#crying at that last quote is a core memory

[long-claw]

a lot happens in chp 10 of adwd involving mance raydar and the wildlings but what i always focus on and what crushes me every time is jon's loneliness.

he's 16. he spent 14 years with no friends of his own, being constantly told he was below everyone he loved and now he thinks they're all dead. he finally made friends at the wall and those same friends got him voted lord commander, which leads him down this path of isolation.

he's plagued with nightmares of guilt over ygritte's death and his plot to send sam and gilly south. he dreams it was his arrow that killed ygritte, that sam drowns and gilly cries "tears of blood".

he desperately doesn't want to be alone, "He knew he had to eat, but it was company he craved, not food.", and when grenn invites him to eat dinner with them, "Jon wanted nothing more."

but jon is haunted by ned stark's voice telling him, "A lord may love the men that he commands, but he cannot be a friend to them." and so jon declines dinner with his friends, goes to bed and thinks, "This is my lot, from now until the end of my days."

he doesn't throw a tantrum or cry himself to sleep, like any isolated teenage with too much responsibility would be well within their right to do. he accepts that this is how it is and it will always be this way, because he has always been isolated and apart from those he cares about and how could he ever have dreamed that this wouldn't be his lot.

[caorann8]

Grief in Dawntrail

Alrighty, here are my thoughts as a funeral director having finished Dawntrail. Obviously spoilers under the cut.

When someone says a game feels like work, that’s normally a bad thing. In this case it’s not. Two of Dawntrail’s themes are community/their different cultures and grief and while they’re explored more separately in the two halves of the story they are intrinsically linked. Funerals at their core are about remembering the person who’s died and coming together to support each other and remember the person. Even with the decline of “traditional” funerals, people who are just having a cremation and nothing else from the funeral home often say they’ll have something at home with their friends and family.

This is why Sphene pissed me off from the start. With the Yok Huy we see a beautiful funeral tradition. The body may return to the mountains but their legacy will always remain for their community to read and remember over and over again, even for future generations. Meanwhile Sphene echo’s the same message, “You will never die so long as you’re remembered” but then removes the memories as a misguided attempt to protect her people. They aren’t remembered, they’re actively forgotten by their entire community until those people die too.

Death and grief are complicated things. Something we learn in school is there are no stages as most people think. It’s a roller coaster that goes forward and back, has good days and bad days, and will sometimes crop up years later. What lessens it is allowing yourself to process it, and support from friends/family/community helps immensely. By denying them these memories, Sphene denies them growth and stronger bonds. A friend of mine said the people of Alexandria wouldn’t survive the Final Days and I agree. We even see this in the WoL! How many times are we able to quote Haurchefant or other characters who have died but made an impact on our journey? Even Emet-Selch asks us to remember them. The ancient’s love, their follies, the good and bad. While grief hurts in so many different ways, we often come out on the other side better, whether that be with new tools, new outlooks, or even just relief that the person isn’t suffering.

And this doesn’t just apply to people we care for. Look at the death of Zoraal Ja. Wuk Lamat hated him and he’d abandoned Gulool Ja. Regret or joy that it’s over are valid feelings . Both grieved in their own ways and had support to work through it. The fact that they were actively told to take a break to process everything, both after his death and after the attack on Tullioyal, was a beautiful touch. Grief is exhausting after all.

Finally, I want to talk about my experience going through Living Memory. That’s the part that truly felt like my work. Just sitting and listening to people say their final goodbyes to their loved ones. Some crying, some laughing at good memories, some angry, but all taking that moment. I didn’t cry really (except Cahcuia, that one got me), I got choked up and there was a heaviness for a lot of it, but there’s a joy in knowing nothing’s left unsaid. Even deleting the areas didn’t affect me much. They each got their last hurrah, like a eulogy at a service or stories shared over a meal. Plus the knowledge that reincarnation exists in FFXIV means they’ll be able to enjoy life again.

At the end of the day grief, in all its forms from the end of relationships, to what could’ve been, to death of a loved one, shouldn’t be swept under a rug. When people find out I’m a funeral director I often get asked if it’s “depressing with all the crying” and I always reply that I hear laughter coming from visitation rooms more often than tears.

[nocturn-warrior]

I ALL THE THINGS I'VE SHOULD DONE• 🔅

Alucard x reader

Summary: You are pregnant with your first born with Alucard and he has been overprotective over you, but during one night he a jerk tries to assault you. Alucard and your friends kick his ass.

Warnings: angst, SA mentions, abortion mentions, violence, jealousy at Greta, pregnancy, crying (but ends up with fluff), my bad grammar and text similar to a 12 years old's writting fanfic (english is not my first language) and bad dialogues.

Note: month of the three milks is may in medieval calendar, puiuţ is a nickname romanian parents call their babies and it means baby chicken. Most of the titles of my fics are based on Kate Bush's songs or song quotes. This one is taken from This Woman's Work

You were so excited taking care of Sypha and Trevor's baby. With his mother's big blue eyes and his father's jet hair, he was the cutest thing in the world. Everyday, your heart beated faster to the thought of having a child of your own with Adrian; a little baby to light up your lives and bring joy to that enormous castle again, but it took months for you to start trying for it. There are too many children around, the village orphans would be jealous if we had a baby. You would squash off the idea to yourself with a silly excuse. Actually, you feared having a child would have a reverse effect. Alucard was still mentally fragile and you rememberer his breakdown nights, where he wouldn't close his eyes to sleep until the sunrise. But one day it happened, and when it happened you and Adrian couldn't contain the happiness, though your hearts were still full of doubts.

Immediatly you started to work on your unborn's room, asking the villagers carpenters to reform Adrian's childhood bedroom and redo the furniture just like the way he remebered, since it all was destroyed during that last fight. All except that little wolf plushie which you storaged in the wardrobe. Alucard was surprised when you, after the nursery was finally finished and you both were decorating it with paintings and toys Adrian crafted himself, came in with the plushie and placed it over the little crib. He could feel a tear forming into his eye in that very moment.

"H-how did you..."

He stuttered, holding the toy almost as if he was checking out to see if it was the original one. You chuckled and said:

"I kinda stole from you so many days before Trevor had his hero moment. It was too cute to stay all dusty and forgotten in a wooden box. What is his name, by the way?"

Alucard sniffles the toy for a while, it smells like childhood. Like comfort. Smells like a time that will never come back, but he is happy it will belong to his child now. For that, new memories will be builden up. He finally answers, sitting on the small bed with you and caressing the toy's fluffy head.

"Lupi"

The dhampir smiled as his eyes wandered across the bedroom: it was exactly like he remembered. With his drawing skills, it was easy to picture everything in paper and intruct the carpenters.

After two long years, the village was finally built. Settled in the Belmont ground, it was full of small but cozy houses, a small fair, and a graveyard to honor their lost members. They were grateful for everything, and for that they decided to make a big celebration, in the day of their protector saint, Sara Kali, who is also the protector of pregnant women, for the exhiled and despaired ones as well.

You, Alucard and your friends were invited to such a beautiful moment, since you four had a big role in providing that people comfort and protection during and post the nightcreatures attacks.

It was 24 in The Month Of the Three Milks and you were 5 months pregnant. At first, Alucard was a little hesitant about attending at the festival; besides he cherishes the comunity so much, he feared you made too much effort or that all of these sounds, scents and feelings would be overwhelming to you. In his core, he wanted to go of course, but your safety was more important.

"Are you sure, my darling? You need to rest, you and the baby. Greta and the others will understand if you don't attend"

He tenderly argues, placing a hand on your waist as you look for a proper dress to use in the occasion in your big wooden wardrobe.

