#because they finally understand the burden

[dardisorange-blog]

Inky and Solas's experience parallels each other so much. When you speak to Solas during DAI, you truly get a sense that he is the only person that understands that what you are going through.

Who you were before is lost, you become your title until that is all that is remembered. (Inquisitor/Fen'harel)

You burden the weight of the world on your shoulders because there is no one else. (End of the World)

You can never go home. (Clan/The Fade)

Then at the end of Veilguard, they are both finally free, shedding the burden of the physical world and free to choose their fate together. Going home together.

on a second DA:I playthrough i’m noticing so much more foreshadowing in companion/advisor dialogue of how cadash/adaar/lavellan/tracelyan as a person HAS to be obliterated by the inquisition as a political, religious, and narrative force and the title of inquisitor.

mother giselle tells you from the beginning it doesn’t matter what you believe about being/not being the herald; you are an icon to the common people and the chantry.

josephine tells you after the truth about “andraste”/justinia is revealed in the fade—it doesn’t matter what you saw or felt, only what is remembered collectively.

dorian tells you if you ask to go with him to tevinter—you can never undo being the inquisitor, and would take away his agency just by being there.

varric tells you in haven that you’re a tragic hero, and asks at the wicked grace game if there is still a “you” separate from the inquisitor.

solas tells you in skyhold, if you tell him you intend to disband the inquisition, that the power you’ve amassed can’t be destroyed, and will only pass to less worthy hands if you relinquish it.

and all of that is just off the top of my head and comes up before ameridan’s name is ever mentioned.

and it’s all been said before but like! fuck! truth is the game was rigged from the start! you’ve been COOKED, inquisitor! YOU CAN NEVER GO HOME! it’s so fucking good

[pureomi]

˚୨୧⋆｡🍓˚ 0.4k wc. angst. kaiser king of situationships lmao

“Why are you even here?”

The words slice through him, but Michael Kaiser doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to defend himself. He just stands there, as if taking the hit is all he knows how to do. And maybe it is. Because sometimes, knowing what you want to be does not mean you will ever be. 

He deserves this. Every syllable, every ounce of venom in your voice. He’s always deserved it. Nobody knows how pathetic and horrible Kaiser is better than Kaiser himself. He’s carried that truth with him for as long as he can remember—an inheritance from a family that made him believe he wasn’t worth loving. His father’s words, sharp as knives, carved it into him. His mother’s absence, colder than any of the winters he’s passed, sealed it. 

His family made sure he knew he was nothing more than a burden, a mistake, a series of failures. And now, standing in front of you after everything, he knows he’s only proved them right.

“Don’t leave me,” He utters, almost numb. The selfishness burns through every word. 

You froze at the audacity of the statement more than the request. He was the one who discarded you because he could—or so you told yourself. But truly, he left because he couldn’t stand the way you saw through him. You looked at him like he was something good and he didn’t know how to live up to it. He still doesn’t.

“You don’t get to do this,” You declare, the suppression of sobs suffocating you. “Not now,”

“Then what?! Are we done?” His voice trembles, his composure cracking. He inches closer with desperation, yearning eyes straining on yours with despair. “Don’t tell me we’re done.”

Please.

All you can do is let your eyes water and let the room simmer in silence.

All of this is pointless because nothing pains you more than being unable to save him—even more than saving yourself. You’ve spent sleepless nights convincing yourself to stop waiting for him to change, to stop yearning for the scraps of affection he would throw your way when it suited him. You wanted him to want you, to stay, to try to love you. You begged him to let you love him.

But love is a commitment, and Kaiser is a man who only knows how to leave.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten,” you finally say, your voice breaking despite your best efforts, “So let me remind you.” You meet his eyes with tears, but there’s no empathy left to give. “We were never a thing.”

You turn and walk away, and for the first time, Kaiser understands. He has ruined everything. And the best punishment you can give him is doing what’s best for him. Loving him without his permission, away from his vicinity.

[anistarrose]

thinking about:

Fisher's home planet, and entire species, was destroyed when they were a baby, and Magnus took them aboard the Starblaster.

Once Junior, Fisher's own baby, was born, they were the only other Voidfish — the only other creature in the multiverse like Fisher — that Fisher had seen in over sixty years.

But Lucretia took Junior away.

Lucretia took Junior away, because it was the only way to save the world.

Lucretia took Junior away, because it was the only way to get Magnus, Merle, and Taako back.

Lucretia couldn't see any way to reunite her own family without separating a different one.

Junior grew up in secret, hidden away, with Lucretia caring for them.

Junior grew up without getting to see any other Voidfish — any other creature in the multiverse like them — ever since they'd been a baby.

Junior becomes the Announcer at the start of episodes, because Junior is the voice of the Story.

The Announcer never acts mad at Lucretia.

Junior was raised by Lucretia. Junior barely got to meet the rest of the IPRE.

But Junior was fed by, and raised on, stories of the whole IPRE, before they were separated.

The Announcer all but flat-out urges the audience to be sympathetic, to both Lucretia and the rest of the IPRE, for each of their most morally gray and consequential choices.

At the start of the episode where the IPRE create the Grand Relics, and Lucretia erases her family's memories to stop the ensuing war, the Announcer calls upon the viewers to imagine the apocalypse. To imagine the burden, and to imagine how it would change you. To imagine how desperate you would be to "protect the ones you loved."

The Announcer wants the IPRE to be understood.

The Announcer unfailingly refers to Tres Horny Boys, and later, all seven birds, as "our heroes."

The Announcer is barely able to contain their excitement about Barry coming back.

The Announcer pokes fun at the protagonists, and the circumstances they find themselves in, but does it like another part of the family would.

The Announcer loves the IPRE so, so much, and wants you to love them too, and understand their mistakes.

The Announcer is Junior.

Junior never even got to meet most of the IPRE.

But they grew up hearing the story of the IPRE, and how they cared for Fisher.

Junior know they're a survivor of a destroyed home planet, one they've never even seen themselves. They know they were separated from their parent, the only other survivor.

They know the IPRE's home planet was destroyed too. They know the IPRE were separated from each other, too.

Junior was raised on these stories. Junior's destiny is to tell these stories. The interwoven stories of two families, which were torn apart, but were also always really one family, one story.

But Junior can't tell the Story alone.

Until they finally meet someone they'd only heard about in those stories before. They finally meet Magnus, who saved Fisher all those years ago, who raised Fisher like he was their father — who's like a grandfather to Junior, a grandfather they never got to meet before.

Magnus fulfills a promise, and brings Junior back to Fisher.

And... Junior's nervous. Because it's been so long since they saw their parent? Because Fisher's injured, and Junior's terrified to lose the only other Voidfish like them, let alone when they just got each other back?

But for the first time in so long, Fisher is able to reach out and touch their child. To reassure Junior — it'll be okay.

And the two of them, finally, get to do what Voidfish are destined to do, but cannot do alone. Fisher sends out the Song...

And Junior tells the world, the whole world, the Story of how much they love the IPRE.

[lassify]

Twilight's Guilt

*Spoilers for Spy x Family Chapter 107*

I haven't seen anyone talking about this yet, but I just can't get it out of my head.

Chapter 107 is a real goldmine for Twilight The Spy. All these amazing connections! All this potential intelligence! He can finally feel like he is extracting what he can from Anya's hard-won connections at Eden, and he is fully using every opportunity possible to squeeze what he can for Operation Strix.

And then Jeeves had to go ahead and say this:

Jeeves really hits the nail on the head here.

He probably knows about the responsibilities and expectations that are put on the Eden kids by all of their parents - of which he understands Damian's position the most intimately - but at this point in time, Jeeves (likely) has no idea of the extra burden that has been put on one child in particular.

That is, Twilight's burden on Anya.

Not just the burden of becoming an Imperial Scholar, and doing well in her tests, and making friends with the right people: only Twilight knows about the burden of being a fake family, of having to complete a mission, and dispose of her when it's over.

"How I hope that these children are to remain forever unburdened by the statures and standpoints of their parents..."

This is what I love about Endo's storytelling so much: so much is said with so few words and gestures.

Because after Jeeves says his piece, we get a look from Twilight. It's interesting - he almost looks bored, but the lack of response is by itself so telling, even when the other parents express their remorse.

To me, he looks exhausted. This pretence must be so exhausting.

Then his gaze turns towards Anya.

And: he's guilty.

Twilight knows that Jeeves is right; that by taking up a fatherly role for this child, he has automatically burdened her with his own goals and expectations.

Which then leads us to this panel:

I love this panel so much. I honestly felt myself tearing up looking at it.

