I can’t–I hear them coming, but they get too close way too soon. Not a lot of time to hide.”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss under your breath, twisting your head so that you can see better over Matt’s shoulder. “They’re everywhere.”

Your eyes shift to the face that’s mere inches from yours. “You can hear–? How far away can you hear them from?”

He hesitates for just a brief moment. “Far,” he says before taking a large, shuddering breath. It almost sounds painful, as if his lungs are protesting the sudden intake of oxygen. “But like I said, they’re too fast. I hear them and suddenly they’re right on top of us.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I…yeah. That about sums it up.”

Matt stands up slowly, bracing his hand against the wall as he reaches up to his full height. You follow the motion, not bothering to cover the quiet groan that escapes you. Your body has been turned and twisted into far too many uncomfortable positions today, and you find yourself internally grumbling about the lack of effort you’ve put into exercise lately. Every muscle in your body hates you right now, and you don’t want to think about how sore you’ll be once the adrenaline has left your system.

“Are they gone?”

Head facing away from you, Matt takes a small step forward, his focus on something you can’t see or hear. You stay where you are, ready to duck back down the dumpster if needed. The ground is filthy, the pieces of trash that hadn’t made it into the dumpster littering the concrete, and you can’t help but allow yourself a moment of disgust.

“It’s hard to tell” he finally says with a sigh as turns back to face you. His face is hard in its frustration. “They’re–they’re everywhere. Moving too fast to track sometimes, especially with so many of them. I can’t quite…I can’t be completely positive of where they’re at or where they’re going.”

Swallowing, you nod your head as if you understand, but you really don’t. “And you’re–you’re relying on your hearing to tell you where they are? From blocks away?”

“Yes,” he responds simply as he rolls his shoulders. The look he sends your way is as dry as it is nonchalant. “It’s not like I can use my eyes, so…”

You flush. “Right. Stupid question.”

Matt waves it off without much thought and places his hands on his hips. A loud bang sounds off from somewhere in the distance, far too close for your taste, and he flinches at the sound before straightening his shoulders.

“So,” you say, resting back against the brick wall. Your voice is shaking, just a tiny bit, but the two of you don’t acknowledge it. “I don’t think the coast is ever going to be completely clear.”

He grimaces. “Agreed.”

“And we’re definitely worse off right here than we were at the bookstore. But we’re still a few blocks away. Do you think….? Should we just find somewhere else to go inside?”

“Then we keep heading north,” you confirm with a quick and decisive nod of your head. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of your face and you hastily wipe it away. “But we need to keep sticking to the side of the buildings. The alleys can help hide us if something comes our way.”

Shaking his head, Matt immediately rejects the idea. “There’s too much glass. And everything–everything seems so vulnerable here. They’re crumbling buildings so easily. We're so lucky that the one we were in didn't collapse completely when that thing landed on it. I still...I really think it’s safest to be underground.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s probably the best we can do right now.”

“Right. Ok. Let’s go.” You pass by Matt and make your way to the front of the alley entrance fully intending on taking a step back out onto the sidewalk, ready for this to be over and dreading every inch you’ll be walking. He walks up quietly behind you and appears at your shoulder, but somehow he must sense your reluctance because he doesn’t exit the alley.

The frown on his lips isn’t as severe as you’ve seen it so far, but it's definitely pronounced. “You’re hesitating.”

You deny the comment with a shake of your head, even though he’s partly correct. “No, I’m ready. It’s just…it’s a ghost town out here,” you remark almost helplessly, motioning towards the empty streets that he can’t see but can surely hear. “I haven’t seen a single person since we entered the book store. Where is everyone? Where did they go?”

Head cocking slightly, Matt’s quiet for a moment before answering a question that had been kind of rhetorical. “There’s people in the surrounding buildings.”

“What?”

“Yes, everyone has run inside at this point, I think.” He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but he stops himself. Running an aggravated hand through his hair, he sighs and appears to give into what he was about to say. “But I…I think the glass makes them too vulnerable. People are standing too close to the windows, makes them too much of a target.”

“It’s a long story,” he tells you, and you watch as he sort of folds in on himself as if he’s let go of some sort of large secret he’s still not sure he should have revealed. But it only lasts a moment before he’s standing up tall again, head tilted up and mouth set in determination. “And I…I promise to tell you when we get through this. Alright?”

“How do you even know that?”

When.

There were so many things to live for, so many things to keep fighting for as hell continues to break loose around you, but you’d be lying if you said that the thought of this man sharing something with you hadn’t just become one of them. You have a feeling it’s not something he’s shared with many, and you have the weird inkling that maybe he needs to tell you just as much as you need to hear it, if only to hold on to the thought that there could possibly be life after whatever the hell is going on in the city.

Not if.

You stare straight at him, taking in the way he’s somehow managed to expose a vulnerability while also demonstrating his strength and determination. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

The smile he sends you is hesitant, clouded by the heaviness of the situation, but it’s there, and it’s beautiful.

“Deal.”

Things continue to boom and shake, sirens continue to blare, but you follow Matt out of the alley way without question, once again allowing him to navigate and lead you through the piles of debris. He stays a few steps ahead of you, black suit jacket covered in dust and tiny tears that must have been a result of the windows that had shattered. His hands are clenched fists at his side, and the haze that has fallen over the city does its best to pull him in, but you refuse to lose and be lost by him.

The sun is still bright up ahead, even through the smoke and the fear, and the sight of it leads you forward, wanting nothing more than to have the opportunity to live and feel it heat your skin on a day that’s not shrouded by terror.

This block is just as eerie, just as desolate, as the one you’ve already walked down, nothing but random empty cars and scorched pavement, likely from the blast of whatever sort of weaponry these things are firing around with little care as to who or what would be in its path. It reminds you of a post-apocalyptic movie, the kind where there’s nothing left to save except the gas from a gas station or non-perishables from a corner store.

You do your best to stare straight ahead at Matt’s back rather than the disaster that’s been painted around you, but you can’t help but glance up and down, left and right, mind still struggling to link the peaceful Wednesday afternoon to where you are now. You’re in a constraint state of disbelief, some part of you still on that street corner with your iced coffee in your hand, lip curled as you send Brenda’s call to voicemail, nothing on your mind but your painful shoes, unfinished spreadsheets, and the warmth of a sunny spring day.

The loud screech and following crash from a few blocks over pulls you back into your body with a jolt, and it leaves you feeling bitter and broken. Your skin feels itchy with the dust, your feet throb with every step you take, but you’re here, and you’re alive, and you—

Out of the blue, Matt falters.

He’s not facing you directly, but you can see that his face has lost its color.

You almost crash straight into him, the speed of your body nearly too fast to avoid running into his back, but you’re able to swerve at the last moment, coming to a stop just slightly ahead of him. He hadn’t tripped on something on the sidewalk, but he had stumbled, his body briefly losing his coordination as his focus shifted elsewhere.

“Matt?” you immediately question, alarmed at how pale he’s gone. His name leaving your lips is half a started yelp and half a demand for an explanation.

He whips his head toward yours, seemingly startled at your presence, and you take a quick step forward to rest one of your hands on his shoulders. Shuddering, he leans slightly into the contact, face still far too pale for your liking, and you don’t hesitate to take another step into his space.

“What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, lips open and dragging in a panicked breath. “At the next intersection,” he begins, throat bobbing dramatically, and it sounds like he’s forcing the words out. You wince in pain for him, because whatever he’s trying to say doesn’t sound like it’s coming easily. “Not the one we’re about to cross, but the next one…don’t…don’t look left.”

Confusion floods through you, and your eyes can’t help but narrow. “What? Why not?”

Matt’s mouth opens and closes twice before he speaks again, body once again shuddering even as he tries to reel himself back together in front of you. “You shouldn’t–it’s not…” He swallows, and the motion almost looks painful. The sun hits his glasses just right, and from this angle and distance, you can see the eyes that shift and dance over your face and beyond your shoulder rapidly. “Just try not to look left, if you can help it. Okay?”

You frown, unable to stop the expression. “I’ll try.”

And you’re not lying when you tell him you’d try not to look left at the intersection, but in all honestly, you wish you’d tried harder.

The bus is turned over on its side just a quarter of the way down the block when you take your first few steps into the intersection, and its hulking mass out of the corner of your eye catches your attention unconsciously. Before you’ve even thought it through, before Matt’s suggestion has a chance to repeat itself in your head, your head is turning to look at it.

You shouldn't have.

You really shouldn’t have.

It's definitely not the only vehicle in the street, definitely not the only one that's been completely destroyed by the disaster, but it stands out, for obvious reasons. The whole thing is covered in flame, dark smoke weaving its ways out of the pores left often by the shattered glass of the windows, twisting higher and higher into the sky. A giant hole is torn into it, leaving parts of the metal hanging by mere scraps, the tires sagging even without the weight of the bus riding on them.

But the worst part is the sight of the bodies burning inside. Broken, shredded, diminishing.

There’s a scream tearing itself out of your throat, the force of it as scalding as the fire that’s burning not half a block from you, and it’s a sound that belongs in horror movies.

Matt is immediately moving in front of where you’re turned, effectively blocking your view. But it’s too late, the damage is done, and the scene is something that will be in the back of your head for the rest of your life. “I told you not to look left,” he says in your ear, his voice every bit as broken as yours, layered with the same levels of fear and grief as yours. “You shouldn’t have—”

But you’re pushing past him before he finishes speaking, your mind suddenly overwhelmed with the thought that someone could be in there, someone could be alive, someone could need help, and–

It’s primal, this feeling of urgency to get there, this feeling of urgency to pry apart metal if you need to, scalding your hands until they bled if it meant that you could help someone. But it’s also irrational, because even in the back of your head, you’re completely aware that there’s no one who could have possibly survived whatever ball of fire had been thrown at the bus.

The bus had been full of people on their way to work, teenagers skipping school, men and women on their lunch breaks. It had never stood a chance, not when something had locked on to its location and found it to be a suitable destination for its rage and need to destroy. Something that had once been so full of life was now nothing more than a pile of metal, heat, and burning flesh.

Before you can get more than five steps away, Matt’s pulling you back into him, body once again coming between you and the scene. You try to step around him again, but he blocks you, his own frame shaky and full of horror as he wraps his hands around your upper arms to keep you from moving forward.

It fills you with a sense of panic, his attempt to keep you from helping those poor innocent people, so you struggle in his hold, ripping your body left and right to help loosen his hands. But he’s far stronger than you, and so even while he keeps his hands loose enough as to not cause any pain, his grip is still firm and you’re unable to move more than a few inches in either direction. “Let me go, Matt.”

“There’s nothing we can do,” he tells you quickly, and the words seem hazy in your mind, as if your head can’t process and believe he’s telling you to walk away. “We need to leave.”

“What? No! No, there might be people in there, we can’t leave.”

Matt shakes his head rapidly, and the slow, single tear that trails down his face alarms you as it cuts a severe line through the thin layer of dust that has collected on sweat-soaked skin. “There’s not anyone to…there’s no one we can help.”

“How do you know?” you wail, voice high-pitched and panicked, still trying to pull away. “We have to—”

“Hey,” he says, stepping closer into your space, hand dropping one of your arms and instead coming up to rest on your cheek. The other hand soon follows, completely cupping your face between hands that are every bit as nicked and cut as yours. “Hey, look at me.” Your eyes move from the plume of smoke that continues to rise over his shoulder back to his face. “There’s no one to help. I promise.”

“But–”

“I promise,” he repeats slowly, gently, and the words are so full of sadness that you almost need to take a step back. “There’s no one in there that we can save, sweetheart.”

The name doesn’t even register, but the rest of the words do, the clear image of death settling over you, even as gently as they’re said. You bury your head in your hands, the frames of your glasses digging into the skin of your right palm and the tie wrapped around your left, the shock too vicious and blinding even for tears.

Choking back a dry sob, you squeeze your eyes tightly shut, flinching when the sound of something exploding blocks away reverberates through the city. The sound is startling enough to make you jerk your head out of your hands, and the danger you’re in by simply standing in the middle of the street, nothing hiding you from view and covering your head, sets back in. You take it as some sort of terrifying sign to finally move, nodding your head in a jerky motion and doing your best to compose yourself.

Even so, you can’t help the hiccup that escapes your mouth. “You’re…you’re sure? That there’s no one–”

His head falls forward slightly, his face displaying a sense of devastation that’s no doubt shared by all of the city. “I’m sure.”

Your eyes flutter shut as a shudder of grief wracks your entire body. “Okay,” you whisper in acceptance. It’s a painful acceptance, and a part of you still wants to run to the bus and check for yourself. “Then we need to–”

“Yes,” he immediately agrees.

“Okay.” You take a deep breath, one that scalds your lungs as the air moves in and out. You take a shaky step away from him and start walking, suddenly desperate to put as much distance between yourself and the bus that has already imprinted itself harshly in your head, forever scalded into your long term memory. You can’t let yourself stay here, you need to focus on what’s going on ahead of you and keep going, however anguished you feel about it. It wretches at your heart to leave those people so callously behind, knowing they deserve more than someone turning their back on them in their first moments of death.

But you also know that you need to keep moving if you want to make sure you’re not added to the growing list of casualties, guilty of nothing more than choosing to live in the concrete jungle of New York. There will be a time for mourning, a time to scream and cry and wallow in a misery so large it would swallow you whole, but now is not that time.