"Adrian,"

You drop the pieces of clothes to cup his cheeks, his amber droopy eyes looking towards yours as you explain. How could you take that pouty face of his seriously in that moment? You contain a chuckle.

"I am fine. My sickness doesn't affect me anymore, and some fresh night are will be good for me. You worry too much"

Adrian looks down presses his hand over your growing bump, trying to feel the child. He's been obsessed with it, constantly asking you if his puiuţ, as he constantly reffers to your baby is awaken and active.

"They are quiet this afternoon, my love."

You answer, placing your hand over his colder one. He says nothing, thinking about the festival and if taking you was a good idea until he breaks the silence:

"Let's find you a dress to wear, i will do your hair"

Your eyes light up, filling his heart with joy. Alucard adores to see you smile and beam with happiness, specially now that your mood changes so frequent. Any wrong word can cause an endless angst in this sensitive head of yours. He doesn't complain, though. After all you did for him in those dark gloomy nights, is not just his duty but also his wish to take care of you.

The two of you mess around your clothes, trying to find anything that feels comfortable enought for you to wear all night long. You try this, try that, but all of your formal gowns feel tighter and constraining around your stomach. Trying the last one with no success, you leave a deep sigh and plop yourself on the bed, laying with your limbs spread:

"Alright. Forget it. I accepted my fate: we are not going to the festival."

Though you had a silly smile in your face, Adrian could tell you were very upset with the fact no dress could fit you propperly now, and standing up in silence while looking at your hopeless expression, he takes a hard decision. Entering or seeing his parents' personal objects was a challenge he has been avoiding for two years. That's why most of them were gifted to the people from Danesti. They shouldn't be in there storaging must and moths. He gave it all, except some.

"Actually, i think there are still some dresses that belonged to my mother when she was pregnant. My father kept her belongings, and i couldn't get rid of them yet"

The joyful expression returns to your face as Alucard gives the problem a solving, you quickly sit up again and smile excitedly at him. For a while, you wonder why he kept exactly his mother's pregnancy dresses. Was it because he already planned everything? He could have given them to Sypha years ago. But you don't question it, you just nod and stand up, holding his hands.

"Thank you, Adrian. But you don't have to do it, if it's too hard to see her things again."

He gently shushes you, raising your hand and placing a wet kiss over it and ressuring he would be alright. Adrian tells you to stay in your bedroom while he looks into an old wooden chest, containing some of his parents' remaining belongings.

Minutes after, he cames in with a beautiful red dress, larger in the stomach and breasts part. It's oppulent silk bounces as he moves smoothly, placing it over the bed.

"Here. Try it on. I might do some adjusts on it's sleeves or cleavage if you want me to. We still have time"

He smiles at you, and standing up, you grab it to try on as he said. You inspect it's fabric, the dress has a slight musty scent due to all of these years it spent untouched, but it's alright. You quickly slip off your undergarments and put the dress on. Alucard expectates for the final result, arms crossed and eyes wandering across you changing body. It looks so beautiful, like a goddess of fertility.

"It feels tight in the arms"

You raise up your limbs, proving your point. The long sleeves restrict your movements. Lisa had a more slender figure, you guess, so it would really feel tighter in some of your body parts. Alucard approaches you, adjusting some pieces of the fabric and turning you around to check out the clothing

"I can cut them for you, my dear"

The solution comes without hesitation and you are surprised. He would modify his mother's relics just because of you. The hesitation came from your part

"Do you really mean that? Love, this belonged to your mother"

He playfully scoffs and lifts up the silky hem of the gown, helping you to take it off so he could make the necessary adjusts

"If there was something my mother was not attached to, was material wealth. Plus, it's for the wife of her son i am doing that. Don't you worry, it's just a dress"

Adrian removes the dress from you completly and with the lines and needles, he starts to work on the sleeves as you sit on the bed, waiting for it to be finished.

One hour and a half later, your dress is finally adjusted and fits perfectly. Now, you two should take a shower, get perfumed and elegant for the event so important to your friends of the village.

Adrian does your hair as promised: he braids it and finishes with a ribbon matching the color of your dress. He ties your shoes and you help him folding the hem of his trousers. Now passing through the giantic doors of the castle, you two head to where the festival would be settled.

Arms interlocked and faces enlighted by the rising full moon light, you catch a sight of Sypha and Trevor sitting on a wooden bench, their son Simon is running around with the other kids.

"He is already running. Years ago this boy was just a..."

Words fail with excitement, seeing your nephew toddling and interacting with other children. Alucard completes the phrase, placing a hand on your bump.

"A little bean. Just like our baby. Soon, he or she will be joining them. Ooh, it seems like he is sticking a frog into his mouth!"

As Alucard finishes, you can see from a afar, Sypha rushing to stop the toddler of eating a frog. You giggle, already imagining the adaptations in the castle you and Adrian shall do to prevent your own kid to hurt themselves.

Trevor see you two approaching and, taking a large sip of his ale, he places the cup aside, facing you two.

"Hey, i thought you two wouldn't even come. Y/N, you have to try this ale. This shit is a drop from heavens!"

By his tone, you could tell your friend was already drunk. Alucard intervines with a calm, yet slightly sarcastic tone, cracking his whip:

"You are not trying to make my pregnant wife drink alcohol, are you, Belmont?"

"I forgot this detail"

He snorts, shrugging and turning his attention back to his beloved ale. Since Simon was born, Trevor and Sypha had made a promise he would never drink again, but today is a special occasion so they gave it a break. Talking about Sypha, she returns to the place, holding the willful Simon on her hip and smiling as she spots you and Alucard.

"I can't keep an eye off from this boy, it's like he is the exact copy of his father. I can't keep an eye off of him as well. Trevor, you are already drunk?"

She places her free arm on her hip, facing the sitting man who denies it, with his clearly intoxicated tone.

"Gods, i don't know why but i still love you that it hurts!"

She chuckles, sitting by her husband's side and releasing Simon from her arms before she finally talks to Alucard and you.

"Your bump is already so big, my dear Y/N! Bigger than last week. Please, cherish this moment, becsuse after that you will deal with back pains and ankle soreness due to this little human growing in there"

Sypha looks tenderly at your belly jutting against the red silk of your dress, and then at her own son who rushes to "uncle Lulu", as he calls your husband.

"But it's all worthy."

You were so excited by seeing your friends that didn't even paid attention to the festival decoration. It was beautiful, full of colors and good scents comming from the food. The women wore their traditional clothes, children ran around the big fire settled in the middle. The tawny moon enlighted everything, making the scenary even more breathtaking. Alucard conduces you to sit over the bench and accomodates himself by your side as well.

"What do you think, love?"

He whispers in your ear before kissing your cheek

"Beautiful. I love how their people, even after so many troubles and distress, found a way to put everything together"

The food scent was inviting, you spot a plump old lady holding a large plate of something you judged to be sarma, placing it over the large table along with other food. An increasing desire starts to take over you, and Alucard notices your fixated gaze. He chuckles, placing a hand on your belly before standing up.

"Are you two hungry? Stay here, i will get some food. Will you guys want something as well?"

He looks at Sypha who shakes her head, and at Trevor who says nothing but a grunt that Alucard reads as a no. You watch your dhampir walk graciously towards the table abundant with food, greeting the people as he approaches it. Resting your elbow on your knee and your chin on your palm, you don’t notice how head over heels you are until he comes back holding a bowl and speaking to you so sweetly:

“Here, my dear. It’s still warm”

Alucard sits by your side and you glance at the bowl full of sarma; a meal made of cabbages and stuffed with meat and rice, a typical dish of the people from Danesti. He grabs a forkful and takes it towards your mouth, waiting for your approval. You chew up the bite, the flavors exploding in your mouth. Alucard’s smile increases when you leave a satisfied groan and nod your head. He places the bowl on your lap, allowing you to occasionally feed him as you two chat with Sypha.