The first thing that the reader notices is the vast expanse of negative space: everything and everyone else has faded away, and now it is only them. Without the bustling festival and rowdy kids and background characters, suddenly the reader is so aware of the distance between Twilight and Anya. We know that this distance is emotional as well as physical; because Twilight has put himself in the position of the 'onlooker', he is separating his emotions and keeping himself distant from Anya as a person.

I also couldn't help but notice that this panel, unlike every other one on this spread, did not have a border. Endo intended the negative space around them to be endless and borderless, to show that the guilt has the potential to swallow Twilight entirely.

Finally, the size difference between them: while we can interpret this as distance, I also see their physical forms as an illustration of their difference in power. In that sense, one could say that Twilight is larger in this panel, because he overwhelms Anya in the power that he holds over her. He is her 'father'; the man who took her away from the orphanage; and the man who could put her back without a second's notice. Twilight is fully aware of all of this.

(Despite his ignorance of Anya's telepathic power, the scale is still very much in Twilight's favour.)

We even see this side of Anya as though from Twilight's perspective: suddenly, Anya is just a child that caught up in something so much bigger. With our view just of Twilight's back, we can imagine the weight that this must have on his shoulders, bearing a burden that only he is aware of.

And yet, here you are, Twilight...

Despite the attention paid to Twilight's guilt in this double-page spread, Twilight is still very much back to 'business as usual' within the next couple of pages after this. After all, he has a mission to complete. As a spy, he should be adept at compartmentalising his emotions by now...

... Or perhaps, his only option is to keep squashing his guilt down, before he drowns in it.

[speaknow-sw]

THE POET AND THE ROSE

Content : mdni, smut, pussy eating, PiV.

A/N : erm…8.2k words guys ??? Is this too long ? Idk but this chapter is very Shakespearean I reckon…anyway here’s your smut @anisangeldust try not to cheer too loud, you’re gonna wake the kids up.

꧁ Chapter 4 : Letters in the Dark ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

The ink whispers secrets the tongue cannot bare,

A fragile bridge between despair and care.

In shadows, hearts awaken to yearn,

Letters ignite what words cannot discern.

The mist clung to the rolling hills, softening the edges of the battlefield that had been marked by blood and valor. Anakin Skywalker stood at the crest of a hill, his dark cloak brushing against his boots, a sharp contrast to the pale light of dawn. The air was still, thick with the aftermath of war and the unspoken tension of what was to come. He waited, hands resting loosely on his belt, his sharp gaze scanning the horizon.

A lone figure emerged from the fog, his steps deliberate and his broad frame unmistakable. William Wallace, the Guardian of Scotland, approached with the bearing of a man who carried the weight of his people’s dreams on his shoulders. He wore no armor, only a simple cloak, the fabric frayed but dignified. His weathered face bore the scars of countless battles, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding.

When they met, there were no guards, no banners, no intermediaries—only two men who had come to speak plainly in the fragile quiet of dawn.

"You came alone," Wallace said, his voice rough but not unfriendly.

"As did you," Anakin replied. "It’s the least we could do, given the blood that’s already been spilled."

Wallace nodded, his gaze sweeping the hills. "Aye, too much blood. And for what? Kings with greed in their hearts and chains for their people."

Anakin’s jaw tightened. "I didn’t come here to defend my king, nor to apologize for the crown I serve. But I agree—wars are seldom fought for noble reasons, even when noble men die in them."

Wallace turned to face him fully, his towering presence unyielding but calm. "Then why do you fight, Skywalker? You’re no tyrant’s lapdog—I can see that much. So why march under his banner?"

Anakin hesitated, the weight of the question settling on him. His hand brushed against the hilt of his sword, not out of threat but as if seeking an anchor. "I fight for the men who follow me. For the farmers turned soldiers who trust me to bring them home. For the people who want nothing more than to live without fear."

"And yet, you march into Scotland, where those same people bleed for their land," Wallace countered, his voice steady but laced with quiet fury. "Do you see the irony in that, General?"

Anakin met his gaze, unflinching. "I do. But if I laid down my sword, another would take my place—one who cares nothing for mercy or reason. At least I can temper the madness."

Wallace studied him for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with understanding. "You’re a good man caught in a bad war," he said finally. "But no amount of tempering will change the truth—Scotland will never bow to England. We’ll fight until there’s nothing left of us, because freedom is worth more than our lives."

Anakin’s voice softened, a trace of respect in his tone. "You fight for freedom. I fight for peace. And yet, here we are, enemies on the same field."

"A cruel jest by the gods," Wallace said with a bitter chuckle.

They stood in silence for a moment, two warriors bound by the same honor, the same burden of leading men into battle.

"Do you ever wonder," Anakin said quietly, "if all of this will be remembered? If the men who die for us, the families torn apart—if any of it will matter in the end?"

Wallace’s expression hardened, but his voice was tinged with sorrow. "Aye, I wonder. But I’d rather die fighting for something than live on my knees for nothing."

Anakin nodded slowly, his respect for the man before him deepening. "I wish we’d met under different circumstances, Wallace. Perhaps in another life, we’d have fought side by side instead of against each other."

Wallace smiled faintly, the expression fleeting but genuine. "Aye, perhaps. But in this life, we fight. And if I fall, I’ll fall knowing I stood for what mattered."

The sun began to rise, its light breaking through the mist and casting long shadows across the hills. The moment of fragile peace between them passed, the inevitability of their roles pulling them back into their separate paths.

"Until the next battle," Wallace said, turning to leave.

"Until then," Anakin replied, watching as the Scottish leader disappeared into the mist.

As the first rays of sunlight warmed the earth, Anakin stood alone on the hill, the words of their conversation echoing in his mind. A good man caught in a bad war. And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of those words press against his soul.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

Chains may bind the flesh, but not the fire,

A dream that climbs, relentless, higher.

Through blood and stone, through ash and pain,

Freedom is the breath we fight to regain.

Anakin sat at a rough-hewn table in his tent, the candle’s weak flame flickering against the soft night breeze that crept through the seams of the fabric. The clamor of the camp had begun to fade, soldiers retreating to their bedrolls after another day of skirmishes and hard marches. Yet for Anakin, rest remained elusive.

His armor lay discarded in the corner, the dented metal a testament to the brutality of recent battles. Dirt and blood clung to his hands, faint smudges smearing across the blank parchment before him. He hadn’t written a letter in years—not since his mother passed. Words weren’t his craft; they never had been.

And yet, here he sat, quill in hand, staring down at the blank page as though it were an adversary.

The faintest image of you surfaced in his mind—the way your fingers had moved over your canvas as if weaving life into color, the soft arch of your brow as you’d stolen glances at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. He shook his head, willing the memory away. But it clung stubbornly to him, just as your presence had lingered in the halls of the castle long after he’d left.

With a sigh, he pressed the quill to the page. The first words came haltingly, their formality feeling both a shield and a chain.

“My rose, I trust this letter reaches you swiftly and in good health.”

He stared at the words, his jaw tightening. Too cold, too distant. But wasn’t that safer? Still, something inside him rebelled against leaving it there.

“The days here are long and unforgiving, but it is the nights that weigh heaviest. When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”

Anakin paused, his brow furrowing. He had always been a man of action, not introspection. But the words seemed to pour from a place within him he didn’t fully understand.

“I am no poet, nor a man given to sentiment. Yet, as the days pass, I find myself curious. You are not what I expected. Your quiet strength is a balm I did not know I needed, though I lacked the grace to see it before I left.”

The quill hovered over the page, its tip trembling as he fought against the vulnerability clawing its way into his chest. He thought of the way your eyes had flickered with defiance during the wedding reception when Count Aulbry had dared to slight him. The memory stirred something deep within him—a flicker of admiration and something else he dared not name.

“Perhaps you see me as a hard man. I would not blame you for it. The battlefield has no room for softness, and I have worn that truth like armor for many years. But in the quiet moments, I begin to wonder—what might a life beyond war look like? What might it be to know peace? To know you?”

Anakin leaned back, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The words felt foreign, almost too raw, but there was no taking them back now.

“When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”

He glanced at the folded leather notebook lying on the edge of the table, the same one he had taken to scribbling in after long days of battle. It was filled with fragments—half-formed thoughts, lines of poetry he would never dare to share. He briefly considered copying a verse into the letter but shook his head. That would be too much.

Instead, he signed the letter with practiced precision.

“Yours sincerely, General Anakin Skywalker”

He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with his family’s insignia. As he handed it to his most trusted messenger, his voice was low and firm. “This is for Lady Skywalker. Ensure it reaches her swiftly and safely. Do not linger.”