And so, with one last look at the twisted kaleidoscope of reds and yellows and oranges bursting up from the overturned vehicle, you finish crossing the street, Matt just a few steps behind you.

#matt murdock #Daredevil #human disaster matt murdock #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fanfiction #daredevil x fem reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #daredevil fanfiction #battle of new york #tw: death

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astarionslittlejuicebox · 5 months

Text

The Promise of Eternity (Part 3)

Author: @astarionslittlejuicebox

Imagine: The reader helped Astarion ascend and became his spawn. After saving the world from the Elder brain and it’s destruction, the reader and Astarion set out to take on the world together. While he promised to never forget the gifts the reader has given him, Astarion has seemed to have changed his attitude towards the reader in the last century…. After someone breaks one of Astarion’s rules, how will this affect the reader’s fate?

Pairing: Astarion x F!Reader

Trigger warnings: potential for minor spoilers, suggestive themes, language, mentions of death, mentions of blood, abusive relationship, mention of slavery

Word Count: 1234

Imagine Series List

Side Notes:

This imagine series takes place 200 years after the events of Baldur’s Gate 3. Everything you read in here is a story from my mind outside of the original BG3 character Astarion.

In this imagine series, Astarion is a bit more unemotionally unavailable, and this series will follow the decisions and consequences of that change. This is not canonically accepted and it is just an idea I’ve had in my head! (I do believe Astarion might truly care for the reader after Ascension, but that is open to individual interpretation.)

In this series, TAV is mildly based on my first character I played in BG3; she is a drow and I will make references to her in her background and knowledge as well. I do apologize that it is not 100% your own imagine, but the name for TAV is up to you as well as anything else that I can think of leaving to you, the reader, to decide.

I appreciate everyone who reads the imagines and this series, and I hope you enjoy the story!

TAV POV

As I walked out of the castle I called home, I was greeted by the gardeners tending to the landscape. Each of them received a smile and a small greeting from me as I proceeded on my journey to the one place that could help me uncover who had stolen the blood. A stone path lead away from the pearl white mansion and into a small forested area that separated the city from our sanctuary. I continued to follow that stone path until it turned to dust and then returned to stone as I arrived at the outskirts of the bustling city. Most of the city’s patrons took no notice of me as I waltzed through the city streets. Walking through the city had become a comfort for me in the last century, and it has only grown to be more of a comfort to me in the last few years with the tiefling parading about the castle. With the changing of the season, the scents of the city had changed. In the air, spices like cinnamon and clove hung heavily in the air as bakers in local bakeries baked fresh apple pies for the season. Cinnamon brooms hung in several store fronts that I passed by on my stroll, and I reminisced on the days when Astarion would let me decorate the castle for the upcoming holidays. Nowadays, the only room in the house that remained decorated for all the holidays was my bedchambers.

Some parents nearby laughed as their young child did a cartwheel in the grass off to the side of the pathway. An all-too-familiar feeling pulled at the muscles in the dead organ within my chest at the sight, and I quickly turned my attention back to my task at hand. The library in Baldur’s Gate had some of the best selections of books on all sorts of magic and spells. In my younger years, I had heard about a handful of rituals that could prove useful in shedding some light on who the blood thief was. Worse case scenario, I could use one of the rituals to locate the vial of blood itself.

The familiar ashen gray stone building stood before me with its long flight of cream stairs beckoning me up to the large stone double doors; standing guard on either side of the stairwell was a pair of slate gray gargoyles, whose eyes followed your every move. Giving them a small wave as I passed, I entered one of the few places in Baldur’s Gate that still felt like home. Shelves upon shelves occupied most of the space on the first floor of the enormous building. Books of all shapes and sized filled every shelf your eyes could see. Above the venter of the room, a circular opening gave away to the upper floor of the library, where more shelves stand awaiting the arrival of the next avid reader to pick a book from their shelf and peer between the book’s cover in search of the knowledge hidden within the sheets. Walking to the center of the room, a large circular desk demanded all attention as a golden dragonborn stood behind its daunting wooden structure. Vunxar Drakax was an older male dragonborn who loved the books as if they were his own children, and I had come to be great friends with him over the last few decades.

“Now, why would someone bend the corner of a page in Ascension and the Stars? Does no one have any respect for the pages anymore?” His exotic voice whispered as he worked to unbend a dog-eared page in a book with a sparkling purple cover.

“Most people do not care for the books like children, Vunxar.” I whispered as I stood in front of the desk where the librarian was working.

“That is precisely what is wrong with people nowadays. I remember when books were treated with respect and no one bent the pages.” He sighed heavily as he turned to look at me with cyan eyes. “Ah, (TAV’s name), what can I help you find today?” He gave me a toothy-smile before he continued to examine the returned library book’s condition.

“I am seeking knowledge of rituals that could either help me see a past event that happened in the last couple of days, and I believe there is a book that could help me track something that has been lost as well.” I gave the dragonborn a warm smile as he paused, contemplating my request.

“I do believe that I may have a few books in here that could hold the knowledge you seek. In shelving unit T21, there is a book with an emerald green cover called Ruination of Reality that details the dangers of timetraveling and alternating events of the past. Another book in shelving unit A4, Queen of the Lost and Found, may hold a story or two of the ancient Queen Coshi Talae and her ritual to find a lost relic of her late husband, who died at sea. The only other book I can think of off the top of my cranium is hidden away from the public, but for you I will allow to read. It is Inception of Yesterday, and you will find that book contains valuable information on the Weave’s ability to receive energy from events of the past. In there, I believe you could find some information about observing the past. Here, allow me to go get the book for you while you search for the other two.” Vunxar stepped away from the book in front of him as I started to make my way through the maze of shelves to find the books he had told me about. After searching the library for a couple of hours, I returned to the desk to check out the books Vunxar recommended. A book with a plain midnight blue cover laid on the desk next to his arm.

“I hope you were able to find both of my recommendations.” He said as I placed both of the books on the counter in front of him. “From the looks of it, you were able to. You wouldn’t believe the amount of incompetent people who are not able to locate any book in here, even with me telling them the shelving unit number.” He let out a soft, hardy laugh that quietly echoed in the otherwise silent building. “And I have found the book I promised you as well.” He wrote quickly on the ledger the names of the books, the date, and my name before handing me all three books. “As always, please return to me once you have had your fill of knowledge from the books, or if you find you no longer need the knowledge within the pages.”

“Of course, Vunxar.” I gave him a warm smile before grabbing the books and taking my leave. I kept a brisk pace back to the dungeon of the castle I called home as I eagerly awaiting the knowledge hidden within the pages of the books that were hugged close to my unbeating heart.

Hopefully I can learn what I need to in these pages to catch that damn blood thief. I thought to myself. Perhaps, then, Astarion would at least speak to me cordially again. With a newfound pep in my step, I could not wait to delve into the books.

#astarion imagine #astarion x reader #baldursgate3 #baldursgate3imagine #ascended astarion #the promise of eternity

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killemwithkawaii · 1 year

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Mitch, have you heard that Larry made Sal a step stool because of how short Sal is? What do you think Sal uses the step stool for besides reaching high places?

>This is referring to a tweet Steve made

>Ah yes, the fluffy filler Sally Face lore we as a fandom thirst for... 🥤😩🙏

>Larry knows basic carpentry and gives people home-made gifts: canon ✅

>Sal has so much trouble reaching things and has probably needed Larrys help reaching things so many times that Larry felt the need to make him a custom step stool: canon ✅

>I want to know the context under which this was given to Sal. His birthday? Christmas? Or was it made after some sort of 'trying to reach something' incident (aka a 'You're so smol that you are a danger to yourself and others' emergency/impromptu gift)?

>I always thought it was a little bench for Sal to sit on while he practiced guitar?? But now I like thinking about it having multiple uses, him using it every day at every opportunity, carrying it around the house and into the shed to reach into cabinets and on top shelves and stuff.... qwq 💕 It's probably how he reaches and hangs up his masks, and how he put up his posters, too!

>I'll bet Larry feels a lot of pride seeing Sal use it so often 🥺🏆💖

>As for its other possible uses, since its right by the door, it would be a good place for Sal to sit while taking his shoes on/off and a good 'do not forget' spot to leave items like his wallet and phone so he always remembers to pocket them when he leaves the house 👟📱

>[Self-indulgent selfship/polyship thought: Larry adding a third step to the stool so that I, the Shortest King of the throuple, can also use it to reach the top shelf 👑✨ Also, I want to build things with Larry SO BAD??? I love assembling furniture, but building something from scratch with him that all three of us would use would def hit different... 🥺👉👈💘]

#k.e.w.k. answers #meadow chan #sally face fandom #sal fisher #larry johnson #sallarry #(anti-sallarry peeps keep scollin)#k.e.w.k. selfships #(still gotta come up with a tag for my selfship throuple but im indecisive ><)

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spiralcass · 10 months

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NEW X-MEN: THE ANIMATED SERIES - SEASON 2, EPISODE 1

Season 2 opens in media res as the Blackbird flies toward Genosha. The only ones still on the plane are Storm, Kitty, and Sunspot. While Kitty panics and screams, and Roberto tries in vein to assure her it’s going to be okay, barely maintaining his own plastered smile, Storm is communicating with Captain Britain, who thinks she shouldn’t have left, but Storm insists her priority needs to be getting all the kids home so they can be tended to properly, and securing Nova.

All three of them uncontrollably go silent as they arrive at their destination and look out the window, Genosha has been completely annhlated, reduced to ash and rubble, with smoke filling the sky. 16 million people, almost all Mutants, potentially including Scott, Jean, Emma, Magneto, and Kitty’s dad, are all dead.

With Storm blowing away and working to clear the smoke, the three heroes, wearing respirators, rush onto what’s left of the once great Mutant nation. All around them, they seed wrecked buildings and corpses, and Sunspot accidentally steps on and breaks a bone.

Kitty and Sunspot are barely holding it together as they stand on the site of a holocaust, unable to believe so much death could have taken place so quickly, and struggling to not cry or puke, but Storm, somber and sullen, but keeping her emotions in check for the moment, tells them they can’t break down yet. They have a job to do. There’s a chance some people may have survived, and are just trapped under rubble. They have to do everything they can to find them.

Before they start searching the whole island, however, Kitty “needs to know”.

Back at the school, Tag, Wind Dancer, Wolverine, and Bling! stand outside the medical bay. Laura’s face is practically right up against the glass, while Brian has a comforting arm around the nearly-sobbing Roxy’s shoulders.

Inside, Beast, as well as Dr. Cecilia Reyes, who was called in to help treat everyone else who was wounded in the global battles with the sentinels, are tending to the kids. Cessily and Sooraya are still unconscious, but are stable, Noriko is awake in bed, but can’t stop shaking and looking at her gauntlets, even though all the blood has been cleaned off of them, and Julian is being prepped for surgery. Betsy is also having her wounds treated, with Rachel hugging her, relieved she survived the battle, but disturbed by what Betsy told her happened.

BRIAN, to Roxy: “Hey, Cess is gonna be okay. You heard what Dr. Reyes said, right?”

Roxy just hangs her head.

BRIAN, to Sofia: “You don’t need to worry either, Sofia. It’ll take more than some sentinel to keep Julian down.”

Sofia maintains her blank expressions, staying silent, and tiny whirlwinds surround her fists.

Brian sighs and walks over to Laura.

BRIAN, to Laura: “You know, a sentinel did come by here. Ms. Grey was all ready to take it out, but I tagged myself so she could get rid of it away from the school. It wasn’t much, but it made me feel pretty good. And I was just thinking about how good all of you must have been feeling taking out a ton of these tincans.” Brian punches the glass. “I’m such an idiot.”

It’s unclear if Laura heard a word Brian said as her wide eyes continue to stay focused on her injured friends.

On Genosha, Kitty drops to her knees. The site of her father’s old home has been completely annhilated, along with the rest of its surroundings. It doesn’t even look like there’s a skeleton.

KITTY: “Daddy…Daddy, I’m sorry. Daddy, please crawl out of there. Please!”

Storm and Beto try to comfort her, but they phase right through her.

KITTY: “Did you know in Judaism, it’s believed that cremation results in pain after death? Even if someone makes it to Heaven, the pain doesn’t stop. How could I do this to him? He was my Daddy.”

SUNSPOT: “Kitty, you didn’t–”

Kitty breaks down in tears, hysterical. Storm sheds her own tear, wishing there was something, anything she could do for her daughter. But there’s nothing she can do but push forward. Ororo instructs Beto to stay with Kitty, and get her on the Blackbird once she’s calmed down. She’ll handle the search by herself.

We get a brief montage as Storm scours the island for any signs of life, but is met with death at every turn. She’s almost ready to break down in tears herself when she hears something rumbling.

Flying up, she clears away the rubble around where the sound heard like it was coming from. Underneath, she finds Emma Frost, with Cyclops unconscious in her arms, a blank expression on her face, and sporting a new look - diamond skin.

Storm swoops down and swiftly takes Scott from her, checking his pulse and breathing a sigh of relief that he’s alive. Ororo demands to know what happened here, and what happened to her.

Emma…isn’t doing okay.

EMMA, in a monotone: “The path to Hell is paved with good intentions, but over brimstone we must walk to reach paradise. Do you hear them, Ororo? Do you hear the children’s screams?” Emma forms a tiny smile. “I do. And I feel all their pain. How many children are there? As many as the grains of sand on a beach?” Emma’s face falls as she hangs her head. “Yes, Daddy, I am a bad, worthless girl.”