Some children from the village spot you sitting in there and rush towards the bench. As expected, they were quite excited about the baby on the way, always competing between them to touch your bump and feel their new “sibling”. After all those little ones passed through, you were happy to see them play around. You see in their faces, the future of that community like flowers blooming after a long winter.

“mother, mother!”

A little girl grabs the hem of your silky dress, trying to get you attention and climb up to your lap, followed by other three kids who fight for their places. Noticing the mess they could make, Alucard grabs the bowl you hold and tries to calm down the hectic little ones.

“Woah, woah, calm down, Delia, Elek. Let your mother breath.”

He adverts the two sassiest ones with his firm wet warm tone, gently pulling them away as they chitter.

“But father Alucard, I want to feel the baby!”

They argue and you can’t resist to their pouty faces, sensitized by your mood changes you intervene into Alucard’s rebuke, accepting their little excited hands to touch your bump. Your husband doesn’t protest back, he knows how stubborn you are and how these children love you, but as you allow Delia to climb up onto your lap, he can’t help but feel apprehensive the girl would make too much pressure over your belly. You can see the disappointed expression in her face as she roams her palm around your stomach but isn’t able to feel nothing.

“The baby is sleeping now.”

You whisper, tilting up her little chin and smiling pacifically. Alucard admires your ability to calm down these children, always so patient and warm. Delia seems to understand the situation and climbs down from your lap, turning to her little friends and communicating the state of your baby. Still, the kids wouldn’t give up and keep fighting for your attention. Alucard knows that gently pushing them away wouldn’t do much good and gives up, so he lets it be. Sypha, noticing your discomfort calls one the children’s name and says:

“why don’t you take little Simon to play around a little, Delia? Hey, but don’t allow him to eat any frog!”

She adverts as the little girl gives up on pesting you and quickly takes your nephew’s hand, guiding him off from Sypha’s lap.

“nor any cricket or moth!”

“Alright, aunt Sypha!”

The small group of children leaves the four adults alone, in a mass of giggling and screaming mess. You can breathe finally, laying your head over Alucard’s shoulder and watching them move away, secretly hoping your baby takes after you and your husband, and doesn’t come to be so hectic like their future peers. Chatting with your friends about your adventures and about parenthood, most of the conversations end up with mocking Trevor. You guys are really taking advantage of his intoxicated state to make fun of him. The weather is pleasant and the crackling fire sounds relax you.

You hate it, but a snort leaves your throat when one of the children approach again, rushing towards Alucard this time at least. The little boy has in his face the expression of the messenger of a king, and speaks while panting, leaving Alucard slightly worried. You fear something bad has happened, as well.

“father Alucard, Greta wants to talk to you.”

The request was not urgent or a life or death case, but the woman’s name has sent you some discomfort into your heart. It’s not like you hate Greta: she is not as close as Sypha is to you, but she is still a friend and you recognize the importance she has to the community, yet you can’t help but feel insecure whenever she is around. Even though it’s been two years since you and Adrian are together, even though you are pregnant with his child.

The blonde man places a quick kiss on your cheek, swearing he will come back as soon as possible and stands up, guided by the child towards the house Greta awaits for him. You observe him adjusting the collar of his shirt as he approaches, and you see Greta come out through the door. Even from meters afar, you notice and admit how gorgeous she looks in that traditional dress, her dark hair and bronze skin glowing under the moonlight, and the wind seems to bring her perfume to you. Almost if it was teasing your jealousness and provoking your feelings.

The leader greets Alucard with a tight hug and in this moment your heart slightly sinks. Ruminating about their possible conversation topic, you convince yourself she is just thanking him for the support he offered during these two years, and not complimenting his beautiful amber eyes or his soft blonde locks you combed yourself. She drags him to inside the small house, followed by other two villagers.

Your fists close, you start to bounce your leg in anxiety and Sypha who is much an observer, places her hand gently on yours and leans in, looking at you with tenderness:

“Y/N, calm down. He is going to talk to the elder ones. You have nothing to worry about. Greta isn’t stealing your man.”

She speaks in a laid-back tone, softly caressing your hand. You turn to face your friend but you can’t contain the concerned expression. Sypha chuckles a bit, not mocking at you, but finding your feeling extremely valid. You protest:

“I-I am not jealous, Sypha. I just---“

You can’t find better words to describe your feeling, so you just give in to Sypha’s moral lesson.

“You are jealous, Y/N. I can tell it by the pout in your face. But you know what? That’s completely understandable, dear friend. You are going through a lot of changes all over your body, it’s pretty normal.”

She leans in a little more and whispers in tone of secret:

“when I was pregnant, i argued with Trevor about anything. Even ale itself made me feel jealous of him”

Your friend takes your hand once again and continues:

“what you need to know, is that Alucard loves you no matter what. It wasn’t Greta who held him every night when his nightmares tormented him. It wasn’t Greta who took care of him at his lowest, my dear. Adrian loves you and he doesn't hide it"

You know Sypha meant every word, but why did you feel like Alucard would eventually get tired of you? Why did you think Greta would charm him with her strong sense of leadership and athletic phisique? You try to focus on something else ignoring the burning jealousy increasing and consuming your brain and on Sypha's trying to cheer you up.

You finally see Alucard step out from the cabin he entered with the leader of the village, his beautiful face beams with happiness as he chats something unhearable. Greta pulls him closer to where other young women beautifully dressed in those tradicional patterns organize themselves to start the dancing, he is probably greeting them.

The young men start playing the instruments, and the ladies dance in the rhythm. Seeing your husband idly moving his shoulders, you expect for the worst to happen. Greta takes him by his hand and starts teaching him how to move smoothly like the dancers, twirling around and expecting him to do the same. Adrian doesn't give a single glance at where you are sitting, he seems to be hypnotized by the moment.

You stand up and feel Sypha's tight grip on your wrist. You look down at her as she asks softly:

"Where are you going"

"I need to pee"

You force a smile and even if it was your intention, Sypha knew you were distancing for other motive. But she doesn't intervene, though. She just releases your wrist and focus on Trevor who seems to be in an alcoholic catalepsy by her side.

You walk towards the latrine behind the village, holding up the hem of dress so it wouldn't get stuck in the ivies underneath. Leaning against the wooden thin wall of the cabine, you feel an increasing heat take over your face and thick tears drop down from your eyes. The music of the festival sounds distant, but you can hear the people's laughing and cheering.

The crickets and night birds seem to be the only spectators of your breakdown until you hear a hoarse, unfamiliar voice approaching you.

"Why are you crying, beautiful lady?"

You pull up your head from the wall, turning to where the voice comes. The light of a torch reveals the silhouette of a man who limps towards you, speaking in an alcohol intoxicated voice.

"A beautiful lady like you shouldn't be here, all alone. Did you know the nightcreatures are still around?"

He laughs in a mischevious tone, spitting on the ground. Getting closer and closer, he sees your face and his eyes widen up, a smirk forms again in his face:

"Are you the dhampir's wife?"

You've never seen that man at the village, he has been here due to the festival, you guess. You gulp, shortly nodding your head:

"Y-yes, mister."

The man stays in silence for a while, his eyes roaming through your body like he he was chosing a piece of meat until they linger on your belly.

"You are pregnant! You are carrying that evil's seed! Your husband's race only brought disgrace to this land. This thing you carry in your womb is cursed, it has a cursed blood just like it's genitor. You are nothing but catter for that demon to spread his offspring"

Your heart sinks at the tone he speaks to you, his intoxicated breath stinging in your nose as he approaches. You can't move, your body freezes as he says:

"I will put an end on it"

He completes with a sly grin, spitting on the ground again:

"And insert mine inside this pretty belly of yours"

You try to run, but the man grabs you by your middle and starts to run his filthy hands across your cleavage. Where is Alucard? You stood with him during this thundery years and when you need him most, he is entertaining himself with Greta. You fear for your child as the man's fingers press deeper against your skin.