The messenger saluted and disappeared into the darkness. Anakin stood alone in the dim glow of the tent, staring at the candle’s flame as it danced and sputtered.

Why had he written to you? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was guilt for the way he’d left, or perhaps it was the way your painting had lingered in his mind’s eye, haunting him with its quiet beauty. Whatever the reason, the act of putting his thoughts to paper felt like loosening a knot in his chest.

He reached for the notebook and opened it to the last page, where a half-finished poem lay scrawled in his uneven hand. The words seemed to taunt him, unfinished and raw, but they felt truer than anything he had spoken aloud.

“Beneath the armor, beneath the steel, Lies a yearning I dare not reveal. For peace, for light, for a hand to hold, In her gaze, I find my soul.”

Anakin snapped the notebook shut, tossing it onto the table. His gaze lingered on the shadows dancing across the walls, his thoughts torn between the battlefield before him and the woman he had left behind.

The letter arrived two days later, just as the sun was setting, its light spilling through the tall, narrow windows of your chamber. You sat at your desk, your brush poised above the unfinished painting of Anakin, the colors of his armor muted and incomplete. The messenger bowed as he handed you the parchment, sealed with the unmistakable insignia of House Skywalker.

Your heart stumbled. Anakin had never written to you before.

The wax seal broke easily under your trembling fingers. You unfolded the letter, your eyes scanning the elegant but reserved handwriting. The first words were formal, distant even, but as you read on, the tone shifted. Subtle hints of longing emerged between the lines, soft admissions cloaked in restraint.

“When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”

A breath caught in your throat. You reread the words, each line piercing through the defenses you had built around your heart. There was something unspoken here—something fragile.

The letter ended simply: “Yours sincerely, General Anakin Skywalker.”

The parchment fluttered slightly in your hands as you set it down, the weight of his words pressing against the knowledge you carried. Your father’s betrayal.

The intercepted letter was still hidden in the bottom of a chest in the corner of your room. Its contents had unraveled the delicate threads of trust you had begun to weave with Anakin. Your father had plotted to manipulate both sides, using your marriage as a pawn in his schemes. If Anakin knew, would he believe you complicit?

You rose from the desk and began to pace, your gown brushing softly against the stone floor. The walls of your chamber seemed to close in around you as the dilemma clawed at your mind.

Anakin’s words lingered. “I begin to wonder—what might a life beyond war look like? What might it be to know peace? To know you?”

Could you risk breaking this fragile connection by telling him the truth? Would he see you as a spy for your father, as another piece in a game of politics and power? The thought of losing whatever tenuous bond was forming between you left a hollow ache in your chest.

But silence, too, was its own betrayal.

You moved back to your desk, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room as you dipped your quill into the inkwell.

“Dear Husband,” you began, the words coming slowly, each one weighed with care.

“Your letter reached me as the sun was setting, casting the castle in hues of gold and crimson. I find it fitting, for your words carried a similar light—unexpected and strangely warming.”

You hesitated, your quill hovering above the page. How much could you reveal without unraveling everything? How much of your heart could you show?

“You speak of carving paths through stone and steel, of wondering what might lie beyond them. I, too, have wondered. Perhaps we are not so different in this—both searching for something that feels just out of reach.”

The quill paused again. You closed your eyes, picturing Anakin as you had last seen him: the determined set of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the unspoken weight he carried.

“I hope this letter brings you some measure of comfort, as yours has brought me. Though we are apart, know that my thoughts are with you. May the stars guide you safely home.”

You signed the letter with a simple “Yours,” leaving the rest unspoken.

As you sealed the parchment, the weight of the intercepted letter still loomed in the back of your mind. The decision to remain silent gnawed at your conscience, but for now, you pushed it aside.

The messenger was summoned again, his footsteps echoing through the corridor as he carried your words back to the man who haunted your thoughts.

You returned to your desk, your gaze falling on the unfinished painting. The armor was only half-complete, the strokes hesitant, as if you feared finishing it would solidify the distance between you. You reached for your brush, but your hands trembled too much to paint.

Instead, you turned to the window, staring out into the growing darkness. Somewhere out there, Anakin was reading your words, just as you had read his. And somewhere within that exchange, a fragile thread of connection began to form, even as shadows of doubt lingered on the edges.

The first letter had been cautious, a measured exchange of pleasantries cloaked in formality. But as weeks turned into months, and the battles stretched endlessly across the rugged Scottish terrain, the tone of the letters began to change.

“Lady Skywalker,

The campaign against Wallace progresses steadily. Though victory is within reach, the cost has been high. I trust the castle remains secure and that you are well.

Yours,

Anakin Skywalker”

The letter had been brief, almost impersonal, yet it was the first time he had reached out since departing. It stirred something in you, a faint flicker of hope. You responded in kind, careful not to reveal too much of yourself.

“General,

The castle remains quiet, though I must admit its halls feel emptier in your absence. I hope the tides of battle turn in your favor soon. Yours, Your Wife”

The next letter came weeks later, its tone slightly warmer. His words hinted at exhaustion but carried a thread of something more personal.

“My Lady,

The battles are fierce, and the Scots fight with the desperation of men who have nothing left to lose. There is an honesty to their resistance that I cannot help but respect, though it makes victory no less bitter. In the quiet moments, I think of the castle—of its stillness and the sanctuary it must offer. I hope you find peace within its walls, even as I find none here.”

His words lingered in your mind long after you read them. You wrote back that night, pouring a small piece of yourself into the ink.

“My Dear Husband,

The castle is peaceful, though it is a hollow peace. The roses have begun to bloom again, their petals bright against the gray walls. They remind me of you—unyielding, even amidst hardship. I hope you return soon to see them for yourself.”

The letters became a lifeline, weaving an intimacy neither of you had anticipated. Anakin began writing more frequently, his words shedding their rigid armor. Each letter revealed a man wrestling with the weight of his role, his responsibilities, and the yearning for something he could not name.

“My Rose,

The days are long, the nights longer still. In the quiet hours, I find myself thinking not of the battles but of the life I might have had—one without swords or blood. It is foolish, perhaps, but I wonder what such a life would have looked like, and whether you might have been part of it.”

You read his letters with trembling hands, your heart caught between longing and fear. His vulnerability was disarming, his words a window into the man hidden beneath the hardened general.

Your responses grew bolder, though you still held back the secret of your father’s betrayal. That knowledge weighed heavily on you, a dark cloud over your growing bond with Anakin. Yet in your letters, you allowed yourself to dream, to share pieces of a future you knew might never come.

“Anakin,

Your words are not foolish. I, too, wonder what our lives might have been if the world were kinder. I see glimpses of that life in your letters—in the tenderness you try to hide, in the dreams you dare to share. Perhaps there is a part of us that can still claim it, even amidst the chaos.”

In the heart of the Scottish highlands, Anakin read your letter beneath the dim light of a lantern in his tent. He traced your words with calloused fingers, his chest tightening. For years, he had buried his softer inclinations beneath layers of duty and discipline. Yet your letters stirred something he had thought long dead: hope.

One evening, his letter arrived with a small addition—a fragment of poetry hastily scrawled at the bottom of the page.

“I do not know if these words are worthy of your eyes, But they carry the echoes of nights I cannot sleep. In their frailty, they whisper of the stars, And of a face I see in every dream.”

You read those lines over and over, your heart pounding. His words were unpolished but raw, a glimpse into a side of him he had kept hidden even from himself.

Anakin’s words grew softer, more unguarded, like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. Each letter carried with it the weight of exhaustion and longing, but also a vulnerability he hadn’t shown before.

"The days blur into one another—steel clashing, men falling, the air thick with smoke. Yet amidst it all, your image anchors me. Your words remind me there is a world beyond this chaos, a reason to hope."

You read his letters in the quiet of your chambers, clutching the parchment like it was a lifeline. Each line drew you closer to the man you had once seen only as a distant, stoic general. In his words, you found a soul searching for meaning amidst the violence, a man yearning for something gentler, even if he didn’t know how to name it.

Your own responses began to mirror his, shedding the formality that had first marked them. Where his letters spoke of the horrors of war, you offered solace, painting images of the castle’s gardens in bloom, of the birds nesting in the eaves outside your window, of the peaceful moments you dreamed of sharing with him.

“I wish you could see the roses this spring—they climb higher than ever, their petals like drops of blood against the gray stone. I think of you when I walk among them, wondering if you are safe, if you feel the warmth of the sun through the armor you wear.”