Storm has no idea what to feel here, or what to stay, so she simply instructs Emma to follow her.

In the medical bay, Sooraya’s eyes flicker as she wakes up. She struggles to sit up, seeing that Cessily is still unconscious, before she’s told to lay back down.

SURGE: “The others are waiting outside, but aren’t being allowed in yet. You should rest.”

Sooraya lays back down, grunting in pain as she expresses how much everything hurts. She then notes that Noriko doesn’t look like she was hurt at all.

Noriko bites her lip as she looks down at her hands and generates a small amount of electricity between her fingertips. The Sentinels weren’t fast enough to hit her. Physically, she got out of the fight completely unscatched. But seeing her and Mercury nearly get killed? Watching Julian get his hands blown off, and having to grab his bloody nubs to cauterize his wounds so he didn’t die too? It was too much. She’s not okay.

Dust doesn’t respond for a moment, just staring at Nori.

NORIKO: “What?”

SOORAYA: “Julian…lost his hands?”

Noriko swears under her breath, having forgotten she was down by the time that happened, and confirms to her what went down.

SOORAYA: “I see.”

Noriko narrows her eyes at Sooraya.

NORIKO: “Okay, what’s your deal? I know being all calm and zen and peaceful and quiet is your shit and all, but you should not be that way right now. You almost died! Where’s the panic?!”

Sooraya sighs. She really wishes she hadn’t woken up next to Nori.

SOORAYA: “I was hurt physically, yes. And I lack experience in all this directly. But nearly dying? No, that’s not enough to get me. Not with what I’ve seen before. Not with what I’ve done before.”

Noriko falls back, slamming her head on her pillow.

NORIKO: “Shit, Soo. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

Sooraya smirks.

SOORAYA: “The fact that you’re apologizing for your foolishness at all is a clear sign of progress.”

NORIKO: “Aww, thanks.”

PAUSE

NORIKO: “Oh, screw you.”

On the Blackbird, which hasn’t taken off yet, Cyclops is still unconscious, Emma has passed out, and Kitty is curled up into a ball. Storm and Sunspot are awake and sitting up right, but they need this brief moment of silence.

The silence is broken as the ship shakes. Storm and Sunspot leap to their feat, unsure of what’s going on as, from an exterior shot, we see the ship being raised into the sky on its own. Storm tells the others to stay put for a minute while she goes to investigate.

Ororo flies out of the ship and quickly finds the one responsible for its movement: Polaris.

ORORO: “Lorna…”

Before Storm can say anything else, Lorna throws the Blackbird, wrapped in green magnetic energy, right at her. Ororo just barely dodges the attack, shouting at Lorna that they aren’t here to fight, and, over the coms, shouting at Kitty to get everyone off the plane.

As Lorna takes another shot at Storm with the Blackbird, Kitty phases herself, Beto, and the unconscious headmasters out of the plane and onto the former shore of Genosha, while Storm summons a fierce lightning blast to annhilate the Blackbird in one shot, denying Polaris her weapon.

Storm tells Polaris that she can’t imagine what she’s feeling right now, but she assures her slivers of that pain are shared by them all. Polaris just continues to shout in rage as she drags up rubble from Genosha to throw at Storm.

POLARIS: “You X-Men killed our nation! It’s only fitting the nation kills you!”

On the shore, Kitty and Beto are panting. Beto tries to tell Kitty he knows Lorna from his time here and he’ll talk to her, only to be decked across the face by an equally pissed, super fast Quicksilver.

Knocked to the ground, Roberto is covered in ash. He freaks out as Pietro gets on top of him and begins punching him over and over again. Kitty doesn’t move, only crying out for him to stop.

In the sky, Storm is exhausted both physically and mentally from the day’s events. She fights against Lorna to the best of her ability, but she quickly runs out of steam and is overwhelmed.

As Roberto is beaten to a bloody pulp and Lorna traps Storm in a metal cocoon, ready to crush her, Kitty continues to shout, begging for everyone to stop fighting.

The fighting is brough to a halt, but not by Kitty, as a single blast of red energy flies into the sky.

Cyclops, having woken up, rises to his feet.

All eyes turn to him. There’s a silent moment of tension before Polaris and Quicksilver release Storm and Sunspot from their respective grips, flying and running over to Cyclops.

QUICKSILVER: “You have five seconds to tell us what happened here in a way that makes us want to spare your lives.”

Scott, standing tall and proud, looks around at his surroundings instead of answering.

QUICKSILVER: “SPEAK!”

Pietro slugs Scott across the face, knocking out a tooth, and sending him to the ground.

QUICKSILVER: “SPEAK NOW!”

Tears stream down Scott’s face.

Quicksilver is about to give him the same treatment as he did Roberto, but Lorna puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

POLARIS: “One chance, Cyclops.”

Scott swallows.

CYCLOPS: “Magneto is alive.”

Pietro and Lorna are baffled by how that could possibly be true. Everyone here died! Scott tells them that he and Emma were here when the attack happened. They only survived because Emma developed a secondary Mutation, enabling her to transform her skin into diamond. He only lived because she shielded him from the blast. And before the attack happened, Magneto had disappeared from where he’d been fighting sentinels.

Pietro calls him a liar. He’s just trying to protect himself this way because he knows this is all his fault!

Cyclops agrees that he shares blame with Cassandra Nova. Cassandra Nova, who, from the fact they’re here right now, he knows his team defeated. He knows his team defeated her, while he and Emma were saving the world, even if they couldn’t save Genosha.

CYCLOPS: “Nova wasn’t the first mad woman to try and kill us all, and she won’t be the last. Whatever I’ve done, the mutants of the world still need the X-Men. And you both need us and our resources if you’re ever going to find out what happened to your father.”

Pietro, breathing heavily, thinks about his offer, before still electing to go in for the kill. However, Polaris holds him back by his metal belt buckle. Lorna agrees that he and his team are still needed, but they will never be forgiven for this.

CYCLOPS: “I wouldn’t expect to be.”

With the situation calming down, Storm approaches, offering to do whatever they can to help pay tribute to their fallen.

LORNA: “If you wish to respect our dead brothers and sisters, you’ll leave this place now, and never return.”

With no more words, Storm summons a calm wind to lift herself and the rest of the team away, and begin the long flight home. Beneath them, Lorna breaks into tears and cries on Pietro’s shoulder as he holds her.

CYCLOPS: “Ororo…”

STORM: “Not now, Scott. Not now.”

In a private room inside the Institute’s medical bay, Hellion has gotten out of surgery and is awake. All the usual life and energy from his face are missing, replaced by a dower scowl. That’s not the only part of him that’s missing, as his nubs have been wrapped in bandages; they couldn’t re-attach his hands.

There’s a knock on the door, with Julian growling not to come in if this isn’t a doctor. Beast enters, happy to see him stable, and asks if that attitude applies to ALL non-medical personnel.

BEAST, with a sly smirk: “Your girlfriend wants to speak to you. She’s been positively worried sick.”

Julian’s eyes widen, but only for a moment, before he shuts them, clenches his teeth, and shakes his head.

In the hallway, Sofia and Laura sit outside the private room, both in complete silence. Beast comes out of the room and informs Sofia that, unfortunately, Mr. Keller doesn’t wish to speak to anyone right now.

BEAST: “I’m sorry. But I’m sure you can imagine what he must be going through.”

Sofia glares at Beast, small whirlwinds once again surrounding her fists and expanding rapidly as a breeze fills the hallway. Beast is concerned, but before things can do any further, Sofia breathes and halts the use of her powers.

SOFIA: “I understand, Dr. McCoy. Thank you.”

Beast, still not entirely at ease, acknowledges her and walks away. Sofia tries to hold Laura’s hand, but, without looking at her, Laura bats it away.

With the sun rising as a new day dawns, Emma’s woken up and is completely composed, but Storm is still flying her, herself, Cyclops, Kitty, and Sunspot home. Everyone is silent, until…

STORM: “What happened to Jean?”

Scott takes a moment to answer. He informs her that she’s gone. She wanted Genosha dead, and she wanted them dead with it. Then, she flew off into space. Even if she does come back to Earth, the Jean they knew doesn’t exist anymore. Now and forever, she is Phoenix.

Storm finally allows herself to breakdown and cry over the loss of her sister on top of everything else. Scott wipes his own tears from his eyes with his arm.

EMMA, telepathically to Scott: “It isn’t the type of advice I usually give, but if there were ever a time to let your emotions out freely, it’s now.”

SCOTT, telepathically: “You’re not my therapist, and I don’t want your advice on anything. Especially when you’re not even following it.”

EMMA, telepathically and mockingly: “Oh no, you caught me, I’m as devastated on the inside as the rest of you. I have a heart. Sew me. But I do what’s best for me, and you should do what’s best for you.”

SCOTT, telepathically: “You don’t know the first thing about what’s best for me.”

Emma scoffs.

EMMA, telepathically: “A “thank you” for saving your life would have been nice.”

As Storm continues to sob, Kitty hugs her. She was comforting her all night, and she wants to return the favor. But she also needs help. Her father’s body may be good, but he still deserves a funeral as soon as possible, as per Jewish tradition.

KITTY: “Maybe working on that would help keep our minds off everything else?”

Storm sniffles as she smiles and nods.

STORM: “Yes, Kitty. I’d be happy to help.”

In the back of the pack, Roberto is literally steaming, hate in his eyes.

Storm, completely exhausted, lands the team in Central Park. They can walk from here. However, as the other four members of the team start heading toward the school, Beto walks in the opposite direction.

CYCLOPS: “Where do you think you’re going, Sunspot?”

SUNSPOT: “Relax. I’m not quitting or anything. But you’ll excuse me if I need a couple weeks to myself. I’ll be back soon. Try not to miss me too much.”

Scott calls after him as he departs, but he doesn’t have the energy for that right now, and let’s him go.

In the medical bay, Roxy excitedly hugs Cessily, thrilled her new girlfriend is okay. She does accidentally hug a little too tight and hurt her though. Brian is also inside the medical bay, helping the still injured Sooraya in getting into position for her morning prayers. Noriko is noticeably no longer here.

Sofia floats above the school. The bodies outfront have all been cleaned up, but the foul stench remains, causing her nose to wrinkle.

LAURA, over the winds: “Hey.”

Sofia turns her head and sees Laura, out of costume, standing on the roof.

SOFIA, over the winds: “Hello, Laura. I’m glad you’re speaking again.”

Laura takes a deep breath.

LAURA, over the winds: “I…I’m so sorry.”

SOFIA: “Sorry? For brushing me off before? Do not worry about it.”

LAURA: “No. No, not for that. I’m sorry I took you all out to fight. None of you were ready. And most of you were hurt. Especially Julian. Because of me.”

Sofia tells her that’s not true, and no one’s thinking that, but Laura snaps back that she’s not a telepath, and none of them are stupid enough to not know she’s the one to blame.

Sofia, keeping her cool, flies down to the rooftop to look the brooding Wolverine in the eyes. Wind Dancer insists if what happened was anyone’s fault, it’s her own. Laura wasn’t entirely wrong. Herself, Surge, and Dust? They WERE ready. Hellion and Mercury weren’t though. If she just followed Kitty’s orders and got them out of there instead of encouraging them to fight, they wouldn’t have been harmed.

Laura counters that Sofia can’t blame herself. She’s just a student. She was the X-Man there, and she should have been more responsible.

LAURA: “I wanted to keep you all safe. But I didn’t want you all thinking I didn’t trust you. You’re some of the only people I do.”

Sofia appreciates that, but reminds Laura that SHE’S a student too. She may be the best there is as what she does, but there’s still a lot she doesn’t do. But she will. And they’ll learn. Together.

Laura continues to hang her head in shame in spite of Sofia’s kind word, only to start giggling uncontrollably as Sofia uses the wind to tickle her nose.

LAURA, giggling: “Stop that.”

SOFIA: “I would, but I like it more when you smile. I’d rather not have to force it.”

Laura laughs for real as Sofia takes her hand and flies them off the room.

SOFIA: “Come. Brian texted me Cessily woke up. We should go say hello.”

As Sofia flies them to their destination, Laura makes puppy eyes at her. She clearly still isn’t over her.

In his office, Scott is being swarmed with phone calls. As much as he’d love to be resting, he can’t sleep yet, even as he’s barely keeping his eyes open. Xavier’s old friends and allies demand to know what’s going on, parents are hearing about what happened on the news and are worried about their kids’ safety, old X-Men are freaking out just as much (Cannonball is the one we hear calling, with him worried about his sister Melody), and mixed into all of this are the usual prank calls Scott receives from anti-Mutant bigots, with them today calling just to shout that the rest of the Muties are next.

Scott is working with multiple phones and computer monitors and trying to keep track of everything, but it’s all too much. Sweat drips down his face, his heart pounds against his chest, and it seems like the worst may be about to happen.

Before that can happen, however, his seat is rolled away from his desk, forcing him away from all his screens. Emma, as she’s one to do, leans against the doorway with a flask in hand.

EMMA: “You’re not going to do us much good if you kill yourself, darling.”

Scott knows he says this a lot, but right now, he really does NOT have time for her. Emma laughs, coming further into the office. He can’t seriously want for things to go back to how they were between them, can he?