"If you screm, it's gonna be worse. They can't hear you"

The man whispers and all you can do is whimper.

All the while, Sypha watches the movement of people, the colors of the dancers' dresses twirling and the instruments sounds echoing to inside the forest. It's been 5 minutes and you didn't came back. She fears leaving you alone was a bad idea.

Her attention turns to Alucard who after chatting with the villagers and receiving their grateful compliments, happily heads to the bench eager to reunite with you. His face drastically changes noticing only Sypha (and a dozing off Trevor) are in there.

"Where is Y/N?"

He asks the woman, a concerned expression in his face, and he could see a slight frown or worry in Sypha's forehead, but she didn't want to alarm him by mentioning her concern.

"She went to the latrines minutes ago"

For a while, Alucard feels a little upset with your friend. She shouldn't have let you go on your own. He stays in silence for a while, deciding if he should go after you.

Your vision gets foggy by the tears, and you can't tell if the music stopped or you are just falling out of consciousness by the terror, but as the sounds of instruments finally fade completly, you scream in agony, hoping someone can hear you plead. Hoping Alucard could hear your plead.

Alucard's pupils shrink as he hears your recognizable voice and before Sypha could even ask him if he heard that too, he desappears in a figure darker than night, smoothly directing itself to where the sound of you came from. Sypha rushes after him, already closing her fists, ready to use her powers.

The drunken man slides his hand down to your womb, roughly pressing his thumbs onto your skin. You groan, tears falling down your cheeks. He is going to take the life of your so expected puiuţ.

The trees and people speed distorted as Alucard in his fog shape rushes in your rescue. His heart is filled with an unnatural rage, something he never felt before as he sees that filthy bastard hurting his beloved. Something similar to what his father might felt.

The dhampir materializes in front of the man, pushing him with anger against the stone wall of a house, the bastard couldn't even tell what was going on until he feels Alucard's piercering eyes, red as flames staring into his and his sharp fangs so close to his neck as he hisses like a serpent.

He was about to take his life when a sharp disc of ice cuts the bastard's skin. Alucard swiftly looks back and sees Sypha rushing towards you as you fall on your knees, sobbing. His attention then turns back to the man who feels the dhampir's fangs almost touching his throat.

"I am not marking this date so important for the villagers with your filthy blood. But get to know: if you touch my wife once again, i open your abdomen and wrap your guts around a tree with you alive."

This words doesn't seem to be spoken by your sweet Alucard. For a while, it feels like his father's anger for human kind took his mind and manifested phisically using his body.

He releases the drunk who limps florest inside and his eyes shift back to it's beautiful amber pigmentation, now filled with tears as he sees you broken on the ground attached to Sypha's shoulder, sobbing in shock.

"Shh... it's everything alright now, Y/N. He is gone"

Your friend rubs your back soothingly and helps you to stand up, but your arm never leaves hers until Alucard approaches, stretching his arms open to embrace you.

"Y/N! I am so sorry. I've failed you"

"H-he tried to kill our puiuţ..."

You whine and he rests his chin on top of your head, holding you tighter. He couldn't save his mother years ago, he couldn't save his father from his own madness. If he lost you to such an avoidable way, he couldn't forgive himself.

Sypha's heart sinks seeing her two friends in such a broken state. She hugs you both tightly and recomforts you, guiding you back to the festival.

No one of you including Trevor who was sleeping to the lullaby of alcohol had mood to continue in the village that night, going home was the only option. Your friends would sleep in the castle.

You didn't exchange a word way back to home until you silently opened the doors of your chambers and slowly slipped off from your dress. In the oval mirror, you could spot the two marks caused by the agressor's hands. A lump forms in your throat again, it's been q while since you don't feel your child, you fear the worst happened.

Alucard cames in, wrapping his arms around you though he hesitated for a while. He kisses your cheek and kneals down in front of you, pressing his ear against your belly.

"Can you hear it? The heartbeat... can you still hear anything?"

You speak, trying your best to not to cry being so aprehensive about his answer. He lingers a little, shifting his position and lowing down his breath.

"I can hear it."

He looks up at you, a sigh of relieve leaves your body.

"Our puiuţ is safe."

Alucard stands up after placing a kiss on your belly and wraps his arms around you, wiping away your relieved tears. You hug him tightly, sobs muffled by his chest and his tears fall over your hair as well.

"That was my fault"

You silently climb onto bed after calming down from the overwhelming night you had, and after minutes, he finally breaks the silence.

"It was my fault. If you or our baby got hurt, it would be my fault"

You didn't want to rub salt into the wound though you knew the incident was directly linked to the fact Alucard left you. Placing a hand on his shoulder, you listen to his apologize.

"I should have known you would be pissed off with me because of Greta, but it was not my intention. Forgive me, darling. I promise i will never leave your side ever again"

He turns to face you with those droopy amber eyes, tears tangled between his long eyelashes and he blinks for them to follow their flow. You cup Alucard's cheek and gives him a ressuring smile. You couldn't be mad at him.

"Accepted"

Seeing Alucard have another breakdown was the last thing you wanted to see. He wraps his arms around you, hand resting on your belly like a shield as you sleep in a deep slumber, lulled by the wind knocking on the window.

[patrochillesvibes]

Hey so i remember coming across a post which says that TSOA's patroclus is not too different from the og illiad one. Is that true?/genq

First, I want my readers to go read Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. When you’re done, come back to this post and read under the cut.

Great! Now having read over 350 pages of a pedophile who lusts after prepubescent girls and tries to explain how his love of them was pure and consensual, I’m assuming you now understand the concept of an unreliable narrator. If you don’t and believe Humbert Humbert at face value, consider killing yourself. The world doesn’t need anymore pedophile apologists.

For the rest of you still alive, keep reading.

Point 1

Patroclus is, at his core, an unreliable narrator.

How do we know this?

The ending scene is Thetis visiting Patroclus and asking him to share memories of her son, Achilles. Being a goddess, she cannot visit her son in the Underworld. She only has his memory to comfort her in his grief over his death. Patroclus, is one of the last people alive she can share memories with.

Thus, the actual book, The Song of Achilles itself, is Patroclus sharing his memories with Thetis.

Now, consider a loved one of yours who has passed away. Got a person in mind? Great. Now I want you to think about them. And also consider the last time you exchanged memories about them. Mostly good memories came to mind, right? Perhaps you skipped over their flaws or reworked them in your grieving mind as having been not so bad? Many cultures have superstitions and cultural/religious practices about being nice to the dead, so I’m not surprised that you only thought of good things.

(But honestly, a loved one doesn't need to be dead for people to wear rose colored glasses and miss red flags and excuse bad behavior etc. It's called bias, sweeties.)

My point? Patroclus told Thetis mainly good things about her son including even embellishing a little. It’s in our grieving nature to do this.

This is why you can’t trust Patroclus.

Patroclus, for a variety of speculative reasons that I don’t want to get into here, will tell you he is ugly, weak, stupid, and a poor soldier. He will tell you he was always respectful of women and didn’t believe in war. He will paint himself as innocent of war crimes. And he will do all of this looking you directly in the eye.

You cannot trust this self-image.

Patroclus has very little screen time in the Iliad itself. We get even less insight into his internal thoughts and motivations.