Anakin's next letter arrived on a rain-soaked evening, its ink slightly smudged but his words unmistakably clear.

"You write of roses, and I think of the ones that grow wild near the fields we fight on. They are stubborn things, surviving against all odds. I wonder if that is why I thought of you, unyielding in your strength, even in a place where others might falter."

You traced the words with your fingers, your heart tightening at his unexpected tenderness. Each exchange stripped away another layer of distance between you, revealing the raw humanity beneath.

As the weeks wore on, the letters grew bolder. Anakin began sharing fragments of the poetry he wrote in his leather notebook, words he had once kept hidden from everyone, even himself.

"I do not know if these words are worthy of your eyes, but they have been my solace on nights when sleep refuses to come. Perhaps you will find in them some small measure of the man I wish to be, rather than the one I am."

His poetry spoke of the stars, of fleeting dreams, of longing that burned like a fire too fierce to contain.

"You haunt me in sleep—your eyes in a thousand forms, your voice a melody that slips through my grasp. I am a fool to cling to such visions, yet they are the only peace I know."

Your letters in return began to echo his vulnerability, though always with a touch of guardedness. You had not yet told him of your father’s betrayal, the weight of that knowledge still pressing against your chest.

One evening, you sat by the fire, Anakin’s latest letter spread before you. The castle was quiet, the servants retired for the night. You dipped your quill into ink and wrote with a courage you hadn’t known you possessed.

“There is a line in your last letter that has stayed with me: ‘Perhaps you will find in them some small measure of the man I wish to be.’ I want you to know that I do. In your words, I see someone who yearns for more than war and bloodshed, someone who carries the weight of others' burdens yet still dreams of a gentler world. That man is already worthy, though he may not yet believe it.”

You hesitated, then added a final line: “I, too, dream of that world, though I am not sure I will ever know it.”

As you sealed the letter, you felt the sting of unshed tears. For the first time, you wondered if you and Anakin might have been different people, had the world been kinder.

The letters continued, carrying your words back and forth like a bridge over an unspoken chasm. Though you remained separated by miles, the distance between your hearts began to shrink. In the ink-stained pages, you found something you had both longed for, though neither dared to name it yet: connection.

The castle was bathed in the faint hues of dawn when the sound of hooves echoed through the courtyard. The guards rushed to the gates, startled by the unannounced arrival of riders cloaked in frost and exhaustion. At their head was Anakin Skywalker, his armor dulled by battle and travel, his features shadowed by fatigue.

The news of his return spread quickly through the castle. You were still in your chamber, seated at your easel, a brush poised over the canvas. The unfinished painting of Anakin stood before you, a labor of longing and frustration. You had been adding the slightest details to his eyes, trying to capture the sharpness and sorrow you remembered, when the knock came at your door.

"My lady," a servant announced, "the general has returned."

The brush slipped from your fingers, leaving a streak of paint across the edge of the canvas. Your heart leapt and then sank. You hadn’t expected him back—not yet, not like this. A thousand emotions surged through you: relief, excitement, fear. How would he look at you after all these months? Would the intimacy of your letters translate into the flesh, or would the distance you had felt before his departure return?

You stood, smoothing your gown and composing yourself as best you could. When you descended to the great hall, Anakin was already there, speaking in low tones with his second-in-command. His presence was magnetic, as always, drawing every eye in the room.

For a moment, you hesitated at the edge of the hall, watching him. His face was sharper, leaner than when he had left, and there was a new weight in his gaze. Yet when his eyes found yours across the room, something shifted. His stern expression softened, just for an instant, before he turned back to his conversation.

When he finally approached you, he gave a slight bow. “My lady,” he said, his voice formal but warm.

“General,” you replied, feeling the strange distance of titles again.

“I trust you have been well?” he asked, searching your face.

You nodded, unsure what to say. His presence was overwhelming, and you couldn’t reconcile the man standing before you with the one whose tender words had filled your letters.

"I must speak with the king," he said after a pause, his tone turning serious. "There are matters of unrest in the kingdom. Whispers among the courtiers, rumors spreading like fire. I sense that something is brewing in the shadows. It is not just the threat of external enemies; it's the court itself that is beginning to fracture."

His words sent a chill through you, and the weight of them lingered. Anakin’s sharp instincts had always been his strength. He was never one to ignore the subtle stirrings of danger.

“I will find out what is happening, my lady,” he continued, his gaze hardening. “But for now, I must meet with the king. I trust you will be well while I’m away?”

You nodded again, though your mind was already swirling with thoughts. What did this unrest mean? Could your father’s machinations already be coming to a head?

Anakin hesitated, then stepped closer. “Later, we will talk,” he said quietly. “I’ve missed you.”

He turned and walked briskly toward the king’s chambers, leaving you standing in the hall, torn between the need to understand his sudden tension and the fear that you might already be too late to prevent the kingdom’s ruin.

Later that evening, after he had met with the king and addressed the court, Anakin wandered through the castle, finding himself drawn to the tower where your chambers were. He had meant to wait, to give you time to adjust to his return, but something pulled him forward.

The door to your chamber was slightly ajar, and he hesitated before stepping inside. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

The room was filled with paintings—of landscapes, of still lifes—but most prominently, of him. There were sketches of his profile, studies of his hands, and in the center of it all, the large, unfinished portrait.

It was him as you remembered him, clad in his armor, his expression resolute yet touched by something softer. The details were painstaking: the curve of his jaw, the strands of his hair, the sharp focus in his eyes. But it wasn’t complete. His gauntlets were left as rough outlines, and the background faded into blank canvas.

Anakin moved closer, his breath caught in his chest. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the painted surface as if afraid to disturb it.

Behind him, you entered the room quietly, startled to find him there. “Anakin?” you said softly.

He turned, his eyes meeting yours. “You painted these,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, stepping closer. “I... I wanted to keep you close, even when you were far away.”

He looked back at the painting, his expression unreadable. “You see me differently than I see myself,” he said after a long pause. “In your eyes, I am... more than I feel I am.”

“You are more,” you replied without hesitation. “You’ve carried so much, fought so hard. I see it in every line of you.”

His gaze flickered to you, and for a moment, the stoic mask he wore fell away. “Your letters kept me alive,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “And now this... I don’t know if I deserve it.”

You stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “You do.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, as if breaking from a trance, Anakin straightened. “I should let you rest,” he said, his voice once again guarded. “Thank you, my lady.”

He left before you could stop him, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Yet as he walked away, you saw him glance back, his eyes lingering on the painting one last time.

The weight of the day’s events hung heavily between you, the silence stretching longer than either of you was comfortable with. Anakin had returned to the castle, but the shadow of the kingdom’s unrest still loomed over him, and the tension in the air was palpable. He had been gone for so long, and now, with the sharp edges of his absence still fresh, it was difficult to reconcile the man before you with the man who had filled the pages of your letters.

You watched him from across the room, his back to you as he examined a map of the kingdom, his fingers tracing the contours of the land, drawing lines of strategy and war. There was a distance between you now—one that you both seemed to carry, unspoken but undeniable.

You couldn't bear it anymore. Not the cold, not the distance, not the gnawing feeling in your chest that kept you awake at night. You couldn’t stand to watch him walk out again, leaving your heart behind. Without thinking, you pushed yourself off the chair and crossed the room, stopping just behind him. Your breath caught in your throat, but you forced yourself to speak.

“Anakin,” you said softly, the name slipping from your lips like a plea. His head turned slightly, eyes narrowing as he saw the resolve in your face. It was as if he had already known what was coming, and yet he was unwilling to acknowledge it.

“I cannot let you leave again,” you continued, voice trembling with something you could not name. “Not like this. I… I have missed you. Every day, every moment you were gone, I felt it.”

He took a step closer to you, his eyes searching your face, his expression unreadable. “I know you have, my lady. But there is much that must be done—there is unrest in the kingdom, and there are threats that must be confronted.”

“I understand that,” you whispered, “But I—” You hesitated, unable to say what you truly felt. Your heart felt torn between the loyalty to your father, who you still feared, and the love that had slowly, painfully, bloomed in the cracks of your isolation. You had learned so much during his absence, and yet you felt as though your trust was slipping through your fingers like sand.

He reached for your hand, his touch sending a jolt of warmth through you. “You don’t have to explain,” he murmured. “I know. It’s never easy, being torn between duty and love.”

“I can’t,” you said quickly, almost pleading with him. “I can’t lose you, Anakin. Not now, not after everything that has happened. But I—I don’t know if I can trust anyone anymore. Not even my own blood.” You let out a shaky breath, the confession more difficult than you had imagined.