SCOTT: “What we did caused all of this happen. All of those Mutants are only dead because of us.”

EMMA: “No, they’re dead because your mentor loves his secrets, his bitch of a sister is a monster, humans hate us as much as they ever have and were happy to do all her dirty work, and your wife is a vengeful god whose been ready to snap at the slightest provocation.”

SCOTT: “Do NOT talk about Jean.”

EMMA: “I’m not insulting her. I’m calling it like it is. We played a role in Genosha’s destruction, yes. But it was a tiny one. We did not destroy Genosha. Like you told Magneto, WE saved the world.”

Scott stands up and walks over to Emma.

SCOTT: “You don’t believe a word you just said.”

EMMA: “Excuse me?”

SCOTT: “Exactly what I said. You’re blaming yourself as much as I am. You’ve never forgiven yourself for the Hellions or Synch and Skin, and I’m supposed to believe you don’t wish you’d died with the rest of them like I do? Please.”

Emma tries to maintain her front, but her wall is broken down as she hangs her head in shame.

EMMA: “If we’re stuck going on, we owe it to the four million of us still alive to do everything in our power to protect them.”

SCOTT: “I couldn’t agree more.”

EMMA: “Good.” Emma picks up her head, and, with it, puts back on her usual game face. “Then scootch over and let me handle half those screens so we may share the weight of the burden.”

Scott hesitates before agreeing and making room for her behind his desk.

SCOTT: “Thank you, Emma.”

EMMA: “You’re welcome, Scott.”

PAUSE

SCOTT: “Scott?”

EMMA: “We’re a little past, “Mr. Summers”, don’t you think?”

The two share a smile for just a moment before they get back to work.

Surge walks through the school’s hallways. Word of what’s happened has spread, but with the details only known by a select few, rumors are mixed in.

“Is Genosha really gone?”

“They can’t all be dead, right? No one can kill Magneto.”

“I heard it was aliens.” “You mean like the Shi’ar?” “No, stupid, Mutants are friends with the Shi’ar!”

“How long before we’re next?”

Noriko arrives at her destination and knocks on a door. Kitty tells her to come in.

Surge enters Kitty’s bedroom, which Noriko mutters under her breath could be confused for any teen girl’s here if not for her wall of degrees. She and Storm are seated on her bed, binder on their laps, deciding what to do for Carmen’s service.

Noriko tries to say hi and ask how they’re doing, but it all ends up coming out super fast and incomprehensible.

Kitty gets up and hugs her, Noriko’s uncontrolled electricity phasing right through her.

KITTY: “I’m living. More importantly, how are you?”

NORIKO: “I…really don’t need a therapist right now.” Nori pulls away. “Shit sucks. We all know it. We’re all scared. We’re fucked and probably going to die. I was kinda hoping I could just hang out with you and take my mind off things. Not like any of my squad are up for that.”

Kitty, first off, promises her that they aren’t going to die. The X-Men aren’t going to let that happen. But right now, if she needs a distraction, this isn’t the place to be.

KITTY: “My daddy lived on Genosha. He’s gone now, just like all those Mutants. Storm and I are just trying to figure out what to do for him.”

To Kitty’s surprise, Surge jumps at the chance to help. As Nori explains, Kitty’s always been better to her than any other teacher here besides Dani. Even when she was a bitch to her. And she wants to support her in turn. Plus, a task to focus on is a task.

Kitty smiles, and Ororo offers Noriko to come take a seat with them. Kitty and Nori sit down, and the three get back to work.

Still alone in his private medical room, Julian seethes with his eyes clenched shut. Opening them, he attempts to telekinetically bring a cup of water left for him up to his lips, instead of bending over to sip, but he ends up dropping it and spilling the water all over himself.

JULIAN: “DAMMIT!”

Julian re-shuts his eyes and is about to start crying when the door creaks open. He tells McCoy to go away, but Beast isn’t here.

“I do hope that isn’t a desire to give up I’m sensing, Mr. Keller.”

Julian opens his eyes and sees Emma.

EMMA: “After all, you still have so much potential. It would be a pity to waste it.”

Julian rolls over on his side and asks how she could possibly still think that looking at him now. He’s a damn cripple! Emma is quick to remind him that the founder of this school, and one of the most powerful and accomplished Mutants alive is wheelchair bound. Especially with the gifts he possesses, there’s nothing he can’t do now that he couldn’t do before.

Julian brushes that comment off and asks if they’ve told his parents what happened. Emma tells him she just got off the phone with them. The hung up as soon as she confirmed he was still alive.

JULIAN: “Yeah. Sounds right. Bastards.”

Emma tells him that, while this specifically isn’t something she’s experienced, she can imagine how he’s feeling. To go through such horrible trauma and pain, with your parents not giving a damn. To feel like all is lost and it’s not worth it to keep going. She knows these feelings well.

EMMA: “But you have something important that I did not. You have friends who care about you. Who’d do anything for you. You have Sofia. When I was at my lowest, I hardened my heart so that I could never be hurt again. Doing so only served to make me even more miserable. Don’t repeat my mistakes.”

She believes in him. And from Kitty’s report of what she witnessed in his battle with the sentinels, she knows she can still make a hero out of him a yet. A great one.

Julian seems like he’s gotten the message, but remains despondent. He thanks her, but he’d really like some privacy. As she leaves however…

JULIAN: “Wait…what ended up happening with Nova? And Ms. Grey?”

EMMA: “...get some sleep.”

We cut directly to Cassandra Nova. She’s in a secured jail cell, fully restrained, with a device on her head to block her telepathy. In spite of this, she has the widest grin on her face.

Scott and Emma enter this underground level of the Insitute, where they find Betsy and Rachel, who’ve been guarding Nova. Rachel in enraged upon seeing her dad and flies over to him, encased in her fiery aura.

RACHEL: “You have a lot of nerve coming down here with her.”

SCOTT: “There’s work to do, Rachel. Right now, we need to speak with Cassandra. But…please stay. I was actually hoping you might–”

RACHEL: “Dad, if you’re about to ask us to stay here and join your team, I’ll burn you where you stand.”

Scott hangs his head once again, while Rachel’s angered is somewhat quelled as a purple aura surrounds her, her wife mentally comforting her from a distance. Betsy then walks up to her and hooks her arm around hers. If they have this covered, they’ll be taking their leave now.

BETSY: “Well done proving you’ll never be anything but a bitch, Emma.”

EMMA: “Thank you, Captain. It’s what I strive to do everyday.”

As the two telepaths depart, Betsy telepathically tells Scott that she and Rachel will be returning to protecting the rest of the multiverse.

BETSY: “Do try to not let this one universe burn on your watch.”

With that, Captain Britain and Prestige leave.

Scott sighs. Emma tells him Rachel will forgive him one day. Ideally by then, she’ll actually understand what her deal is.

Scott and Emma enter Nova’s cell and confront her. She opens the conversation with mockery, asking how the ashes of Genosha smelled. Oh, how she wishes she could have smelled them herself. Losing to Storm and the others was very much not part of her plan, she wasn’t going to stop until all Mutants were dead, but she’ll just have to settle for slightly over 75% of them.

NOVA: “What ARE you planning on doing with me now? Hmm? Are you just going to keep me locked up here forever? Surely you could never trust SHEILD to keep me secure. Or maybe you’re going to kill me. Just like you did Stryker, Cyclops. Just like you have COUNTLESS people, Emma.”

Scott asks if he she truly feels no remorse, with Nova answering that she isn’t capable of feeling such a thing. Say, has he TOLD anyone what he did to Stryker yet? She imagines that will be a fun conversation.

She cackles.

NOVA: “Hmm. No. No, you haven’t. And that’s not all I’m sensing.” She looks right into Emma’s eyes, with hers bulging out. “You have no intention of leaving this room with me alive. Are you going to let this happen, Scott?”

Rather than answer, Scott has one more question for her. Her plan HINGED on Dark Phoenix. If she’d just unleashed those sentinels without her present, they would have been able to stop them, AND take her down much more easily.

Nova cackles. Oh, she’s so glad he asked.

NOVA: “Did you think the Purifiers popped into thin air? No, no, no. My plan began over one year ago. Just after the old X-Men broke up. Not only did I make contact with Styker and begin building my army of gullibe expendables, but I made contact with someone else - the Phoenix. While you and Jean were enjoying your vacation from do-gooding, I was speaking with the primal force inside her. It respected my power, and way I’d fought to cling to the life I was owed. And in turn, I respected it. The most powerful force in the universe. The most perfect. And I was sure to remind it of this. How it was beyond all other beings. And how if it was going to choose to continue living among humans, it deserved the best from them. Slowly but surely, it began to influence Jean more and more. And you didn’t even notice. Because while she may have been acting too good to be true, that was how every single one of you saw her already. All it would take now would be one good push to send her flying over the edge. One betrayal.”

Nova cackles again as a horrified look of realization materializes on Scott’s face.

NOVA: “I had no way of knowing you and Emma would sleep together though! That was Christmas morning for me! My plan was just to have William break you and force you to kill him, and let that one act slowly break apart your relationship, but then you went and betrayed her in such a more personal way that very same night! All of this was inevitable, but thank you so much, Cyclops, for speeding up my timeline!”

Nova continues to cackle. And cackle. And cackle. And cackle and cackle and cackle and cackle.

Until she can’t cackle anymore.

With a single blast, Cyclops blows her head off.

Scott is frozen. He shows no signs of regret over what he just did, but he needs a moment to process it. Emma holds his hand.

EMMA: “There was no other way.”

CYCLOPS: “Nothing she said changes anything. We’ll never know if her original plan would have worked, or if she only succeeded because of us.” Scott pauses. “You don’t need to take the fall for Stryker’s death. Or for this. I’ll tell them everything.” He pauses once more. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Emma weakly smiles and rests her head on Scott’s shoulder. Scott rests his head on hers.

With sunset having arrived, Storm, Kitty, and Surge are gathered in the school’s cemetery. There was no body to bury. They couldn’t even tell which ashes were his. But they could at least give him a tombstone.

Wrapped in a tallit, Kitty reads from a Hebrew prayer book, while Storm and Surge struggle not to cry. The prayer ends with them all saying “Amen”, and Kitty’s mother and student holding her.

In his room, Julian is eating dinner, struggling but managing to use his form with his telekinesis. Once more, there’s a knock on his door. He sighs and tells whoever it is to come in. He knows they will anyway.

His eyes widen as Sofia enters.

Julian starts asking her not to look at him like this, but she cuts him off, exclaiming how fully of joy she is that he’s okay.

JULIAN: “Okay? Do I look okay?”

Sofia flies over so that she’s next to him.

SOFIA: “You are alive. That is all that’s important to me.”

She slowly places a hand on his face and tells him she’s going to help him get through this. His whole crew will. Things will be better soon. And then they can resume training to assure their bright future. She’s so sorry she pushed him to keep fighting when he wasn’t prepared to, but she saw how excellent he was when he did join the battle. She never wants to go into battle without him at her side.

Julian nods. He hears her.

And then he telekinetically removes her hand from his face.

JULIAN: “I appreciate the apology. Now fuck off.”

SOFIA: “Wh…what?”

JULIAN: “Leave! You hear me?! We’re through!”

Sofia instantly begins crying.

SOFIA: “You…what are you saying?”

JULIAN: “Suddenly so dumb you forgot how to speak English? I’m over you! So get out of my life.”

Sofia is fully sobbing.

SOFIA: “You do not mean this. You would never be so cruel to me.”

JULIAN: “Surprise! Ashida was right! I’m a jackass, and you never should have gotten involved with me!”

With her face red and puffy, covered in tears and mucus, and her makeup ruined, Sofia flies out of the room, blowing a powerful wind behind her that knocks over some equipment, and knocks Julian’s dinner onto him.

JULIAN: “Fuck. Fuck!”

We cut back and forth between an X-Men team meeting, and a school assembly. In the assembly, Scott makes clear the tragedies of all that’s transpired clear to the students. The world will always hate them. No one is coming to save them, even after this. But that’s why the most important thing they can do is protect each other.

While he’s speaking, we see Julian still in bed, not present at all, Cessily and Roxy in attendance, holding hands in fear, Sooraya seated next to them with more firm confidence, Noriko and Brian ditching to go work out, and Sofia, alone in the dark her room, crying into her pillow.

In his office, Cyclops has Emma, Storm, Kitty, and Wolverine gathered. He’s just finished telling them about Stryker and Nova’s deaths.

While Laura is surprised by Scott going against everything he’s been teaching her, “X-Men don’t kill” and all that, she has no issue seeing why these two would be exceptions. Storm to Scott’s relief agrees with Laura, while Kitty continues to be disappointed in him.

That all said, there’s the issue of the future of the X-Men. They must continue. They must protect the 4 million of them left, and see to it that they can restore their numbers, no matter what it takes. However, he completely understands if the team doesn’t want him and/or Emma to continue being a part of this. Or, even if they do, if they’re prefer Storm be put in charge of both the team and the school. Beto gave his right to vote by not being here, so it’s solely up to Storm, Kitty, and Laura.

CYCLOPS: “Emma, first. What do you all want?”