Because TSoA Patroclus is unreliable at best and we know very little about Iliad Patroclus, it is unfair to say there are exclusively two separate characters and incompatible. It is unfair and even ignorant (from lack of anything below a surface reading of the text) to say that TSoA Patroclus is “out of character.”

Point 2

I have a second point as to why I think TSoA Patroclus and Iliad Patroclus can be read as the same. The majority of Antis hate Patroclus because “MM made him a women.” Here’s a collage I made of quotes from some of the Antis.

Now, why on earth is Pataroclus considered a woman? Or in some cases a related degrading term, twink?

Let’s see...

He wants to be a doctor instead of a soldier.

He is anti-war.

He is soft and emotional about his love for Achilles, even deigning to cry.

All thing are more associated with female characters.

Why? Toxic Masculinity.

It is not masculine to cry. It is not masculine to deeply love your partner. It is not masculine to want to not fight in a war. It is not masculine to have low self-esteem and lack confidence. These things are all unnatural and abnormal for a MAN™ to feel, especially soldiers.

So when you read The Song of Achilles and your takeaway is “Patroclus is a twink” or "Patroclus is a woman/Achilles' wife/Achilles' bitch," you are reinforcing gender stereotypes and gender roles. Nice work 👍

I pity people who have this sexist take on men.

Side Comment

Many patrochilles fans see the main patrochilles works (The Iliad, TsoA, Hades Game) as interconnected. TSoA is the story of the life of Patroclus and Achilles before the war. The Iliad follows and specifically tells the tale of the 9th year of the war. Hades Game picks up after their deaths.

But at the end of the day, your Patroclus hc is whatever you want it to be. You also don't have to like any of the patrochilles media out there. I myself FUCKING LOATH The Iliad. But please don't bring your racist and toxic takes into your defense. If you don't like a thing, just say 'I don't like it' full stop and move on.

[extraneousdominomask]

What I did on my summer vacation

As you've no doubt gathered by now, for the last two years I've been playing various old games with my wife. I often used to post about that adventure here, and then I kinda stopped. I feel bad about that, especially when it comes to the two excellent, free indie games I had fully intended to spotlight. So here's a quick rundown!

Celeste, OJONMRAG, Double Cross

Three great indies I got in the same bundle. Celeste needs no introduction, and I've spoken about it before. I don't know if I ever mentioned Oh Jeez Oh No My Rabbits Are Gone!!!, but it's a fun puzzle game with cute visuals and surprisingly catchy music. And speaking of those two things, Double Cross is a hidden gem of a game. We really enjoyed its eclectic cast, and still sometimes quote the zany catgirl in particular. ("All cats are tyrants, Zahra.")

Manic Miners

Lego Rock Raiders was a toy line in the 1990s, which earned its own video game tie-in. I remember it fondly... as did one absolute hero, who remastered the dang thing as a non-profit passion project. Manic Miners is available via Itch for free - because it's a fan game! He had to ask very nicely to do this at all! - and it completely revitalizes what was an engaging but flawed fuzzy memory from my childhood. As well as adding several quality of life improvements to make the game flow better, cut content is restored and entirely new features are added in, such as a character creator. If you want an accessible game that can provide the sweet, sweet satisfaction of collecting every scrap of resources from a initially messy environment, I highly recommend this.

inFamous 2: Festival of Blood

An important thing to know about me is that I hate vampires. I don't like 'em and I don't like looking at 'em, so I usually avoid and and all vampiric media, even if they're getting slaughtered. For that reason, despite loving inFamous 2, I never checked out its DLC side-adventure Festival of Blood... until now. (Making a new purchase on the PS3 digital store was hard, but not impossible. Thanks for complaining every time they try to shut it down, everybody!) It's a short experience, but a lot of fun, thanks to the wise decision to let Zeke narrate the whole bullshit stor- I mean, thrilling tale of true heroism. I found Bloody Mary to be an entertainingly nasty villain, despite my biases.

Psychonauts 2

Psychonauts is one of the video games ever, no question. Expectations were lofty for its much-delayed sequel. If anything, I think I prefer this one! The core (the gameplay, visuals, hilarious writing, and Peter McConnell's consistently excellent music) all remain unchanged, with new mechanics, some quality of life improvements, and an impressive voice cast all added on top. Jack Black and Elijah Wood are both in this game, and they're both great!

Pokémon White

this one kinda sucked ngl

Halo: Combat Evolved

Mostly, I'm showing my wife a game and not the other way around. There was one major franchise that I had almost entirely missed, however - aside from a few free-form skirmishes at parties - that she fondly remembers. This summer, we both experienced the first Halo together, and in short: yeah, I can see why this changed the course of the industry singlehandedly. It still feels great to play, even with my wife assuring me that the sequel is a big improvement from these already solid bones. I frankly don't relish slaughtering the fleeing, crying Grunts, since we as a society have moved on considerably when it comes to the rights of funny little guys. But it feels great to shoot aleins and Cortana is my friend. Exactly as advertised.

Jak II: Renegade

this one definitely sucked, holy shit. I remember this being a good game. I remembered incorrectly.

Shantae (2002)

I've played two of the more recent Shantae games, and I found them charming. But how does the original hold up? Pretty well, honestly! It's far from perfect - the day and night cycle really adds nothing beyond referencing Castlevania - but the music and visuals are truly impressive for the original GameBoy. I'm gonna be thinking about Shantae's cute little 8-bit dances for a while.

Undertale Yellow

Like anyone who listens to a lot of Toby Fox's music over YouTube, I've seen my fair share of dubious OCs and "epic fights" floating at the corner of my vision. With that in mind, I went into UY with managed expectations, despite the positive buzz. Could a fangame really match the unique energy and charm of one of the greatest independent games of our generation?

Uh... yeah! I'm as surprised as anyone else, but everything from the music to the gameplay to the writing was really bang-on. It's not a flawless experience - the El Bailador fight needed reworking, it was WAY harder than other, more impactful fights - but the eight years of passion very much shine through. If you're a fan of UT/DR and need something to tide you over as we all wait for Chapters 3+, I fully recommend this. It's free!!!!

Spyro the Dragon (1998)

Finished this just yesterday! I got the remaster when it came out, but - no offense - nothing beats the blocky low-poly charm of the original. This was my first time replaying it in several years, and for the first time, it felt small. Levels I remember struggling with posed no challenge any more. But I think that only speaks to how many times I replayed this lovely little adventure. Also, did you know that of the, like, four voice actors in this game, one of them is Clancy goddamn Brown? He plays like 30 of these polygonal dragons!

...I would normally try to end a post this long on a more climactic note, but, uh... yeah.

[ratralsis]

Clocks winding down

A lot of people know this quote from Terry Pratchett's book "Reaper Man." It's the 11th novel in the Discworld series.

“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.”

But I prefer this one, from the 14th novel, "Lords and Ladies."

“Then she wound up the clock. Witches didn’t have much use for clocks, but she kept it for the tick… well, mainly for the tick. It made a place seem lived in. It had belonged to her mother, who’d wound it up every day. It hadn’t come as a surprise to her when her mother died, firstly because Esme Weatherwax was a witch and witches have an insight into the future and secondly because she was already pretty experienced in medicine and knew the signs. So she’d had a chance to prepare herself, and hadn’t cried at all until the day afterward, when the clock stopped right in the middle of the funeral lunch. She’d dropped a tray of ham rolls and then had to go and sit by herself in the privy for a while, so that no one would see.”

It's fair to say that Pratchett was fond of remaking a point he'd made in an earlier novel if he thought he could do it better the next time around. A podcast I found recently, The Death of Podcasts, covers a Discworld book per episode and has a section where they count up cliches like "X happens to other people" and Pratchett's overuse of the adverb "gingerly." Pratchett wasn't a perfect writer, but he still wrote some of the best stuff around.