Anakin stepped closer, his hand lifting to gently cradle your cheek. “Trust is fragile,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your skin. “But love… love is built on it. And I want you to know, whatever happens, I am here. I will stand by you. But you must be honest with me, Aurelia. All of it. No more hiding.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and you closed your eyes, unable to hold it back. “I don’t know how to tell you,” you whispered, “What if you look at me like I’m just another pawn in this cruel game? What if you—”

He placed his fingers against your lips, silencing your fears. His voice was low, filled with a raw tenderness that cut through the tension. “You’re not a pawn. You’re the woman I’ve come to love. And nothing will change that.”

For a moment, you stood there in the silence, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket, warm and secure. And then, as if the storm inside your chest had finally subsided, you closed the distance between you. Your hands reached up to pull him close, your lips finding his in a kiss that was both desperate and tender.

Anakin's eyes widened in surprise for a moment before he melted into the kiss, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him. He held you tightly, his fingers splaying across your back as he deepened the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to claim you with a hunger that stole your breath away.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you lost yourself in the sensation of his lips on yours, his body pressed against your own. The world fell away, the weight of the day's revelations and fears momentarily forgotten as you lost yourself in the taste and feel of him.

Anakin's hands roamed over your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on the swell of your hips. He pulled you impossibly closer, his hips rocking against your own in a slow, sensual rhythm that sent molten heat coursing through your veins.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathless, your chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. Anakin's eyes were dark, filled with a desire that made your heart race and your skin flush with heat.

"My rose…" he murmured, his voice rough with want.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung to your cheeks. "I know the path ahead will not be an easy one. But I swear to you, here and now, that I will stand by your side. Through whatever trials and tribulations may come, I will be your constant companion and your fiercest protector."

His gaze bored into yours, intense and unwavering. "And I need you to trust me, my love. To be honest with me, always. Hold nothing back, no matter how painful or frightening it may be. We can withstand anything - but only if we face it together."

You nodded, your voice thick with emotion as you spoke. "I trust you, Anakin. With my life, with my heart... with everything I have. I know the road ahead is uncertain and fraught with peril, but I choose to walk it with you. Always."

Anakin's hands roamed your curves, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your gown to caress the smooth skin beneath. He tugged at the fastenings of his armor, impatiently loosening the straps and buckles until the heavy plates fell away, clattering to the floor.

His lips trailed down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive flesh. You arched into him, your head falling back to grant him better access as a breathy moan escaped your lips.

Anakin's hands slid lower, his fingers splaying across your lower back before gripping the globes of your rear. He lifted you effortlessly, his strength evident in the way he positioned you on the edge of the strategy table, the maps and parchment crinkling beneath you.

He stepped between your parted thighs, his hips nestling against your core as he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue delved deep, tangling with your own in a dance of passion and desperation.

Your husband’s hands roamed your body with reverent fervor, his touch a balm to your weary soul. He traced the delicate lines of your face, marveling at the beauty he found there. "My rose," he whispered, "a bloom of purest grace, your beauty far outshines the fairest flower's face."

His fingers trailed down your neck, skimming over the delicate curve of your collarbone. "These hands, once stained with battle's crimson hue, now tremble to unbind the silken threads that cloak your tender form. A sacred trust, a privilege I've earned by love's own code."

Anakin's gaze smoldered with adoration and unspoken promises as he slowly peeled away the layers of your gown, revealing the creamy skin beneath. "As I lay bare your flesh, I swear to lay bare my heart, to open wide the chamber where it beats for you alone."

He leaned in to press fervent kisses along your shoulder, his lips a brand of branding love upon your skin. "Behold, I am the thorn entwined within your stem, the guard and shield that shall defend you evermore. My life, my honor, my eternal troth, I pledge in this moment to love's eternal shore."

Anakin's hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks. "These buds of beauty, tender and unrivaled, shall be my constant stars, my north and south in life's vast sea. I'll cherish them, as I shall cherish you, until the end of days, our hearts entwined as one eternity."

As he lowered his head to worship at the altar of your flesh, his voice rumbled with solemn vows. "Fair lady, my sweet rose, I am your loyal knight, your champion, your eternal friend. With every breath, with every beat of this heart that beats for you, I vow to love you, honor you, and stand by you, forevermore. Let no foe, no fate, no force on heaven or earth sunder the bond that joins us now and evermore."

His hand pressed gently on your stomach lowering you on the table as he send sweeping all his strategy papers off. “Wait…your plans…” you whispered trying to stop him. 

Anakin paused, his hands stilling on your waist as he sensed your gentle protest. He looked up at you, his gaze intense and filled with a fierce, burning love. A slow, sensual smile curved his lips as he took in your flushed cheeks and heaving chest.

"My rose," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion, "No strategy, no plan, no matter how carefully crafted or vital to the kingdom's fate, could ever be as precious or as worth the sight of my beloved wife laid out before me like a feast for the senses."

Anakin's hands slid up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the last remnants of your tears. "I would gladly burn my maps and scatter my plans to the wind, if it meant I could hold you like this for eternity. You are my everything, my reason for living, my love."

He leaned in to capture your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his ardor and desire into the caress. "Let the world wait, let the kingdoms crumble, let the wars rage on," he declared fervently. "For in this moment, with your sweet body beneath me and your loving heart entwined with my own, I have found paradise. And I will cherish it, and you, above all else."

Anakin knelt between your parted thighs, his gaze locked onto your glistening sex. The flickering candlelight cast a dance of shadows across your curves, illuminating the way your chest heaved with each ragged breath.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "I could spend a lifetime exploring every inch of you."

Slowly, reverently, he leaned forward, his breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh. The first touch of his tongue was electric, a bolt of lightning that shot straight through you.

"Anakin!" you gasped, your fingers fisting in his hair.

He hummed against you, the vibrations adding to the pleasure that already threatened to overwhelm you. His tongue delved deeper, stroking along your slit, teasing your entrance.

"What do you want, my rose?" he asked, his voice low and intimate. "Tell me what you need."

His fingers teased your thighs, his thumbs brushing against the tender skin of your inner thighs. He could feel your muscles quivering, your body coiled tight with anticipation.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips rocking slightly as you sought more of his touch. "Please, Anakin..."

He smiled against your flesh, the action sending a new wave of sensation crashing over you. "Please what, my love? I need you to tell me."

His fingers slid higher, brushing against your sensitive clit. The touch was fleeting, a promise of more to come.

"I want...I want you to make me come," you gasped out, your cheeks flushing hotly at your own boldness. "I want to feel your mouth on me, your tongue inside me, your fingers filling me...please, Anakin, make me come."

Anakin licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, savoring your essence on his tongue. At the top, he found your sensitive clit, swollen and throbbing with need. He flicked his tongue over the tender bud, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

"Anakin!" you cried out, your fingers tightening in his hair as pleasure sparked through you.

Emboldened by your response, Anakin sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh. He could feel you trembling beneath him, your body winding tighter and tighter.

As he pleasured you with his mouth, Anakin tugged down his trousers, freeing his aching cock. It sprang forth, long and hard, the thick length pulsing with each beat of his heart. The sight of his manhood, so powerful and ready, sent a fresh surge of arousal coursing through your veins.

Anakin's hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking himself as he continued his ministrations between your thighs. His tongue delved deeper, thrusting into your entrance, fucking you with his mouth.

The dual sensations of his lips and tongue on your most sensitive spots, combined with the erotic sight of him pleasuring himself, pushed you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

"Anakin, I'm...I'm going to..." you panted, your body tensing as your climax approached.

He could feel your walls fluttering around his invading tongue, your body desperate for release. With a low groan, he suckled your clit harder, determined to bring you to your peak.

"Come for me, my love," he growled against your sex. "Let me feel you come undone."

He thrust two fingers deep inside you, pumping in and out, as his tongue and lips worked in tandem to drive you wild. The combined stimulation was too much, and with a scream of his name, you shattered in his arms.

Anakin held you close as you rode out the waves of your intense climax, your body trembling and quaking against his. He gentled you through it, his strong arms wrapped around you like a protective cocoon.

"Shh, I have you," he murmured, his voice a soothing rumble in your ear. "You're safe with me."

As your trembling subsided, Anakin pressed soft kisses along your neck and collarbone, his touch reverent and tender. He could feel the pounding of your heart, the way your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his eyes shining with admiration and desire. "You're exquisite when you let go."

His hand slid up your side, cupping the curve of your breast. He could feel the soft weight of it in his palm, the way your nipple pebbled beneath his touch.

"Tell me, my rose," he asked softly, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. "Did that feel good?"