The three take a moment to think. Laura is the first to answer. Yes, the two did a bad thing. But it was a bad thing largely unconnected to the mission. They had no idea what would happen. And from the sound of things. Nova’s plan would have gone off either way. Tactically, Scott is their best tactician, and Emma their most powerful fighter left, alongside Storm. She gets all three of her votes out of the way, wanting both Scott and Emma to stay, and for Scott to remain in charge.

Storm is quick to follow Laura’s vote. She wants Emma gone. Regardless of everything else, it’s undeniable that this wouldn’t have happened if she’d never come here. Scott never would have done something like this if she’d never come here. It’s time for her to leave.

Emma’s fate is left in Kitty’s hands.

KITTY: “You’re a bitch, Emma. You’re a monster. For most of my life, you were what I pictured when I thought about the concept of evil.” She sighs. “But Laura’s right. You’re one of our strongest. And with Betsy and Rachel not staying, you’re the only one left who can operate Cerebro. Finding new Mutants and keeping them safe is more important than ever. To say nothing about the kids. They just lost one headmistress. It would just scare them even more if another one disappeared. And with Hellion in the condition he is right now, he needs you most. I hate having to say this, but we need you.”

Emma grins, delighted that her staying here is settled.

As for Scott, Storm and Kitty make it unanimous that he should stay, but only Storm votes for him to stay in charge.

KITTY: “I’m sorry, but I don’t trust you as much as I need to right now.”

Scott understands. Still, that’s 2-1. He thanks Ororo for HER trust.

Storm knows he’s made mistakes before, but the Scott Summers she knows, the Cyclops she knows, learns from them. And she trusts him to not be duped or manipulated by witches again. She also clarifies that her vote comes with a condition. If Emma MUST stay, she may continue to help run the school, but she wants it very clear that SHE is second in command of the X-Men. Scott easily agrees to this.

SCOTT: “Thank you, my sister.”

ORORO: “Do not let me down, my brother.”

Scott takes a breath. This isn’t going to be easy, but he knows they’ll make it through this. It’s time to get to work.

SCOTT: “To me, my X-Men!”

#New X-Men: The Animated Series #New X-Men #Academy X #Scott Summers #Emma Frost #Ororo Munroe #Kitty Pryde #Roberto Da Costa #Laura Kinney #Bobby Drake #Sofia Mantega #Julian Keller #Noriko Ashida #Sooraya Qadir #Cessily Kincaid #Brian Cruz #Roxanne Washington #The Stepford Cuckoos

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holistic-alcoholic · 10 months

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WI Pride Prompt Party fill, prompt: You won't destroy me.

Rating: T Pairing: winteriron Tags/Warnings: Bucky recovering, all the usual feels, first meetings, metaphors about mental illnesses

The first impression Bucky has of Tony Stark is that he’s kind.

There are others, momentarily followed: he’s loud and enjoys talking, jokes and references that fly over Bucky’s head, he’s attractive, he’s smarter than he appears — and he appears a genius, so that’s a lot — he tends to make Steve look annoyed and fond in equal measure. All of these facts are there, in Bucky’s mind, so ready to catalog all information, look for weaknesses — the habit that feels wrong, that tastes like blood.

But firstly, most significantly, Tony is kind. He lets Bucky inside his home, his fortress — and it is one, too tall and standing out, with security measures over the top. It screams come at me and don’t you dare, and while Steve may grumble that this is Tony’s eccentricities at best, Bucky knows the truth of it. It is an armor of a person uncaged, of a survivor who wears his past for everyone to see, who knows better than to let it come again. It is an outerwear of paranoia. Steve doesn’t realize it — his cages looked different to the eye, and so do his armors, but Bucky gets it.

To be let in is a precious treasure.

Bucky himself drags his cage behind him. He’s more of an animal than a human, the bits of him lost or rearranged in ways that can only bring confusion or fear. He has these parts — limbs and memories and manners — and needs to build a whole new person from them. It’s a hard task. Too hard, at times. So he hides: he finds places that cover him from head to toe, that leave no place for another soul — or all the dead ones he holds within him — he merges with the walls and covers. He is a chameleon. He doesn’t know how to be a human but does he want to.

But he has help. It’s better, when he allows himself to take it, which is a trial in its own right, for he doesn’t know how to, doesn’t have the skill. How to explain the hungry beast that hides inside him, made of blood and bones and memories and nightmares? How to use words, where to look for them, when he doesn’t know the sound of his voice? The abyss inside of him is endless, full of darkness, and cannot be put into words. But he tries. He writes, sometimes, his recollections in many journals, and it doesn’t help until it does, and he forces himself to talk, and it hurts until it doesn’t. Until he breaks down in front of Steve, words and words and words coming out, unabridged and free, and when he’s finished he feels hollow inside. No beast, no abyss, no darkness. No burden, heavy and restricting, in his chest.

And so he lives.

And so — he meets Tony in the common space, and night is dark but without fear, and they talk. It’s different than his previous bouts of words, coming out uncontrolled. Bucky feels human. There’s peace in it. And Tony listens, his eyes kind — unbearably so — silent, for the first time for so long, as if it’s important enough to just listen, or, maybe, as if he trusts Bucky enough to shed another armor.

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” Tony tells him, after, when their arms are interlinked and there is something unnamed but precious between them.

And Bucky wants to live.

And he looks at his past, his torturers, the beast and the abyss and darkness, the blood on his hands and ghosts long gone, and he tells them: you won’t destroy me.

#winteriron #pride prompt party #bucky barnes

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helsingvania · 1 year

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I want bitches to know that whenever i think about star wars rebels it brings me to the verge of tears. Like this series isn't a tie in like clone wars was, it was an aftermath. This series was picking up the pieces of the clone wars and what both sides stood for in the face of the empire by a completely new generation of people.

We come to know and adore all of the members of the ghost and understand their personal traveisties. Hera and chopper with the loss of her childhood, Kanan and Zeb and the lost of their home and everything they knew, Sabine and Ezra with the sins of their parents they have to live with. All of these characters have their own problems and only ever find comfort and safetey with eachother because no one else knows what they feel.

And since they’re so sprated from the movies, we don't know rheir fate, we don't know what they'll leave behind. We watch these characters grow and we cannot predict their deaths and legacies, we're forced to sit and watch them with the feeling of uncertainty. We sit and greve with these characters because we have become one with this space family fighting facism.

Everywhere you look in this series is monuments to a fallen republic. We're forced to sit here and stare at it as these old bases and facilities are from a bygon era that at one point in time we come to find as home and comforting with the clone wars series taking place in places like these. Its all remains forgotten, unappreciated, abandoned, and utterly in ruins much like the troops who ran them.

The last battle makes me want to cry seeing the remains of the droid army making up eith the clones when they realized that neither of them won the war. Both of them are equally sentient and used for nothing but a war that neither of them would've ever won. Both of them trying to fight for something that seems right (separatists wanting better representation, and the republic not wanting the galaxy to dissolve into conflciting governments) but both sides equally become corrupted by the interests of a single man.

For something so small, vader and a ahsoka is a gut punch for me. We see this build up for the entire season and ends with one of the most gut wrenching lines (I WON'T LEAVE YOU, NOT THIS TIME!). Its extremely departed from the plot and achives so kany feels in soo little time i love it and hate it at the same time.

Bro i can't even get into farewell and homecoming without shedding tears im not touching that.

BUUUT i can talk about maul and his end. Twin suns is easily a favorite episode especially with the kenobi series and the journals from the 2015 star wars series. I definitely think maul is used too much in this post clone wars era of star wars media, but none of them can really beat out how rebels worked with him and gave him a meaningful narrative death. Like his journey of hatred and revenge beginning where it ends on tatooine is just poetic writing. How hes alway attach to his past and then subsequently gets beaten after trying the same move he tried doing to qui-gon, but outwitten by obi-wan. By this time Obi-Wan has moved on from his guilt and past regarding anakin and the purge, maul hasn't and thats how he failed.

Also the line about luke being the avenger for those used by Palpatine, both jedi and sith alike also makes me want to cry. Like so many people who learned about this dumbass kid had so much faith and hope in him that he'll do the right thing in the end makes the movies and comics hurt more

This show brings up so much shit from the events of mortis, the horror of the empire, the foundings of a rebellion and how to truly make a stance and what it takes, the importance of trust and faith in others, and just so much more i just don't wanna shed tears on my keyboard rn

If you made it this far...thanks i guess

#star wars #star wars rebels #helsing speaks

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shallowseeker · 1 year

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Strangely, I think the SPNWin finale rejuvenated my need to work on Feelings of excitement and infatuation. (I'm no writer. I just like to explore things clumsily I shoot from the fuckin' hip on everything i'm so sorry.) Some spoilers for The Winchesters below, and some shoddily written fic snippets I pulled out that tickle my fancy:

I often enjoy thinking of hunting in the context of the war of it all. or being cheated out of life. God, in The Winchesters tonight, Joan hit that for me SO well, and likewise that just reverberated down into Dean, like a bell that shakes up your entire brain.

And I just...adored that Dean is STILL struggling with meaning-making outside of saving the world. He's not ready yet to value his life as a basic deserving thing on its own, so he's looking for more work. He's bargaining for a glimpse of that perfect apple pie life, all while shedding his flannel and turning up the volume on different kinds of music. This was a journey of self-discovery.

Anyway, this has definitely hit the right spot for me. I'll probably reread and edit my shit this weekend, actually, because I have beans for my brain and take a stab at righting the very necessary Claire parts I need to finish the rest. Someday I'll pay a real writer to go in and make it flow, but today is not that day.

Egads. Eureka. Etc.

I think a lot of grieving is hard when life gives you a rough shake. It's something I tried to give a nod to a little bit in chapter 2 of the fic:

///

“So if bringing people back from the dead is evil,” Jack whispers harshly, “and you brought me back, then it follows that we’re just like them. Evil.”

That shuts Sam up. Maggie gives him a painful wince. “Jack, family is different,” Sam tries again, and oh, he's struggling with this. “D-decisions coming from a place of love is not the same as a—a power grab.”

Jack gives a derisive little laugh that, horrifyingly, reminds Sam of Lucifer. “Like when Cas power-grabbed the purgatory souls to save our family.”

“Jack,” Sam says his name like a warning, and for the first time in all the time he's taken care of Jack, he can feel his own temper building, and that voice telling him to unleash his anger...sounds a lot like John Winchester. He chokes it back. He's not John Winchester. "Jack, you need to listen."

“No, you listen. You're not my dad!” His voice has enough force that it bounces through the entire kitchen, pinging pots and pans on weird frequencies like tuning forks. It's a twisting knife into Sam’s gut, and he knows what that actually feels like. This might be worse.

He watches Jack's chest heave—up and down, up and down—and then Jack thuds out of the kitchen. Sam feels his eyes water and he’s suddenly so irrationally angry. Even though he'd offered to handle it, he's furious that Dean and Cas aren’t here, that they went fucking shopping when they knew Jack was like this. Sam's never had to discipline Jack. It’s just like when Sam got stern with Claire. They don’t—they just don’t take to Sam as well when he's the one doing it. Not like how they instinctually react to Dean or Cas. It's not fair.

In his head, he’d imagined Jack opening up, tucking his head into Sam's neck, and maybe even crying, but this—

“Sam.” It’s Maggie. Sam had forgotten all about her. She looks so achingly sincere.

“No,” Sam chokes, embarrassed. He holds up a hand and tries to get hold of himself. “No. He’s right.”

“About what?” Maggie prods gently.

“About all of it.”

“No, Sam," she murmurs. "He isn’t.”

When Sam lifts his head, he doesn’t see a bubbly girl. Instead, Maggie is a battle worn young woman with sad, haunted eyes. Too worldly. “I grew up in it. In war. It’s kill or be killed. You always choose your family. That’s the tragedy of—of war. You know? It is. It’s not like normal people.”

Sam, horrifying, stifles what might be the beginnings of something watery and weak. "Okay. Yeah.”

“You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye, Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you’ll never know, The hell where youth and laughter go.”

Sam thinks he sees a smoldering wasteland in her eyes. “Maggie?”

“It’s uh—my dad used to read us poetry. I was small. It feels different when you never got a normal, right? We hang on to our families because we got cheated, Sam. It’d be easier to let go if we hadn’t.”

#on grieving and spnwin #my writing explorations #au hunters nonsense and rambling

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lovelessdagger · 2 years

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Starlight - Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Forgotten Halcyon

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC, Din Djarin x OFC

Rating: Explicit

Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, Smut

Warnings: Explicit Language. Fluff. Explicit Smut. Minor Suicidal Ideation.

Words: 8.4k

Summary : “You, Din Djarin,” she says, cupping his metal jaw, “are the greatest man I have ever known. You are far too good to others, and you are selfless, and I will never understand why you care about anything, let alone me. If I am capable of lying about loving you, then I know I am nothing but evil.”

A/N: Finally!

Starlight Masterlist Here

Read Chapter Twenty-Seven Here

Read on AO3 Here

In the future, she will resent it all. When, not if for it is without question, when she decides to pain herself further and retrospectively think of the ten days that have passed, she will lament on her naivety.

She will remember the flowers of the fields that surround her body and their sweetness of scent and brightness of color. She will feel only the soil and the warmth of the limited daylight on her skin. She will imagine the way the days got shorter and shorter until it felt as if the neighboring sun has disappeared completely.

She will enact the now daily routine of the morning in her mind.