I needed to take some time to write out my thoughts when my cat Tina died in June. I'd had her in my life for over eighteen years, and it's not something I expect to ever fully be over. But there's work to be done, and I can't be having with spending time mourning a cat when the rest of the world insists on continuing.

At the end of every month, I had to order more cat food online, because Tina had kidney problems and needed a special diet to keep her going. Her kidneys are probably what killed her, based on the description I got from the vet who checked on her the morning before her death who told me that they could be felt through her skin and seemed like raisins. I always made sure to order enough so that I could have two months' worth when the new cans arrived. That way, if I couldn't order more one month for any reason, it would be alright.

The food came in boxes of 48, meaning I had to buy 24 days' worth at a time. When Tina died, I had 73 days' worth of food for her left. Two months and change.

Max could eat that food, too. So he did, at half the rate, because Tina wasn't there to help him. This meant that I had 146 days where Max was eating Tina's food. And that means that Tina's food ran out on October 29.

Now Max is probably happier with the food he gets. Now he gets to eat only his own special food, instead of the mix of his and Tina's that he'd been getting for the last fifteen months, since he went on his special food after his surgery last August. I talked to my vet about it before I started feeding him Tina's special kidney diet, don't worry. I talk to my vet about a lot of things. I spend a lot of money there, so they're generally very patient with me.

But as for me? I feel like the clock has wound down. The ripple has died away. It's one more way that Tina is gone from my life, even if I could cling to that little reminder of her for four and a half months after she was physically gone. And I did cry a little bit when that clock stopped ticking.

I still get little notifications on my phone reminding me of photos I took of her over the years, but because most of them are based on "Look back one year ago today" or something similar, I know that those, too, will taper off eventually. Life moves on. Memories fade. In much the same way that I don't talk about the cats I had before I adopted Tina, I'll someday stop talking about her, too.

Max just turned 15 years old last month. He's in good health. His teeth have some tartar on them, but they aren't decayed, and his gums are fine. He's a little chubby, but his vet tells me that it's better than being underweight at his age. He climbs and runs in circles to chase a laser pointer dot. The fact that he is anywhere from 76 to 83 in cat years, depending on which chart you check, clearly doesn't bother him any.

But the fact remains that he is very old. Tina made it to eighteen years and five months. She was at least 89 in cat years. I'll be surprised if Max makes it that long, but obviously I'd be grateful if he did. I have no interest in adopting another cat while Max is alive, and I think I'll need some time to get used to life without him before I go adopting another once he isn't.

This was a long weekend, partly because I didn't have anywhere to go and partly because of the time change making it one hour longer than every other weekend of the year. I've been thinking about this a lot, is my point, as I work on my novel and play video games.

[djhinnwe]

I really like this answer.

Personally, I really took the whole "circle of life" from The Lion King really seriously as a kid. ("We borrow from our children" also hit home the first time I heard the quote)

OP, you are absolutely not deranged for asking. Your fears are valid and common, especially if you have no one to talk to about it. But on this particular fear, I'd encourage you to explore it. When I was around your age, I ended up studying different beliefs around death and the kind of afterlife various cultures had. I still find out new things now. I found it helped, but I also know that dealing with death and grief is hugely personal, so it might not.

Does your family deal with grief the same way? Shove it down and pretend it didn't happen? Sometimes, often plays a huge influence on how children deal.

I don't know if hearing others' stories will help, but I have a few stories of my own experiences under the cut.

I learned about death fairly young as well, in the form of a cat named Whiskers. I think I was 7/8 when she disappeared (presumably eaten by coyotes or an owl).

The next one I remember is my riding lesson coach when I was 12. She drowned when her DD of the night drank without telling anyone and careened off the road into the lake (it would be another 20yrs before the province finally installed barriers. Pretty sure I lost at least 2 more people to the lake in that time). That one still affects me to this day as she and her barn was my safe space and the rest of my childhood felt safe only for 2 weeks a year after my parents found the right riding camp for me (which took a few years).

After that, it was my grandad (dad's dad), but while I mourned him, I didn't really know him. I can't find his obituary. Nor can I find my nana's obituary, who passed at the start of the pandemic (I like to imagine she thought "one pandemic was enough" in deciding to die a month before her 100th, my last cat thought the same and passed around the same time).

Most recently, I learned my childhood neighbour, an old Serb named Dan with a love of life passed last year. I have been looking for his obituary on and off for years as the last time I saw him, he was developing alzheimers and his wife was already deep into it. I remember Betty crying because she hadn't felt at home in the apartment they had moved into until I showed up for a surprise visit. I'd come home to visit and found out they moved, so I made my mom hunt them down so I could visit. I'm glad it was the last gift I could give to Betty. But back to Dan, his obituary hit me hard. I sobbed for 2hrs last night after reading it and I feel guilty that I don't have connections to their kids because I would have loved to have attended both of their funerals. But then the only funeral I've ever attended of a relative has been my biological grandmother's who passed last month, so... it tracks.

Anyway, Dan was insistent on giving my family his photographs, and my parents gave me most of them... They were a gift then and hold special memories that I can reflect on now.

He taught me lessons about life that helped shape some of my core beliefs. One of which there is beauty in everything. Even death.

I have many other stories about people I've loved who past. These are simply the ones I happened to think of in the moment.

this may come off very blunt and out of the blue, but i need an answer and i can't ask anyone i know, so i apologise profusely if you find this derogatory in any way possible.

i'm 14 and i found out what death means when i was 3 and living with my grandparents. i figured that when someone dies, you can't see them anymore. you can't talk to them, you can't laugh with them. they aren't there anymore. and i cried. i cried so hard i vomited.

ever since i've struggled to think about death and what lies beyond. i'm scared. of growing up, of dying, of seeing people around me die. and i don't know what to do.

i know this will likely get lost among the hundreds of thousands of asks in you inbox, but if by fate you read this, please tell me

how does it feel when someone you know dies?

hank you, and i apologise once again if this is disrespectful. i know it's a pretty deranged thing to ask, especially to a well-known writer who has gone through life. i'm sorry if this brings up sad memories, but i need an answer.

all the best to you and everyone around you, mr neil.

Mostly it feels terrible. It even feels terrible when it’s someone who has been in a lot of pain for a long time or has not really been there for a long time and you know that Death has in some ways been a blessing: suddenly you are mourning the whole person.

It doesn’t get easier as you age. It gets stranger. The point where you realise how many people you used to know and like who aren’t there any longer, and you cannot talk to them or see them or laugh with them is painful in a way that I had never expected. The first time that someone you had a romantic relationship with dies and you realise that there had been moments both of you shared and now you are the sole custodian of those moments and one day you will be gone and they will be lost forever is peculiarly strange and hard.

But there is a comfort. And it’s the realisation that you aren’t alone in any of this. Everybody who lives will die. And we are here and doing things because other people died to make room for us, and we in our turn will die to make room for our children and their children and on and on.

[noisycowboyglitter]

Funny He Him Daddy: How to Develop Your Dad Joke Repertoire

"Funny He/Him Daddy": A Lighthearted Celebration of Gender Expression and Parental Love

In a world that is increasingly embracing diverse gender identities and expressions, the concept of the "Funny He/Him Daddy" has emerged as a heartwarming and playful celebration of individuality and parental love.

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This endearing phrase, often seen adorning t-shirts, mugs, or other quirky accessories, serves as a delightful acknowledgment of a parent who identifies with masculine pronouns (he/him) while also embracing the lighthearted and nurturing role of "Daddy." It's a testament to the fact that traditional gender norms need not define one's capacity for affection, playfulness, and the joyful responsibilities of parenthood.