He knew the answer, of course. He could feel the way your body had responded, the way you'd cried out his name in ecstasy. But he wanted to hear it from your own lips, wanted to cement the connection that had begun to blossom between you.

Anakin's own need was a throbbing ache, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh. But he held himself back, determined to focus on your pleasure first. This moment was about you, about the trust and intimacy you were building.

He waited, his heart pounding in his chest, for your response. Whatever you said, whatever you chose, Anakin knew he would follow. This was your journey now, as much as his own.

“Anakin….please…take me…”You whispered, clinging to his strong back. You probably left crescent marks in his shoulder but he didn’t care. He wanted you to brand him with every single part of your body. 

“Anakin, ”you cried out his name, your voice resembling a divine plea in his ears “Don’t stop…” you gasped. 

Anakin's heart swelled at the desperate, needy sound of his name falling from your lips. With a primal growl, he redoubled his efforts, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force and speed.

"Never, my love," he rasped, his voice strained with exertion and desire. "I'll never stop. I'll take you again and again until you're fully satisfied."

His fingers continued their relentless assault on your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in tight, rapid circles. The combination of his thick cock driving into you and his fingers stroking your most sensitive spot pushed you closer and closer to the brink of another shattering climax.

Anakin could feel your walls starting to flutter around his plunging length, your body tensing as your peak approached. He leaned down to capture your nipple between his teeth, biting and sucking the hardened peak as he fucked you with abandon.

"That's it, my rose," he urged, his hot breath washing over your skin. "Come for me. Scream my name as you shatter. Let all the world hear who you belong to."

His words, rough and raw with passion, sent a fresh surge of arousal coursing through you. You could feel your orgasm building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

"Anakin!" you cried out, your voice echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. "Oh God, Anakin!"

Your body convulsed beneath his, your inner muscles clenching and rippling around his pistoning cock. The sensation was exquisite, your silken heat gripping him like a velvet vise.

"Yes, my love!" Anakin roared, his own release fast approaching. "Milk my cock. Take every last drop of my seed."

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. His cock jerked and throbbed as he spilled his hot, thick essence deep within your spasming channel. He continued to grind against you, working you through the aftershocks of your shared climax.

Anakin collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the table as he struggled to catch his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, his skin slick with sweat from the exertion of their lovemaking.

He could feel your nails raking down his back, the slight pain only heightening his pleasure. The marks you left on his skin would be a badge of honor, a reminder of your passion and desire.

"My love," he murmured, his voice rough and sated. "That was...transcendent."

He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with a satisfied smile. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes glazed with post-coital bliss. The sight of you, disheveled and glowing, filled him with a profound sense of masculine pride.

Anakin leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. It was a kiss of thanks, of gratitude, of deepening affection. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As they kissed, Anakin's hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your hip, the flare of your waist. He marveled at the softness of your skin, the way you yielded beneath his touch.

"You're exquisite," he whispered against your lips. "A goddess, made of flesh."

He knew he was being overly sentimental, but he couldn't help himself. In your arms, he felt a sense of peace, of belonging, that he had never known before. It was a feeling he wanted to hold onto, to nurture, to let grow.

Anakin's hand slid lower, cupping the rounded globe of your buttock. He squeezed gently, pulling your hip forward to grind against his own. Even in the aftermath of their lovemaking, he could feel his spent cock beginning to stir, to harden once more.

"Again?" you asked, your voice breathless with surprise and a hint of trepidation.

Anakin smiled, a wicked glint in his eye. "Is that a challenge, my rose?" he teased, his voice low and intimate. "Because I assure you, I'm up for it."

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

In your eyes, the heavens rest,

A goddess clothed in love’s caress.

You walk the earth with light divine,

And in your heart, the stars align.

[woso-story]

New Years Eve: Safe Haven

Alexia Putellas x Reader

The streets of Barcelona were alive with anticipation as the city began its week-long preparations for New Year’s Eve. Fireworks lit up the sky at sporadic intervals, their loud, crackling echoes reverberating through the bustling streets. For most, the bursts of light and sound signified celebration. For you, they brought unease—anxiety curling around your chest with each deafening pop. You winced every time, your body involuntarily flinching.

Alexia, your girlfriend of nearly a year, hadn’t yet noticed your discomfort. It wasn’t intentional; she was busy with her training and catching up with teammates. And you hadn’t said anything. After all, you wanted her to be happy—especially now, with New Year’s Eve around the corner. Her excitement about the party hosted by Patri was contagious. Alexia had shared her joy about celebrating with you and her friends, and you couldn’t bring yourself to dampen her spirits.

The truth was, you didn’t want to go. Social anxiety gripped you in crowded spaces, and the thought of being in a room filled with people, coupled with the inevitable fireworks, made your stomach churn. Normally, you spent New Year’s Eve huddled in your bed, hiding from the cacophony outside. But this year was different. You were with Alexia. And you didn’t want to let her down.

---

Two days before New Year’s Eve, you went out for some last-minute shopping. The streets were busy with people preparing for the festivities, and you tried your best to block out the noise. On your way home, as you walked through the park near your apartment, a group of kids set off fireworks nearby. The sudden explosions shattered your fragile composure. You winced, your heart pounding as you broke into a run. By the time you reached your apartment, you were trembling, your breaths shallow and uneven. Dumping your shopping bags in the hallway, you sprinted into your bedroom, diving under the blankets as though they could shield you from the noise outside.

Your phone buzzed multiple times in your bag, but you didn’t hear it. Alexia had called several times, her voice tinged with concern in each voicemail. When she arrived at your apartment later that evening, using the spare key you’d given her, she was immediately alarmed by the sight of your shopping bags abandoned near the door.

“Cariño?” she called, her voice carrying a note of worry. She moved quickly through the apartment, searching for you. When she found you curled up in the bed, hidden under layers of blankets, her heart clenched. She sat beside you, gently placing a hand on your shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly. Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed her worry.

You hesitated, your throat tightening. At first, you didn’t want to admit it. But Alexia’s steady presence and the gentle squeeze of her hand made you feel safe. The words tumbled out before you could stop them: your fear of fireworks, your dislike of New Year’s Eve, and how you were terrified of the upcoming party. You confessed how you didn’t want to ruin her evening, how you felt like a burden.

Tears streamed down your face as you spoke, and Alexia’s expression softened with understanding. She listened patiently, never interrupting, and when you finally fell silent, she pulled you into a warm embrace.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, stroking your hair. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We’ll stay home together.”

You shook your head. “No, Lex. I don’t want you to miss the party because of me. You deserve to celebrate with your friends.”

She pulled back slightly to look into your eyes. “Cariño, I want to be with you. I want to be there for you. That’s what matters to me.” Her voice was firm yet full of love, and you knew there was no changing her mind.

---

The next day, Alexia did everything she could to make you feel at ease. She stayed with you throughout the day, running errands together and keeping the mood light. By evening, the two of you were in the kitchen, Alexia chopping vegetables while you stirred a pot on the stove. She told you stories about her teammates, making you laugh until the tension from the previous day began to melt away.

When New Year’s Eve arrived, the two of you stayed in. Alexia cooked a delicious dinner—a mix of your favorite dishes—and the two of you curled up on the couch, watching movies. The roller blinds were drawn to muffle the sounds of fireworks, and Alexia kept the room filled with soft, comforting light. Her arms were a fortress around you, shielding you from the chaos outside.

As the night wore on, Alexia pulled you closer, her warmth a balm to your frayed nerves. She whispered reassurances, reminding you that it was okay to feel the way you did. Her words were like a soothing melody, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon.

At midnight, the distant sound of fireworks seeped in despite your precautions. But Alexia tilted your chin up, her eyes sparkling with warmth as she whispered, “Happy New Year, mi amor.” She kissed you tenderly, her lips brushing away the remnants of fear and filling you with a quiet joy.

For the first time in years, New Year’s Eve felt like a celebration. Not because of the fireworks or the festivities, but because of Alexia’s unwavering love and understanding. As you lay in her arms, gratitude swelled in your chest.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Alexia smiled, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “You don’t need to thank me. I’ll always be here for you.”

And as the new year began, you knew it would be your best one yet—because you had her by your side.

[lovely080222]

I’m gonna be completely honest…the “break-up” (which was more of a fall out more than anything) between Vi and Caitlyn was completely necessary for both their developments in future episodes and how they would react to them.

1. Vi was deeply involved in all of it. Not by action but by association, therefore she felt guilty about what went down with Jinx and decided (after having an argument with Caitlyn about it) to become an enforcer and find Jinx, and kill if it came down to it. Which shows in one of the sequences of Jinx and Vi’s fight (when Vi steps aside to let Cait take the shot).