Of when she would wake before the Mandalorian and dress herself in the darkness of their home. One by one her bones lift her body out of his hold and into the commons. She will think of how her boots fit lace tight around her calf over the leg of her torn pant. The hood of her cape covering her face by its shadow.

The day would still be dark and she would carry a lantern with timid flame into the wood. The Child will toddle by her side, his leaps aided by the mystical Force.

They will find themselves settled within the thick branches and steady streams of the river. They will mediate and she will teach him precision and control. He will lift stone and water and on the mischievous occasion a frog to fill his belly.

She will ignite her saber and train with the single blade as he watches in curiosity.

She will look like she is dancing.

She will mourn its parter lost on Corvus, and the other floating in disintegrated pieces around Endor.

Ultimately, she decides it is fitting that it is once again alone.

The morning will sit in its continued night when their time is over. Now, she will carry the Child in her arms until they return to the ship. She will lay him in his bed of blanket and cloak to rest for some more odd hours.

She will remember folding her cape and placing her boots in the corner. Her lightsaber fits between two crates of equal appearance and hides in their connected shadow.

Each article of her clothing will be shed as the skin of a snake, and a trail of the cloth will return back to the bed she has stolen and its lonely company.

The Mandalorian will take her in his arms once more, one around her waist and the other over her chest, and when he is feeling bold he will cup her breast and kiss at her neck.

He will find her as sweet as honey.

He rotates between questions of whether she enjoyed her walk or if she is okay.

To both she will lie and reply yes.

He will not question her further.

His lips will trace every inch of her and he will turn her on her back. She will remember how he whispers affections into her body until his mouth is occupied between her legs.

She will remember her sweat on her forehead and how soft his hair is.

She will think of the build inside her and how he could not be satisfied even when she is complacent and weak. She will think of herself in his lap, on her back, her front, her side, however it is he would like her positioned.

How he asks her if he may continue despite knowing she will say yes every time. How he is slow and caring and settles inside her.

She will think of right now.

When she sits on him and their bodies melt into one and no outsider could tell where one ends and the other begins. He calls her good and beautiful and she cannot breathe.

She will remember the shape of his face. She will remember every piece of him until she is angered because anger is the only thing she is comfortable in knowing.

Her hands always find his face in the dark and if she could conduct thought she would cry at his bare humanity.

Her mind is full of his grunts and her whimpers and their echo. All she will be able to think of is how full and insatiable she never knew a body could be for something other than power.

She will never forget his name falling from her and how it is the only thing she can say. The only thing she wishes to say.

The build comes back and is shared. He bites the space between her neck and shoulder and he does stop. Her head hurts as he takes a fist of her hair and forces her to look at him.

She can’t see him, but kisses and moans into his mouth. The build explodes in her and then him.

He puts her on her back and pulls out. He licks his hand and it goes to the empty space.

“One more,” he whispers slipping two fingers inside, thumb circling her clit. The sound of it is raw and wet. It is like nothing thing she has ever heard.

She will be destroyed to an embarrassing level, breath ragged and words broken.

“There we go,” he mutters, fitting a third. “Just like that.”

She has no control when it comes, convulsing, possessed. Finished she is spent and in temporary bliss.

Only then does he stop.

The bed is too small for them to lay side by side on their backs, so instead he lifts her on top and rubs at the knotted muscles.

“Go to sleep,” he whispers. “It’s still early.”

When she is done remembering and is pent in her own frustration and lack of satisfaction of her own hand she will be angry again.

She will remember what his voice sounds like when he tells her he loves her.

She will remember her own, saying it back.

She will regret how she cannot allow herself the simplest pleasures. She will regret having left. She will regret every second of her life.

And she will resent no one but herself.

This will be the forgotten halcyon

When the future comes, this will all be true.

She will have nothing left.

Not yet. Not now.

But soon.

---

Din Djarin is a man of many beliefs. He believes in his creed, in The Way. He believes in justice. He believes in second chances and trust and order.

With the conviction of a man who has only had comfort of his own company, he believes he will never be content to be alone again.

This is the greatest burden in the galaxy.

To have these days exist in his memory is its own hidden blessing.

A second newfound belief if this:

Lumina was always meant to be here. She was grown here, from the soil with the rest of the fauna. When she dangles herself from the branch of a tree, her hair hangs like a willow. She picks fresh berries which stain her lips. She lays in a field of wildflowers and melts into nature as she sleeps and the Mandalorian finds himself completely enthralled by her essence.

She must carry the spring with her, tucked away with the rest of her secrecy.

She is the sun of dawn and has awakened a world inside of him.

She is more than that.

She is so much more than brightness and beauty. She is brighter, she is more beautiful than words can epitomize. She is soul. She is torn from him. The manifestation of everything he has loved and lost and the trepidation buried so deep within him that he prayed would never see the sun. This is what she is.

And it is so very very unfortunate that he is so willingly blind to the future repercussions.

“How long do you think forever is?” she asks, sat along a stream. “It feels like it would be a very long time.”

“I hear it’s the longest time can be,” Din muses, standing behind.

She hums and falls to her back, hands reaching to the sky, grasping at clouds. “Come here.”

He does, he’ll never have argument to not. He places himself above her, perspective of another upside-down. Her hands cup the rim of his helmet, fingers tickling under his chin.

He thinks he should shave.

“I have to tell you something,” she whispers. “Though I’m not sure how, or that I can.”

“Is it bad?”

“It’s absolutely awful.” Though she says this in a laugh, head shaking. “It will be the worst thing you’ve ever heard.”

“I’ve heard plenty of bad things before.”

“I know. That’s why it pains me that this is the worst.”

“Is it about you?”

She nods. “It is.”

Grabbing her wrist, he lifts his helmet to press a kiss to her palm, lowering it again.

“Say you love me,” he begs, soft.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“Do you mean it?”

“I do.”

“Would you love me less if I told you something horrible about myself?”

“Never,” she says.

“Then whatever you have to tell me, I promise not to love you any less.”

Lumina’s nose scrunches, kissing where his lips laid on her hand. “Maybe,” she concedes, “the fact that I love you is the truly horrible thing.”

“And why is that?”

“Well.” She sighs, adjusting herself to prop on her elbows. “You loving me is… a dreadful miscalculation on your part. But you’re a known idiot so I can’t say—Hey!” He taps at the side of her head and is met with a shove to his helmet. “What I mean is, I can’t fault you for making poor decisions, but I am meant to be smarter than this.”

“Smarter than love?”

“Smarter than humanity. It never ends well for anyone, and I’ve sunken to the level of the rest of you.” Her eyes search the trees and he cannot fathom for what. “It’s damning to my reputation.”

His head tilts, a sly smile beneath his covering. “Am I damning to you?”

“You are,” she admits. “But I know I am also damning to you.”

“Then we condemn each other.”

She sits up with a start, turning over her shoulder to properly face. Her grin is wide, crawling until their knees touch. “Then perhaps the Force will finally be restored to balance.”

“Was it ever out?”

Her look is incredulous, her smile the half teasing kind. The type that makes him feel like he were a Foundling with a crush. Reminding him she knows far more beyond her years, and his as well.

She’s says nothing else.

Away from them, Grogu skips along peeking rocks in the water. He jumps off to the attention of a bush of flowers, covered in thorns. Lumina walks away from the Mandalorian, knelt to Grogu’s level.

“Be careful,” she warns, pulling him away. “They’re carnivorous.” Picking the yellow flower from the stem, the head of its petals die in her touch. “Looks can be deceiving,” she says to Grogu. “It’s usually beautiful things that hurt you the most.”

---

“What if you regret it?” she whispers.

By the eleventh day Din considers the possibility that he may be dead. There is no other way he could experience such delicate euphoria and serenity.

She worries for him more than he does himself. A voice of reason in a way.

Yes. Yes they could have become two corpses somewhere along the line playing pretend and made a puppet by something greater than them.

Most likely, they’ve died in the Daro explosion.

But that can’t be true either, can it? Not when the touch of her hand runs over his exposed scarring and her mouth brings him life.

“I wouldn’t,” he tells her. “If it comes down to it, I won’t. I promise.”

“I don’t want to be the reason you lose everything.”

“Lu, that won’t happen.”

“Yes it will. This,” she says, motioning to the whole of him. “This,” she repeats, holding his head. “This means everything to you. You love being a Mandalorian. I will not allow you to hate me for the rest of your life.”

“I love you.” He says this as if it were its own prayer, firm and considerate. “That’s my choice, and I will not hold you at fault for that.”

“I know what it’s like to lose yourself. I can’t make you go through that. I couldn’t live with myself if—”

“Are you lying to me? When you say that you love me, do you lie?” He asks, all quiet and rumbly in his chest. “Because that is the only thing in the entire galaxy that could ever make me regret giving you myself.”

He will never tire of making her blush. By making her smile so much that her cheeks close her eyes. It’s one of the rarest sights with her and so it must be the best.

“You, Din Djarin,” she says, cupping his metal jaw, “are the greatest man I have ever known. You are far too good to others, and you are selfless, and I will never understand why you care about anything, let alone me. If I am capable of lying about loving you, then I know I am nothing but evil.”

---

“I think I dream of Mandalore,” Lumina says one night, crawling into bed, damp hair dripping on the cot.

With the light on Din still wears his helmet, dressed in nothing but his pants. They’re a fleecy dark gray kind she dug up doing laundry some days back. Briefly, she considers arguing to sleep with the light on so that she won’t miss the sight.

“Manda’yaim?” He’s taken habit to only speaking in Mando’a as much as he can before bed. She’s better at understanding than speaking still, but she can’t complain when his accent comes with a drawl that’s missing in Basic.

“I think it’s Mandalore anyways.”

“Tion gar kar’tayli?”

She shrugs. “I feel the same way I feel when I’m with you.”

His helmet tilts, and she can only imagined the raised brow hiding from her.

Foregoing an answer, her nose scrunches, and her head shakes. “It’s too late in the day for me to be nice,” she says through a yawn.

It’s an hour past midnight.

“Your kindness has business hours?”

She grins. “And it’s closed on holidays. Wait till you see me on Life Day, you’ll be hard pressed to find anyone more infuriating.”

His laughter rings and fills her.

Maker, he’s attractive.

If she’s honest, she’s a bit upset she hadn’t seen it earlier.

“What?” He asks.

“Hm?”

“You’re staring.”

She giggles, which is an embarrassment she’ll process laster.“Yeah.”

He chuckles, a deep rumbly hum of acknowledgment leaving his modulator.

She’s amazed at her sudden realization of how broad he is. Practically two of her. All of him is big actually, now that it’s on her mind.

He could honestly crush her head with his hands alone and she might thank him for it.

The pants don’t help. It’s the most casual she’s ever seen him dressed and it makes her a bit light headed. The outline of his cock peeking through doesn’t help either.

Fuck.

“Do you want me to take it off?” He asks.

“Hm?”

“The helmet.”

His words only register after he says it, and she blinks, her whole body turning warm.

It’s tempting, really it is.

But… there’s something about this. Of seeing the great Mandalorian shed of all his armor, reduced in some way. Yet still undeniably Mandalorian.

Her head shakes. “Not yet.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Can I—“ she starts. “Can I touch you?”

He stifles a noise tempting to release, but nods. “Course.”

She crawls to him, settling on her knees between his legs. Her hands waste no time finding his chest, delicately tracing the largest scar down his front.

“I love your body,” she says, almost decisively, like it were rule of law. Leaning down, she kisses right at is center, and runs down the faded pink with her tongue. “I used to think you were ugly, not actually but… everyone’s obsessed with you. And you’re so fucking cocky about it. I thought—I thought you were overcompensating, or everyone else was projecting. That there was no way you could be that attractive. Objectively.” She nuzzles into his stomach, peeking through her lashes.

“And you’re all beat up and bruised and you’ve got these fucking scars everywhere… and—everyone loves your armor, they think you’re so fucking cool,” her voice drags on with rolling eyes.

“You don’t?” He asks.

“It never impressed me. Still doesn’t. I grew up with this shit. Big scary men in big scary armor making sure everyone knows how big and scary they are.”

“But I don’t scare you.”

“And you never will. I like the beskar, but I love this—“ her hands run over him again, stopping at his waistband, “—part of you more.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “You can talk big game and everyone will have their stories, but I know you’re a fighter. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. You fight and you win. You survive. That alone more attractive than armor and then… and then you end up looking like this. I lose my fucking mind looking at you Din.”

“You’ve never,” he starts, strained. “You’ve never seen anyone else. I’m not that special, not under this. Trust me.”

“No,” Lumina whispers. “Nothing can convince me that you aren’t too handsome for your own good. All of you. I promise the galaxy wouldn’t know what to do with itself if everyone saw what you’ve got under there.”

She wishes he weren’t so damn quiet all of the time.

“Are you—“

He drags her from under the armpits on top, wasting no time to rut into her. “Close your eyes. Close your fucking—“ The moment she does the helmet is thrown off, a clanking fall in the corner of their space.

His lips are plush on her own and search her jaw and neck. He mumbles something into her that she cannot make out, but the vibrations tickle her skin and cause her to squirm.

“Din,” she laughs, quiet. “Din, I can’t—“ At least she can open her eyes like this, boundaries have become blurred lines. The brown hair in her peripheral is a deeper oak color than she thought he’d have. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

He pulls up only that his breath ghosts her body. “I can never be without you,” he tells her. “I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you have ruined me.” Her face burns, positive he can feel her warming skin. “I’m not supposed to have this… I’m not…” He sighs, and tugs at the hem of her pant frustrated in himself. “I always thought that—I never—and you…”

“What is it?” she whispers, half concerned.