The "Funny He/Him Daddy" celebrates the recognition that gender identity and parental identity are not mutually exclusive, but rather, can coexist in a seamless and meaningful way. It's a rallying cry for inclusivity, a reminder that love and family can take on countless forms, each equally valid and worthy of celebration.

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Whether worn with pride or gifted to a cherished parental figure, the "Funny He/Him Daddy" embodies the spirit of embracing one's authentic self, while fostering a deeper appreciation for the diverse tapestry of human experience.

"Daddy Lover Valentine Quote": A Passionate Celebration of Unconditional Love and Devotion

In the realm of Valentine's Day, the "Daddy Lover Valentine Quote" stands as a heartfelt and unapologetic declaration of unwavering affection and commitment. This sentiment, often expressed through thoughtfully crafted cards, mugs, or other personalized gifts, is a testament to the depth of a partner's devotion and the unbreakable bond they share.

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Far more than just a simple phrase, the "Daddy Lover Valentine Quote" embodies the essence of a relationship built on trust, respect, and the profound understanding that transcends the boundaries of traditional gender roles. It's a celebration of the unique and irreplaceable connection that has blossomed between two individuals, a love that knows no bounds and embraces the very core of their beings.

Whether whispered tenderly or displayed proudly, the "Daddy Lover Valentine Quote" becomes a cherished symbol of the timeless power of unconditional love, a reminder that true intimacy lies in the unwavering dedication to one another's happiness and well-being.

Valentine's Day: A Celebration of Love, Connection, and the Power of Affection

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Each year, the arrival of Valentine's Day ushers in a season of romance, where the world embraces the timeless spirit of love and connection. This annual celebration serves as a poignant reminder of the enduring importance of cherishing our relationships, whether with a significant other, family, or close friends. It's a day to celebrate the power of affection, create lasting memories, and strengthen the ties that bind us together.

[holyhead-hufflepuff]

oh, to be in love

LOVE INTEREST X READER

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.” ― Alfred Tennyson

notes: the way that I teared up reading love quotes to pick for this lol. anyway shoutout to anyone who can make you feel this way bc they deserve it

"I love you." The words rang in your ears and settled in the warmest, softest part of your body and soul. It was the feeling of riding rollercoasters and having your body anticipate the first drop but still be shocked by the thrill of it happening. It's only three words. The phrase had been spoken to you — around you— for 20 years, but hearing it with your body pressed against theirs meant something more. You'd read a million romances and watched thousands of hopeless pairings find their way to each other. You'd closed your eyes a hundred times and imagined a future with the 'perfect' someone. All of it was sweet and romantic, but this was better. 

You'd fallen for others in the past, taken part in one-sided sob stories more times than you'd like to admit, and ached for love. You've run to catch falling stars and been willing to touch the sun's core for people other than them. That was infatuation, but this was love. 

The feeling of being in love with them is unexplainable in words. It's closing your eyes when songs that remind you of them comes on, and then, you play a film of memories of them. It's watching a movie a hundred times before but getting excited for the big reveal because they've never gotten to experience it. It's the shivers you get when you step out of a warm house on a cold, dewy morning. Being in love with them is living the same way you have for 20 years, but now you cry at love songs because you relate to them. An anthology of experiences was the closest you could get; even then, something wasn't there. 

Up close and in the warmth of home, the two of you are mundane and far from sappy rom-com couples and their grand gestures. It's being too lazy to make yourself food, so they make it for you. Your relationship is knowing they need time to themselves and giving them space, even though it makes you pout a little. It's 'have fun at work, honey' kisses, saving the last spoonful of ice cream, stealing glances at them when driving, and nagging them playfully. The best part is when you are against them, and when you look up to stare at them lovingly, they're already staring down at you. 

Being in love with them was being in love with your best friend. 

[yourfriendlyneighbourhoodweeb]

If you guys haven’t heard, technoblade or Alex has passed away

I wasn’t his fan from the very beginning but in covid, around one and a half year ago, I started watching minecraft and the dream smp

Techno already became my favourite

Over a year ago he posted a video titles “where I’ve been”

Technoblade usually didn’t really upload and us the fans made that an inside joke but when we heard what happened, we were shattered to our cores

Technoblade has been suffering from cancer in his right hand for over a year, in the video he had told us about how he found about his cancer

Hearing the news, many minecraft players put up a purple ribbon on their skin, I don’t play minecraft so I just put that in my usernames, it stands for cancer treatment

Then he made another update video, telling us how he’s going for physical therapy

After that he also made a vr video, said that he woukd continue the series, in the video he sound3d so much better, like his health was getting much better

Did we speak too soon?

Today in my area, at 10 o��clock morning I opened my iPad to see if stranger things’ new episodes have been released

When I suddenly saw a notification from techno, I got super excited that maybe he’s gotten better

But then

My heart sank

Shattered into too many pieces to count

As I read the title

“So long nerds”

I immediately clicked on it, forgetting about stranger things.

We were met by techno’s dad and his dog floof.

He told us that technoblade had passed away. At 10 o’clock in the morning, I felt hot steamy salty tears run down my cheeks as I gripped my iPad, hoping it was all a sick joke

That randomly we would hear techno saying “TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIESSS” or “CANCER, IF YOU WISH TO DEFEAT ME, TRAIN FOR ANOTHER 800 YEARSSS” but that never happened

Techno had left a last message for us fans

His real name was Alex, which he greatly trolled us with “Dave”, he wanted us to live long and happy lives

And he told us something we never had heard from him, but we always knew that in our hearts

“I love you guys”

His dad’s voice cracked and he also cried

Telling us about how much techno was struggling to write these words for us.

I and millions of fans, his loved ones, family, friends all miss him dearly

He was an inspiration for millions of kids in the world.

For me, his humour stood above all, he himself for me stood above all

I always had his potato war series in my downloads, cause I knew that if I was ever really sad then his videos will definitely make me laugh when no body else can

I don’t have words to describe how I feel

My condolences goes to his family and friends, who lost him as Alex

We lost him as a legend, a god, an awesome human being, and as technoblade

Maybe only Alex has left us, technoblade will always be remembered in our hearts, he will always be part of our good memories, where I would stay up till 2 just to watch his streams because of different time zones

And now I’m here crying, literally sobbing as I write this, I haven’t been feelings very well but today when I heard about what happened, I sobbed hard.

I remember feeling so excited when I would always hear “startin the streammmm”, it brought me joy and comfort which I am really realising today.

I’m sure many others have too

“Blood for the blood god”

“If you wish to defeat me, train for another 300 years”

“Damce potato boy, DANCEE”

“I dropped out of college because minecraft was the only thing I had the intellectual capacity for”

“Welcome home thesuius”

“My chats is bullying me”

He truly didn’t deserve to go

At age 23, he had so much to live for

But even in those years, he made the best of them

I will never forget you king

Your iconic moments and quotes are forever drilled into our hearts

We love you too

Rest in peace king

Rest easy

o7

🎗💜

Fuck cancer!

“Technoblade never dies”

Technoblade truly will never die

[billowypantss]

i promise you i will NEVER get over the revenge of the sith novelization... the quotes simply live in my head constantly. rent free. i mean just look

“and here, and now, despite it all, Obi-Wan still loved him” i——

“Obi-Wan looked at the best friend he had ever had...” i tell you, nothing has destroyed me more than this quote. nothing. i think about it all the time. i’ll just be at work or in class and i’ll think of it and start dying. the best friend he had ever had... just thrown in there... so casually... so hurtfully.... it was just a fact of obi-wan’s life...