2. Caitlyn wasn’t in her right mind, and to be fair, if that shit happened to me I would totally loose it as well. Grief can bring the best and the worst in people. And because of that, she took advantage of her position as Leader of House Kiramman to chase Jinx and kill her. Transforming herself to the terrorist that she was aiming for.

Both were in a shitty position in act 1 that is not surprising that the outcome is devastating. They were doomed to drift apart due to radical decisions taken from both sides. Vi, driven by guilt, trauma and loss of Jinx “mentally”, and Cait driven by vengeance, grief and burden of the Kiramman House. Completely understandable but not fully thought out as they could’ve been but aren’t, yet sometimes those decisions are the lesser evil than the main proposal (which was beginning another civil war between Zaun and Pitlover). Still, it doesn’t make them right.

Vi did it out of guilty and obviously, because she thought it was the right thing to do, wearing a heartbreaking realization that her sister is “gone”(while Jinx/Powder is in still there, the problem is that Jinx takes the impulse of jumping into the most chaotic measures to destroy herself and everything around her). Meanwhile Caitlyn was blinded by rage and grief to think for a second all her plans to find Jinx. Not thinking for the consequences and dragging all the people around her to get her objective. They need to breath and distance themselves from the situations surrounding but in a time of crisis and despair, is not possible and the pressure to make ends meet is high.

For them to be in a healthy place to start over (like they did in 02x08) they need to go through it. Hurts to see them fall into habits but is very rewarding once you see the final outcome.

love,

~lovely

[truestoriesaboutme]

I'm seeing a lot of people who think Joy to the World ignores the character development of The Giggle and I don't think it does at all but to explain that we have to do something that it seems like no one wants to do.

Let's talk about the Bigeneration!

So what actually happened when the Doctor bigenerated? The text itself is very vague, which is probably for the best. You don't want to get bogged down in regeneration mechanics in the third act of the third act of your anniversary special. You're just supposed to feel it and move on.

But what actually happened though?

I don't mean in terms of the lore, necessarily. The lore is fun but ultimately subservient to the needs of the story. I mean, what happened in terms of the story and the meta narrative.

First, the meta narrative: Disney bought Doctor Who. That's what happened. More specifically, they bought exclusive worldwide streaming rights to any newly produced Doctor Who and nothing else. None of the previous seasons of New Who or Classic. And so, in order to sell it to new audiences on their services, Doctor Who has to, functionally, start over. They don't want to have a show on Disney+ that you have to go to a rival streaming service and watch 13 seasons of in order to understand. So RTD2 has to be, for all intents and purposes, a new show. Or perhaps more accurately, a new spinoff of an existing show that's also the same show.

But that's okay! Russell has done this before, back in 2005 when he created a brand new show that was also the same show. And back then, he dealt with Classic Who's previous cancellation by narrativizing it: it became the Time War. Don't know a thing about Classic Who? That's okay. That was before the Time War. So now that Doctor Who had to go through another backstage upheaval, it made sense to once again turn that into narrative.

This time it was a bit harder, though, because New Who was still going. So The Giggle had to function as a series finale for New Who while also being a backdoor pilot for the new spinoff which is also the same show. How do you do that?

First, you need David Tennant. Unambiguously the most popular New Who Doctor, RTD brought him back as the Fourteenth Doctor, a symbolic stand-in for the New Who Doctors in the same way that the War Doctor was for the Classic Who Doctors in the 50th anniversary. Throughout the 60th Anniversary specials, Fourteen carries the burden of every traumatic thing that happened to all of the New Who Doctors over the course of thirteen seasons of New Who. And so his story becomes about resolving all that trauma, about coming home to his best friend and retiring, about healing.

Meanwhile, all around him, the building blocks of a new television show are being pieced together, a new UNIT, a new TARDIS and a new emphasis on the supernatural.

And then it happens: bigeneration. A new Doctor physically splits off from the old one and, at that point, the show that started in 2005 is over and a new show has just begun. One that doesn't have to worry about the Time War or Trenzalore or The Flux or any of that stuff.

So based on all that, what does this mean for the Doctor(s) in the story? It means that Fourteen takes on all of the trauma of the last thirteen seasons so that Fifteen doesn't have to carry it. (Trauma, apparently, is carried in the trousers.) He retires and just fucking deals. Which incidentally, is why you're not seeing Fourteen helping out with world saving. It's not that he's just fucking around with Donna. Bitch, he's in therapy!

Meanwhile, Fifteen is the first Doctor since Seven to not have any Time War Angst. So, why is Fifteen still like that?

Well, have you even met Seven??

Trans writer Emily St. James has a great metaphor for finally dealing with gender dysphoria: it's like pulling up an old carpet and seeing all the stuff that was hiding underneath. When you finally get past the big thing that's been inhibiting your personal growth, that's when you're finally able to see everything else clearly for the first time and only then can the real work that you have to do on yourself truly begin. That's what's happening with Fifteen. He's finally able to deal with all the stuff that he couldn't even see because he was constantly having to deal with hitherto unheard of amounts of PTSD from countless universe ending apocalypses and companion deaths. Now he can finally work on self improvement.

And THAT'S what the Anita section of Joy to the World was about. About what comes next after recovery.

That and putting him in that cute Bob the Builder outfit.

[scribeofmorpheus]

I always try to read the "Thank you, Rook" line very liberally, since he doesn't even say it if you redeem him (it's romance exclusive, if I'm not mistaken). It felt more like the writers were trying to convey an impression with limited material at their disposal to frame a sort of congratulatory: "you did all this for this character we fully battering-rammed narratively to be seen as an antagonist simply to up the stakes in the most convenient (inorganic) arc when you consider his character, thanks for taking the time to do so, really!"

But also, on a meta-narrative level, it was more them using that line to convey Solas as someone who is self-aware enough to know he wouldn't have fought so hard for himself to get his own deserved happy ending because he's fatalistic, doesn't believe he deserves it, nor does he dare hold out hope that Lavellan *deserves* the kind of love he has on offer (because he's self-deprecating)--he believes she would be happier without the burden of him and his regrets. Which is very self-flagellating, one-sided and makes false assumptions, but is also very mortal behaviour when you spend thousands of years carrying blame for destroying the world you fought tooth and nail to repair because you denied your instincts as wisdom for the sake of blind love.

The "Thank you, Rook" is Solas acknowledging that, had someone not interfered, stepped in, peered into his regrets or solicited the aid of Morrigan and the Mythal fragments, he would be entering the Fade prison by himself and he would have lost all chance to have Lavellan on that rooftop. This is firmly because he does not want Lavellan to feel pressured by his love of her to join him, as he once joined Mythal. They are separate love stories true, and the definition and understanding of love varies on interpretation, but Solas is a guy who parallels or foils, he cannot see a world where novelty exists (blame his immortality there, it's part of what fuels his bullheadedness when he first responds antagonistically to a Dalish Lavellan, who then proceeds to tell him "hey, you're being proud and judgemental based on metric, not merit, check yourself, wise guy!").

And as much as Lavellan is a powerhouse of a character, she could have easily been denied the ability to join Rook for that final push had Rook seen fit to deny any chances of redemption for Solas--they could have been bound, gagged, imprisoned, magically held back a barrier, or simply not allowed to be there in the archon's palace. In this vein, the line holds enough to form a general understanding of Solas' desire to thank Rook, Rook's role in reuniting these two chess pieces on the board, and his need to, in a sense, wash any animosity he may have felt towards Rook away.

But because the narrative around Solas and the Inquisition (and by extension, Lavellan) is so weakly tethered to the main narrative (and its subtexts via few codices), by it presupposing that the player will fill in the blanks that the game could not afford to draw more than a broad stroke for, the "Thank you, Rook" line feels unearned (from the basis of the player's role-playing character, Rook, being so veiled to Solas' true character--especially when you take into account their laissez-faire attitude around the regrets mission and the world changing truths dumped on their team) at times and disingenuous/pretentious at worst (for the sake of the inquisition player that knows Solas' mannerisms better).

I believe the line is directed towards himself, Rook, Lavellan in a way and the player. And I also think it's Trick Weekes themselves speaking through Solas, acknowledging the player's efforts in giving him a happy ending, while also keeping just shy of the 4th wall.

When I say I dislike the solavellan ending I don’t mean how they end up, I mean how they got there. Them ascending past the dinan’shiral together? The slight ambiguity of it all so anything could be canon? Them both surviving?!?!! Literally the best fucking ending that I wasn’t confident we would ever get. Just how we got there was kinda. You know.