“You can’t—You’re… You’re unbelievable, I—All you ever do is talk shit about yourself and—“ He groans now, whiny in his throat. “You’re so fucking convinced you’re a piece of shit and then you—You can’t just say—”

“What?” She doesn’t mean to laugh at him but she does. Not in any real malicious way, it’s light and kind, but it wouldn’t be her if not for an edge of teasing. “That you’re a good man?”

And now his body warms against her, and she laughs again.

“You are,” she insists. “You always tell me how good you think I am, and you never say anything about yourself.”

“Lu—“

“You’re so nice,” she says. “Not just to me either, to everyone, and you never want anything in return. You’re smart, even when you’re dumb. You’re surprisingly funny. You never talk and you still manage to say so much.”

“Baby—“ He’s almost pained while saying it, air tight in his lungs.

“Baby,” she mimics in whine, a little sing song. “My love…” He stifles another sound, breath hitching. She’d never believe that he could be this way. Soft, needy, and yet… “This is what you need isn’t it?”

Of course, she thinks. She should’ve realized it sooner.

“You’re so good to everyone else and no one takes the time to be good to you,” she laments aloud. “No one takes care of you, do they?”

“No,” he stutters. “I don’t need—“

“I know you don’t,” she hushes. Her hand slides down under his waistband, fingers tracing down his hardening cock. “You’re all big and scary, yeah?”

“It’s—“ he tries, hold frantic under the back of her shirt. “I have a reputation, I can’t be—it’s easier when they’re scared.”

“Mm… Trust me, I know.” Her palm wraps around him, kissing into his neck. “I see how everyone looks at you. They’d never believe how sweet you are. How well you take care of me and our baby. I just…” She pumps him slow, dragging upwards. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you. Make you feel good.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, out of breath with a heaving chest to prove it. Her thumb rubs over his head, collecting precum. “Fuck, shut the hell up.”

“What?” She breathes, mocking. “What’s wrong?”

“You can’t—“

“Djarin, I think we’ve established you let me do whatever I want.” Lumina takes her hand away, sucking her thumb with a pop.

“When I tell you to shut up, you shut up,” he mutters, shoving a hand down her pants. She’s already wet, of course she is. Her body is a traitor, even it cannot give her any benefit. “You’re fucking soaked.” He sounds ragged and already, spent, an ache in his throat.

He gathers what he can on two fingers, bringing them up to press against her lips. “Suck.” She’s obnoxious about it, licking between them before fully taking. She can’t say what she expected, taste wise, but there are no complaints.

“You want me to feel good?” He asks, pulling them out. She nods, gasping at the sudden intrusion of her cunt. His other hand tugs his pants past his hips, erection bobbing free.

His hand leaves her, and his voice comes back modulated. “Open your eyes.” They take a moment to adjust, squinting into the light.

She finally gets a look at him and worries of an aneurysm. He’s leaned back on the wall, waistband of his pant pulled down just so. He pumps himself lazily with his wet hand of her.

“Put your mouth on it, pretty girl,” he says, thumb smearing precum around the head.

For the first time, she considers the possibility that she may actually need mental help. All things considered. She’s nearly drooling for it, sat on her knees in front of him. “I’ve never—“

“I know. I’ll talk you through it, don’t worry. Just lick it, gotta be wet when I fuck you.”

She does as told, testing at the tip, then a longer one along its whole expanse back up. His hands trail in her hair, firmly gripped. So she goes again, longer, tongue pressed flat. She stares at his expressionless helmet, waiting for just that.

His response feels appropriate, almost strangled. “Good. Good.” He holds the base of himself, guiding to her lips. “Open… wider.” The tip of his cock slides inside her mouth, a little modulated groan to follow. “Go as far as your comfortable. Slow.” She gets halfway before the first cough, when he reminds her to breathe. He’s heavy on her, thick, sliding in and out while her head slowly bobs.

“—Fuck,” he gasps, thighs twitching. “Just—just like that, I—mm.”

A jerking thrust hits the back of her throat just as she picks up speed. Sputtering, she pulls up, completely doe eyed. A thin string of saliva connects her lips to his head, swollen and angry.

“Sorry—Sorry, fuck, I’m—fuck look at you—“

Lumina coughs to clear her throat. “That hurt,” she says, laced in whispered shock.

Din’s entire demeanor changes, rigid muscles softening, grip coming out of her hair completely. “Shit. Shit, Lu, I’m—I didn’t—“

“Can you do it again?”

It comes out before she knows what it is she actually said. Or, that’s how feels when not a moment later she blushes to an embarrassing red and her eyes nearly fall out her head.

Din’s worse for wear, choking on the air. “What?”

“Nothing—“

“No.” He growls it, turning a dark baritone. “No. You—You like—Fuck Lu.” Despite his words his touch is… alarmingly gentle, wrapped around her neck. “What is it? You like this?” His grip tightens, closing around her throat.

“Mm…”

“Words.”

“Yes,” she gasps, lightheaded.

He lets go and her head falls forward, a ragged breath to follow. “You want me to hurt you?”

“Maker, Din—“

“Yes or no?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes, ple—“ He handles her like a doll, flipping her on her stomach, crashing into their excuse for a cot. Her underwear is yanked down her thighs. His palm hits against her backside, lurching her forward. “Din!”

He smacks her again, the stinging sensation rippling across her nerves. “Shut up.” Stars, he sounds more out of breath than she is. He pushes her knees up to her chest, forcing her shoulders down until her ass waves in the air. “Fuck,” he grits. In a second another crashing sound follows, his helmet thrown by her head. “I keep—I—You go through so much shit and I try—I am—so—“ Another hit. “Nice to you, all the fucking time.”

“I know, I know,” she whines.

He takes a fist of her hair, straining her neck up. “And this is what you want from me?” She’s dripping down her thighs at this point, panting into thin sheets. “You know how bad I wanted to fuck you like this?— Wanted—Figured if I fucked you hard enough you’d behave.“ She can hear him spit, and a wet hand hits her cunt. “Then… I couldn’t. Wanted… had to be good. Nice. Sweet. You called me sweet.” He spits again, falling on the smack. “I know how to kill people with a fucking bone, I’ve done it, and you fucking call me sweet?”

The head of his cock rubs against her hole, pushing in without further warning.

If she wasn’t loud before, she sure is now.

“You are,” Lumina cries. “You—Fuck—That’s not impressive I—done worse.”

The whole of his body weight slams into her from behind, slapping skin following every whine she makes. “Ever since I fucking met you you’ve been nothing arrogant and a little spoiled princess.”

“I’m not—fuck,” Lumina gasps, knuckles turned white. “I’m not a—princess—“

“I don’t give a fuck what you are,” he snaps. “You’re mine. That’s it.”

Oh. That does it. She couldn’t form another sentence if she tried. And she does, try. He pounds into her like their lives depend on it and all she can do is bite back screams in favor of softer cries. It’s obscene and a total departure from everything they’ve done so far.

She comes just like that, muscles tense, leaking over him. She can’t hold herself anymore and he keeps going. One arm wraps around her hips, forcing her still through the orgasm shaking her ever bone.

“Din. Din. Din. Din,” she slurs, a near scream when he touches her clit.

His free hand reaches around, clamping over her mouth. “Gonna wake the—baby,” he grits. “You wanna make me feel good, right?”

“Yeah,” she whimpers. “Yes. Yes.”

“Then I’m gonna use you however I want until I say you’re done. Okay?”

Briefly, she considers the frightening possibility that he will be the one to kill her. She’d be fine with it. Hell, it might even be the will of the Force.

And really, who is she to argue with that?

---

He stops after dragging six orgasms out of her, and she’s the dumbest thing in the universe by that point. Silly and a sheen of sweat covering her. She’s complacent without a single bone in her body. It’s not so bad, not really. She’s reached a certain nirvana with it all and is convinced she’s seeing color.

“I love you,” she giggles into the pillow, drunk on him.

“You did so good,” Din whispers behind her.

She pouts, whining. “Say you love me too.”

A wet wash cloth drags along her skin, getting into every crevice. She only knows the lights are on by the static feel of electricity above her in their little bed. Her eyes are closed out of exhaustion rather than obligation.

Between his touches he places gentle kisses along her body. He keeps talking in words she doesn’t understand and really she can’t tell if it’s because she’s just so tired or actually has no idea what he’s saying. It might be Mando’a. It should be Mando’a.

Maybe it’s a prayer, she thinks. It sounds like a vow of some kind anyways.

She tries to translate, but again, she’s not in the best mindset.

We are… we are… one?

“Why are you dreaming of Mandalore?” Din asks, breaking her out of it. He massages a cooling gel to her raw skin, kind in his touch.

“I don’t know,” she admits, yawning. “It might not be Mandalore exactly, but it has Mandalorians, so I assume.”

“Do you recognize them?”

She’s made the untimely promise to herself to try and stop lying so much less it eats her alive. And any answer she could give feels like it would do just that.

“Kinda. It feels like I know them but… I dunno.”

“Your list of Mandos you know isn’t big Lu.”

Lumina sighs, and offers nothing else.

“Get some sleep,” he tells her, working his hands down her thighs. “You’re sleeping in tomorrow too, I’m not taking arguments.”

At least they can agree on something.

Lumina turns on her side and opens her eyes to stare at the blank metal wall.

She’s stupid.

She’s so fucking stupid. She’s worse than that. She’s a prime example of why fourteen year olds shouldn’t be taken out of school and tutored by protocol droids in a prison cell. She has zero common sense. Zero. None. She may not even have a brain with how utterly moronic she is.

It’s embarrassing.

Vader is rolling in his fiery grave as she speaks. He’s actually taken a pause from his poker game with the devil to laugh at her.

If he is capable of it.

What’s worse is she doesn’t even realize she’s done it at first.

Din’s reflection is right in front of her, on the steel. It’s warped and blurry and she can’t really see anything, but it’s right there.

He’s right there.

He’s an ink blob of different colors, blurred together where she’s forced to make sense of it all.

There’s an ear there… a chin there… his hair, obviously, his beard, his mustache, his nose.

His eyes.

He’s not looking at her, her own reflection that is. His eyes stare at her actual body. They move with the rest of him to lay down behind her, they disappear behind her head. They reappear closed when he leans over to kiss her cheek as he does every night.

And they disappear with the rest of him when the lights turn off.

She might be in a state of shock, which explains her lack of reaction.

Though that isn’t true either. It’s like she’s always known and this is just… mild confirmation.

Or she’s genuinely exhausted and couldn’t tell east from west in her state.

Yes, that could very well be it.

The only thing she seems to think is oh, as she drifts.

They are brown.

I was right.

---

On the thirteenth day, Lumina worries. The Force has never been so kind to her before, and now it feels as though it cannot stop apologizing for all the pain she is in.

She fears what is to come.

---

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Lumina whispers, sat cross legged in the cockpit of the Razor Crest. “I keep telling myself that there’s a reason I’m here. That it’s… the will of the Force, you know? I had to have found him for a reason.”

In her hands is a beskar helmet, dented and chipped green. “You always had a hard time believing in all of that. Prophecy, fate. The Force. I never understood why, you knew better than anyone normal what it was. Is. What it can do.”

It shouldn’t be surprising that beskar is so light—the metal she holds feels meant to be and in retrospect it is one of the only constants in her life—but somehow it is.

“If this is how you felt… I’m trying my best to protect him. To train him. But it’s hard to do without his dad knowing.”

She should really paint it, the armor. If all it’ll do is sit on Mando’s wall for eternity it might as well look decent.

For her sake.

“Maybe it’s a Mandalorian thing, Din has a hard time with all of it too. He called it witchcraft last night,” she chuckles. “Can you believe it? I finally met a Nightsister. I think it was one anyways, she looked like how you’ve described them. Pale, tattooed on the face, that whole thing. You should’ve seen her. She knew so much me… now that was witchcraft.”

She sighs, leaning her head against itself, and a knock comes from outside.

“Hey,” Din says, peeking in. “You good? Been up here for a bit.”

Her posture snaps straight, setting the helmet on the ground. “Yeah. Yeah I’m just—“ she waves. “Is the kid ready?”

She’s beginning to wonder that Din takes a certain pride in ignoring her directly. He just stares, leaned on the doorway.

“You’re allowed to miss him you know. That’s normal.”

She twists the communicator around her wrist. It’s been blinking red all day, presumably in need of a charge. “Yeah.”

He sits across from her. “I still have the ingots you got, from Canto. I was thinking of having something made for the kid.”

“Armor?”

“Sure,” he nods, “Could be useful. It’s his right to have, as a Foundling.”

“Like a helmet?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure how it’ll look though, all the Mandos I know are human.”

“How do you know they’re human?”

“Don’t start that again.”

“I’m serious!” she laughs. “You can’t even see each other. Someone could—“

“Lumina.”

“Someone could be a droid,” she says rapid, as one word.

“For the love of god shut up,” he groans with hidden laugh. “If you think we’re harsh to outsiders, you couldn’t imagine how we react to machines being like man.”

“Really? With how warm and cheery I was welcomed in I figured you all to be so compassionate. Oh no I’ll be a perfect wife for you Din,” she mocks. “I’m practically a Mandalorian myself.”

“You’d be a good one,” he admits.

Taking the helmet from the floor, he gently places it over her head. The world is instantly tinted, shoulders falling at unfamiliar weight. Lights inside are blinding at first, the inside HUD flashing red.

“You’re beautiful,” Din says, almost breathless. “You look perfect.”

“You literally can’t see me,” she says, shocked by her own modulation.

“No,” he says. “No I’ve never seen you clearer.”

“Isn’t this sacrilegious?” she asks. “You nearly killed that Marshal for wearing it.”

“You’re more Mandalorian than some of the strongest warriors I know,” he says, trapped in a whisper. “You were raised by a Mandalorian. You were trained as a Mandalorian. You help raise our child to be Mandalorian. You act Mandalorian. Gar jorhaa'ir sa Mando. You’re four for six.”

“In what?”

“In being. The fifth is to wear armor. This is a little big,” he says, tilting her head. “But we could get it adjusted. If you’d like.”

“What?”

“To fit you better. It’s simpler than you think. It would take maybe an hour.”

“It’s not mine, Din.”

“But it is. By Creed the armor belongs to you as his Foundling.”

“I’ve told you before, I am not his child.“

“Lumina.” He takes the beskar from her head, and she blinks to adjust to the lighting. If this is how he feels each time she may press further that he should indeed never remove his own. “From all that you’ve told me, and all that I’ve seen, this man was more of a father to you than yours ever was.”

“Don’t say that, it’s disrespectful.”

“Does he deserve your respect?”

To her silence, he stands, motioning to follow.

“C’mon,” he says. “It’s best to leave while we still have the sun, the hike to town is fifteen each way.”

And so she does, setting the armor with the rest of it all.

“I’ll ask her to make something for you instead,” he says, jumping down the ladder. “How can she be upset from that? As you said, you’re practically Mandalorian.”

---

If the Force should ever have a place of origin in the light, it should be here.

If paradise should ever exist in the universe, it should be here on the unnamed moon. Where the birds sing to high heavens, creatures scurry and hunt to end their feverous hungers, and the river waters all.

Where she can bathe herself in their waters and pretend she is anew.

Should the gods themselves have ever a want to create a mortal being for their souls, they’d do quite right to choose Din Djarin. Completely untouchable by man and encased in metal, he is a glimmering portrayal of their best intentions.

He walks with his child, and their feet leave imprints in the dirt. His stride is long and commanding, he curves around butterflies and plants with budding flowers. He spends the entirety of his life dedicated to others.

He is the answer to every prayer for salvation she has been selfish enough to send.

How Lumina is the one to possess magic to the unknown when he exists is a question she will never have answered. Though it’s fitting that he should know nothing of it. She knows too much and often wishes to forget.

They’ve been dealt the same fate in a way. How astonishing it is that he’s only become better because of it.

There is not a timeline in which they would have met if this were not the life she held. She is sure of this. If she were allowed to be raised just as every child should be, she would never know him.

Alas she’s settled on never knowing.

It’s so peculiar, the eruption of uncovered emotion that she feels. How anything other than hate and anger can live inside her and grow. It’s indescribable. Positive feelings and their definitions were not taught to her as a girl and she’s sorry to admit that even in adulthood they leave her in confusion.

Though she can try.

It’s…

It’s like the first time she saw what the world could look like in the sun. It’s the most frantic version of calm she’s ever experienced, though whether or not she has known calm before at all is up for debate. It’s as if nothing else has ever existed before, and if anything ever did it no longer matters.

She cannot possibly imagine this is a typical emotion for others to feel at a steady and constant rate. How inconvenient for a spirit of ethics it must be to have realized joy in a time of misery and death. She herself can barely handle the burden and would be doomed if she called herself ethical.

Or perhaps it is from the simple matter that this joy can exist in spite of such atrocities that others pursue it so heavily. If this is how life should be she would not know it. She wonders if she could consider herself to be alive at all before this. Aside from a beating pulse she has no evidence she has not wandered the galaxy as a being of the dead.

It has certainly felt that way.

And yet now, as she stands in paradise, she may be convinced to believe otherwise. Either that or she has finally been resurrected.

She would not know the difference. She knows nothing at all other than her rhapsody.

Grogu feels the elation through the Force. He’s so hyperactive one would wonder if he’d been given straight caf. He runs ahead of his father and squeals at anything that moves. His father does nothing but allow these activities, watching with hands behind his back and a soft chuckle to follow.

It is truly astonishing. The father and the mother to occupy one space with the child. For father to look upon mother as though she is all encapsulated. For mother to beckon father to feel sunlight on his face while she hides her senses.

Or loses them entirely.

It’s quite an awful realization, that she may be the worst thing to set foot on this land. It’s worse when she finds that she can’t find herself to care. That when the feeling of happiness settles, she’s still resolved to be nothing.

When Din looks to her, her body cannot help but to smile and tease with fluttering nerves. When he kisses her, she kisses back and chases his lips in his pull away. When he touches her she molds her body to his.

But once he looks away she falters. She settles into her permanent frown and carries the ire of Sith. Her lies have tumbled away from her and it’s a far greater disappointment than she can admit that her newfound joy does not cure her.

Though she still holds no idea as to what she expects to be cured from. She’s too logical and cynical to believe he could be anything other than a distraction from her suffering.

Oh but what a glorious distraction he is, she should never pray to have another.

But she is exhausted, and though he shows no malice towards her ever declining mental health, she does not wish to be a burden. No matter how many assurances he gives her, she only wants to present the best of herself. To mirror a mirror and create a paradox of existence. Tears and even panic can grow tiresome.

She is never more miserable than when she is happiest.

This is why she walks behind and above, content to observe. Her place is in the tress, away from them, along its sturdy branches, missing only the rope around her neck.

This would be a fine place to die, she thinks. But her years are still young, and if she has been unsuccessful so far, today will be no different.

Either way, I’d miss them too much, she settles. She’s spent too much of her life missing too many people, and she’d like to not miss them anytime soon.

---

In the village, a man atop a box screams of the end of the world. He is old and his facial hair untrimmed. He calls himself a prophet, a listener of the Force.

Entering the square, his calls flew to her direction. He shouted of evil and a fall of temptation.

By his box is a hat and a sign in aurebesh asking for credits.

“Do Mandalorians have prophecies?” she asks, adjusting her hood. “Do you believe in that stuff?”

“Not particularly,” he says. He carries the goods they’ve bought while she holds their child, tucked inside her cape. “But, we have stories, I don’t know if they’d be considered prophecy though.”

“What are they?”

“A lot were about Mandalore, of great warriors, greater leaders. Guiding our people to liberation. We used to be nomadic, planet hopping, colonizing I’m sure. We were told about some… paradise we were meant to be on. Somewhere beautiful that we’d destroy.”

“Was Mandalore beautiful?”

“It was a wasteland. Domes had to be built just so people could live. You’d hate it, trees weren’t natural.”

“Any flowers?”

“Barely.”

“I grew up on Mustafar.” His bones stiffen and his heart threatens to clog at the revelation. “I thought it was wonderful… I’m sure I’d like Mandalore just the same.”

He doesn’t respond, confined to his thoughts, whatever they are.

She ignores this.

“If Mandalore got destroyed, that sounds like a prophecy to me.”

“Maybe. The stories I remember hearing are of individuals. We’re about the collective, you had to be notable to have your own tale.”

“Anyone of interest?”

“When I got the kid, I was told of how Mandalorians would war against Jedi. Mandalore the Great,” he says. “Slaughterer of Sorcerers. “

“You killed Jedi?”

He shrugs. “I suppose we used to. I had a brief fight with Ahsoka… I have a hard time believing we could take down people like her.”

“Did the fight scare you?”

“No.”

“Did she scare you?”

“A little.”

She pauses in step, looking back at the screamer.

“Good… You know, I’m starting to think I might be Mandalorian after all.”

---

Her arrogance guides her to fall along the path of stone as they return to the ship. By instinct she blames her lack of vision in the early night but cannot make it culpable in truth.

Everything hurts. It is a flood of burning.

“Careful,” Din murmurs, lifting her by the arm.

The Child begins to cry and she doesn’t know if it’s from their collective tumble or he too senses something Din is blind to.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, yanking away. “Don’t—“

“Lumina?”

She throws her cape off her shoulders, waving her face of the personal heat. “I can’t— “ Her vision goes as far as the flashlight on Din’s helmet, some six feet or so.

“Lumina slow down, wait.”

“Somethings’s wrong,” she says. “Something’s wrong, something—“ Attention snaps to the clear sky, nothing but a void.

He follows. “What?”

“I don’t know I—“

“Lu,” he grabs her shoulder, turning her forward, “Stop. Take a breath.” She does and ends in a cough. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

He takes the kid from her arms, bouncing him steady. “Did you feel something?”

“What?”

“When you fell. Did you feel something?”

He is the genius of her conscious.

Her crumble is now purposeful, sliding her palms over the rocky foundation.

“How close are we to the ship?”

“About two klicks.”

“Then why am I picking up a large energy source in one?”

“Is it a ship?”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Din, you said no one could find us.”

“We don’t know if they’re here us, okay? C’mon, we can circle around,” he says, pointing off the path. “Take a vantage point, see who’s there. If they are for us, they clearly haven’t found it. If they’re nobody, we don’t ruin a night.”

“I don’t like this.”

“Other people are allowed to exist. You can’t assume the worst in everything.”

“It shouldn’t hurt me, it never hurts me unless it’s bad.”

“Then a higher view will give us the advantage. I have my rifle, if it is something we have a better shot from a distance. I’m not letting anything else happen to you. If we do this we do it smart and we do it safe.”

She promises herself to someday learn his faith.

---

They crouch together on some cliffside by the docking of the Crest. His amban rifle rests propped by his wrist, overlooking below.

“It’s a ship all right,” Din mutters. “Low lighting… whoever it is must be hiding out too.”

“Anyone aboard?”

“Not that I can—wait.”

“What?”

“I said wait… what?” he whispers.

“What is it?”

“Get to the ship,” he says, tapping on his vambrace. “I don’t want you or the kid being out here.”

“What? No. If we’re in trouble I’m helping you fight.”

“I’m the one wearing beskar. This isn’t up for debate.”

“Din, what’s down there?”

He takes longer than she’d hope to answer, a new type of panic bubbling inside. “Din—“

“It’s Fennec.”

It does not go away.

“Fennec? As in Shand?”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

“As in the one you killed?”

“I didn’t—“

“How do you know it’s her?”

“Think she’s mistakable for anyone else?”

Fair point.

“Is she here for you?”

He groans, annoyed glare of the helmet permeant at her. “I’d rather not find out with you and the kid right here while she’s got her gun. If she sees us—“

Lumina shoves at his shoulder. “I’m a better shot than her, lemme see.”

“Absolutely not,” he yells, whispered. “Go to the ship.”

“I’m not letting you fight her alone,” she retorts. “With my luck she already knows where the ship is and is just waiting to see you walk back. It’s safer up here.”

“Lumina,” he sighs.

“I’m right and you know it. Is she with anyone?”

“No,” he says, reluctant. “It’s just her—wait, someone’s coming off the ship. Some guy.”

“A guy?”

“Old. Older,” he corrects. “Bald, wearing a robe… thing… I don’t recognize him.”

“What’s Fennec doing with a man?”

“Could be his ship. Heard she sold hers before going on the run.”

“I know her style,” Lumina says. “She’d just steal it, not ask for a ride.”

“Partners?”

“I’ve never heard of her having one. She likes working alone.”

“So did you,” he counters, shrugging. “People change.”

“Do you know the ship?”

He grunts, retrieving a miniature scope from his pockets, handing it over. “Gunship, I know that,” he says. “Looks old.”

“Older than the Crest?”

Through the lense, her vision locks and freezes.

It is a ship.

A Firespray gunship, to be technical. Colored cream with weathered red and green accents.

She’s of the belief that her heart gives out in this moment.

“That’s my ship,” she says.

“What?”

“That’s my ship. What the fuck is she doing with my—“

And if she has to die it is now she should be parted from life.

“Lu?”

“No,” she whispers, voice nothing more than a quiver. “No, no, no, no.”

“Lu, what’s wrong?”

“No, no, no,” she repeats, over and over, choking on the air. “It’s not—It—I—“

“Hey.” Quickly placed on the ground, his gun lands in a thump. He holds her wrists together, guiding her chin to his stare. “It’s okay. You’re okay, it’s just me. I’m right here. Hey—“ he whispers. “Hey look at me. You’re safe. Nothing’s gonna hurt you. I promise. But you have to tell me what’s going on.”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” she says, all in a rushed breath. “He—He’s dead. He’s dead. Din he’s dead, he can’t— He’s not here—“

“Who?”

“That man she’s with?” she asks, pointing.

She may faint. It would be a better escape than hurling herself off the edge.

“That’s Boba Fett.”

---

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Only the Wretched will be Saved

Taglist: @lexloon @jay-bel @xsadderdazeforeverx @spideysimpossiblegirl @sarahjkl82-blog @annoyinglythoughtfuldestiny

#the mandalorian #Din Djarin #the mandalorian fanfiction #Mandalorian #mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x original character #Din Djarin x oc #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x female oc #Din Djarin x Original Female Character #mando x ofc #Mando x oc #mando x original character #mando x original female character #Starlight

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