I’m personally not the biggest fan of how Lavellan is in da4 (which I wasn't too surprised about since inky isn't pc), especially when it comes to Solas. The interactions rook can have with both of them about the other feel uneven, for lack of a better word. I can’t really believe Solas would ever talk about someone so precious to him to someone like rook, regardless of their relationship to him. I would’ve preferred it to be told environmentally, through found notes, journals, murals and have him not say a word about her. That feels more authentic to me. Because otherwise what we got was Lavellan waxing poetic about Solas and just casually dropping the fact that they were together and that they’re special to each other while all Solas says is that she’s a good woman that he cherishes.

And then I can’t help but compare it to trespasser. The ending to that dlc ruined me. To this day I still can’t listen to Lost Elf lmao. He kneels down to her, gently runs his fingers through her hair, holds her hand, and kisses her while saving her life from the anchor. The heart-wrenching, “My love.” His last words to her (and the last ones we hear for the next 8 years) are, “I will never forget you.” Are you kidding rn???? I’m demolished. I have never recovered. I get fucking shaky to this day thinking about it. Veilguard just didn’t match that for me.

The thing I do love about it though is the moment he first hears her voice. Nearly breaks his damn neck to look for her. And the way that just looking at her makes him so breathless we get the most tortured “vhenan” I’ve ever heard from him. The way his eyes get so soft. If they had kept that energy for the entire time they interacted in the end I would be one happy camper. But they just kinda didn’t.

I think my main issue comes from the lack of agency Solas has the entire time, even when Mythal lets him go. Maybe I’m just too sensitive to this and am seeing things that aren’t really there, but it has the feeling that things with Lavellan are just happening to him, and he doesn’t really get a say. Solas had no agency pretty much the entire game, and the game is pretty much about how his entire life has been like that. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely believe he wants her with him, but you couldn’t have held her hand at least and walked into the rift together? You just kinda walked away and if she goes, she goes? Idk man, could just be a me thing, but I do wish there was a slight tone difference, in that Solas is actually making a choice he wants for himself for once.

[wingheadshellhead]

Steve Rogers & Tony Stark in Avengers Assemble 1.25 "The Final Showdown"

[faaun]

Jack Marsh (2005), Friendship Otherwise - Toward a Levinasian Description of Personal Friendship

[jils-things]

the immense rage i felt while watching this entire scene go down was so strong. the gall to find joy in someone's misery, misery that cant even be stopped by them even if they wanted to change it. i feel so sad for him seeing this go down

if u need like... a brief explanation on what happened, heres how it went

these two miners probably knew that he gets so excitable when he sees money, so one of them throws a coin to catch his attention which he does, and nor.ton desperately tries to catch it. the coin lands on one miner and they step on the coin and they laugh at him as he tries to lift his foot up and then they continue to toss the coin around until they were done with him :((((((((((( he keeps the coin but you can already understand how hes feeling there :(

[istillbelieveinmagic142]

Am I finally changing my profile to show that I like Loki now?

I am indeed. ❤️💚

Goddamn you, Marvel. 😭💔💔

I know what I want. I know what kind of god I need to be... for you. For all of us.

LOKI | 2.06 ‘Glorious Purpose’

[bisaster-energy]

Merlin but Merlin loses it when Arthur dies and instinctively starts a time loop and every time Arthur dies it automatically resets...for angst purposes it could stay tragic..no matter what he does to change the past kilgharra was right. no one can change their destiny nor can they escape it. or by starting this time loop at all he's doing is preventing the rise of the once and future king so by staving off Arthur's death he's actually preventing anyone from ever really living again. a never ending story with one character aware of the narrative but powerless to change it. a puppet with a brain but no autonomy to put it to use. A tragedy of his own making instead the one prophesized

[ruvviks]

the way i need to write about roksana so bad

[maxrspeaks]

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband in the Zenin clan, would really not regard you as his wife initially, even later on he would have a hard time wrapping his head around the whole idea of it.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband would make two beds/futons on two extreme ends of your shared bedroom in the clan estate, would not even turn in your direction as he sleeps, and would slip out of the door, quietly, at the very break of dawn.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who would let you latch onto his arm at a family gathering where everyone in the clan has gathered into the large banquet hall, but only because he sees it as a formal necessity.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who would intentionally keep you away from the old geezers and Naoya, at the said gatherings because he knows how deeply condescending they are towards women, even their own kin.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who doesn’t really care about this marriage but doesn’t really care about the idea of being with another woman outside of it either. Like moss on the base of trees, he remains unmoving and unbothered in this specific field.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who is actually taken aback when you tell him he can do whatever he wants outside of this marriage as long as he keeps it under the wraps. Because this leads him to believe you’re doing something of the sort.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who is so baffled by his own envy and rage over the mere notion of his wife partaking in an act of infidelity that he has to begrudgingly retreat to a spare bedroom at the end of everyday because he cannot fathom what he’ll do if he looks at you.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who is finally forced to face you after almost two weeks due to unforeseeable circumstances and he almost retches at the bitterness scorching the back of his throat.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who finally decides to confront you so he closes the bedroom door behind him and walks forward, grabs your wrist and pulls you towards him.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who doesn’t miss the slight widening of your eyes and the warmth of your face and the glitter of your eyes, and he hopes, hopes that despite everything, you choose him. He is willing to put this behind, to forgive and forget, because god his wife is so beautiful, he would do anything to have you love him, or atleast try to.

Toji Zenin as your arranged husband, who approaches the topic directly without any hesitation, because what is the point of beating around the bush when the truth is already there in his face.

“Have you been with other men?”

And he hates, he hates the way your eyes widen because it is a clear indication of something that he refuses to accept.

“What?”

He understands. Toji really does understand. Why would you or anyone for that matter, be willing to openly confess about something as such.

“Ya heard me.”

He doesn’t miss the way your brows furrow, and he anticipates violence and anger and everything red, with the way your mouth presses itself into a thin line and your forehead creases in thought. He is already convincing himself of a life where he has to live with the burden of knowing, yet forgiving.

“What exactly gave you the idea?”

Now this irks him. Toji wishes you would just be out with it, hell, he already knows, he’s convincing his poor heart of a future where you can still try to love him despite all this, so why would you drag this on any longer than you need to?

“You told me I could do whatever I wanted outside of this marriage.”

“And that led you to believe that I was doing the same?”

Toji frowns. He likes the way your eyes soften and the corners of your mouth quirk up, your lower lip tuck itself under your upper one, despite the fact that it all seems to be mocking, he likes it. But he is still confused so he simply frowns, and luckily for him, you seem to catch onto his reasoning real quick.

You free your hand from his hold and step closer to him, torsos touching, before you get on your tippy toes and loop your arms around his neck. Toji bends down to accommodate you in this position, it all seems to new, so soft to him that he is momentarily taken aback.

“You thought I was cheating.” You state, there’s no offence in your tone, but simple mirth that glimmers in your eyes and reaches down to your upturned mouth.

“Is that why you’ve been sleeping in a different room because you thought I was compromising this marriage?”

And Toji frowns deeper, like a kicked puppy. His arms hang stiffly by his side and he wishes he could loop them around your waist.

“Toji.” You whisper, leaning in to brush your nose against his.

Your smile disappears, his breath mingles with yours and both your and his eyes flicker down, then up.

“I haven’t. I would never.” You say.

And you hold back your tongue from admitting the fact that your offer was a half hearted, unwilling one, that the days he slept away from you, you would curl in your bed and cradle your aching heart and chest.

“Yeah?” Toji whispers back. He is breathless now. He feels like a large boulder has been lifted off his chest, so now he can finally breathe, like a man submerged underwater, he laps at the surface, gasping for air, desperate.

“I have a husband.”

And it sets off a fuse in him.

He snakes his big arms around your waist, and pulls you closer until the warmth of your bodies becomes a shared one, and then he’s leaning down, eyes half lidded and drunk on love, love that he didn’t realise he was nurturing, with intent.

But you stop him, with a hesitant hand to his chest.

“Have you?……been with other women?”

And Toji doesn’t like how small you sound all of a sudden, how your sparkly eyes look at him with hesitance, and fear, of knowing something you couldn’t stomach. He doesn’t like how you visibly shrink in his arms.

“Why would I? I have a wife.” He says with a cheeky grin before leaning down and taking your mouth into his.

Toji Zenin as your husband who sleeps with you nestled in his arms that night. And stays unmoving hours after waking up, basking in your warmth.