“And Obi-Wan would help—you know he would—if only you could figure out how to ask” When i first read this i threw my phone across the room (thanks to the fine work going on over at Apple HQ, my phone survived) BECAUSE HE WAS GOING TO ASK HIM ANAKIN WAS GOING TO ASK HIM HE

“you do. you love him too.” Honestly the whole scene gets me (see: “and i was happy to. because it made him happy. you made him happy, when nothing else really could”) but just the simplicity of those two statements.... “you do. you love him too.” the way it grounds the story—because up until then, it’s all so complicated and tumultous and frantic and everythings falling apart and you want to scream and cry and you’re holding your breath, wishing, hoping that maybe anakin won’t fall this time, maybe it’ll all be okay—and then just. “you do. you love him too.” and it just halts everything. at least for a moment. (and then it’s “please just do what you can to help him” and it starts up all over again)

“...and [Obi-Wan] was proud to be Anakin Skywalker’s best friend” the thing that absolutely rips my heart out about this one is that this line is placed right after a list of everything people consider important about Obi-Wan—everything integral to who he is at his core. the most significant aspects of the man to the outside world: he is the negotiator who hates negotiating, the warrior who hates war, etc (all interesting and poetic contradictions about his character but not my point). and yet, the last thing listed, the thing most important to obi-wan about obi-wan—the thing that he believes makes him HIM—is about being anakin skywalker’s best friend. that’s how he defines himself. i just

note: these are all quoted from memory i don’t have the exact quotes in front of me atm so if i messed up some wording: from the bottom of my heart, my bad

tl;dr: i hate u matthew stover

[ginnyweasleymybeloved]

summer breezes / george weasley

hi crew :) idk why i wrote this but i was in a george mood so here we go ;)

summary: george acts like he hates you, he doesn’t really hate you. you act like you hate him, but you don’t really hate him. chaos ensues.

slight neville x reader for a second

word count: 6.9k

warnings: swearing, george being mean, lil angsty, fluffy at the end, reader’s house is not specified <3, mentions of food, kissing

let me know what you think ;)

“And what do you expect me to do? By the time I’d even realised I was falling I’d already landed face first on the proverbial concrete,” you groaned out in exasperation, while your best friend looked at you with so much distaste that anyone would’ve thought you’d murdered his family pet.

He shook his head, a scowl as clear as day splashed across his lips as he reprimanded you for your heart’s foolishness, “Of all people…” he scoffed in disgust, “Honestly, Y/n.”

“You know, you shouting at me isn’t going to fix anything,” he rolled his eyes at your statement and racked his eyes over your disheveled state. You’d obviously been battling with yourself over your—unfortunate—crush for some time. As your best friend, Ron Weasley knew he’d have to soften up on you eventually, but honestly, it was your own fault for falling for one of his disastrous siblings.

You were currently sprawled out on Harry’s bed, across from the red-headed boy you’d known since you were in nappies, your arms hanging off the edges of Harry’s four-poster. Neither you or Ron had a clue where Harry, or Hermione, had disappeared off to today. Harry was probably on the quidditch pitch practicing while Hermione haunted the library, you supposed as you listened to Ron’s rantings, wishing they’d been there to mediate.

“—of all of my siblings too! You couldn’t have picked, oh I don’t know, Charlie? Or Fred even? Merlin, even Ginny! But no! You just had to go and bloody fall for the only Weasley who actively cannot stand you.” You only caught that portion of his rave, having gotten lost in the idea of being coddled sympathetically by Harry or Hermione. You adore Ron, really, he’s your loyalist and longest friend, but Merlin was he a total drama queen.

“Charlie is five years older than me, Fred is my wingman and honestly, I snogged him on a dare last summer and I wasn’t that impressed and in case you’ve forgotten, Ronald, Ginny is dating Harry,” you lectured, ignoring how he rolled his eyes as you continued, “Also I’m well aware that he hates me. You don’t need to keep reminding me.”

His composure cracked after hearing your depressed mumble, and with a sigh he moved from his spot on his own bed and made the short trip over to Harry’s. Ron gently pulled you into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress and sat himself down next to you. He let out a heavy sigh, still slightly shaking his head—he couldn’t seem to stop—, then he dropped a heavy arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side, finally offering you the comfort you’d been seeking out in the first place.

“S’alright, Y/n. Maybe he’ll get hit in the head with a bludger and forget he’s hated you since he was four.” Ron encouraged, very weakly.

You released a sigh of your own at that, “I feel like I’m betraying myself here. Like I’m letting that stupid git win.” Ron couldn’t stop the laugh he let out at your grumble.

“I’ll be honest, I thought he’d be the first to crack. You can be quite scary when you get going.” Ron divulged, shuddering at the memories of when he’d been on the receiving end of your rath.

Your family and the Weasley family had been extremely close since before you or Ron were even born, which meant you’d grown up alongside all of the Weasley children. Of course, because of your ages you and Ron had been attached at the hip as infants and remained that way even now, late into your fifth year of Hogwarts. Most of the Weasley children simply adored you, as you did them. However, there was one boy who, for whatever reason, hated you to your very core and as far as you could remember; he always had.

He is none other than the younger of the two twins; George Weasley. Despite the fact that Fred was actually quite fond of you, his twin refused to warm up to you in any way, shape or form. No, the tall and annoyingly attractive boy had made it his life’s mission not to get along with you, but instead, wage a war on you that spanned for the entirety of your childhood and adolescence.

“When did things change? When did it stop being a challenge? When did it start affecting me like this? I used to take his insults like a champ! I used to get him back worse!” You wondered out loud, letting your head flop onto Ron’s broad shoulder as he let out a puff of air through his nose.

“You still take it like a champ, numpty,” he chastised you gently, recoiling ever so slightly when you lurched forward in complete defeat. Your hands shot up to cover your face as you rested your forehead against your knees.

“No! I don’t,” you murmured dejectly, lifting your face from your hands to make eye contact with Ron. “Do you remember the other night in the Great Hall? When Neville told me he thought my hair looked pretty? And George, out of bloody nowhere, comes over and says and I quote, ‘I wouldn’t waste your time on this one, Longbottom. You’d have a better time kissing that toad of yours.’ Do you remember that?” Ron raised an eyebrow and nodded in confusion, your voice seemed to be steadily rising in octaves as you recalled the events of the other night. He had to admit, it had been an unusually unnecessary comment on George’s part, but the youngest Weasley boy wasn’t really sure where you were going with it.

“Well do you remember how I had said, ‘how’s that girlfriend of yours, Georgie? Figured out a way to make her stop being invisible yet?’ and then remember I rushed off? Do you wanna know where I rushed off to?” You pressed, watching intently as Ron nodded his head, unsure if he even wanted to know. “I went to the bathroom and I cried! I cried, Ron! Over something George bloody Weasley said to me!”

His eyes widened at that. Never once had George ever managed to properly upset you.

“And over something as small as that? I’ve heard him say a lot worse to your face.” Ron said in disbelief and you nodded, expression mimicking his as if you couldn’t believe it yourself.

“Right? And it’s like everytime he says something mean to me now my stomach drops and it actually hurts,” Ron regarded you softly, his eyes sad while he rubbed your back as you buried your face in your hands yet again, “Do you know what’s worse though?”

Ron opened his mouth to hazard a guess but no sound escaped as he drew nothing but blanks.

“I actually care what he thinks of me now. As if I actually value his idiotic opinions of me.”

It was at that moment that Harry entered the room sporting muddy quidditch gear and a confused expression, “May I ask why we’re having a heart to heart on my bed?”

Ron shrugged, continuing to rub soothing circles into your back as he told Harry mournfully, “Y/n likes George.”

“Merlin.” Harry whispered, as horrified to learn of your crush as Ron had been. “But, Y/n, he hates you! I mean he really hates you-“ the chosen one was cut off by a pillow making contact with his face. Ron had chucked it at him the second he felt your form begin to shake beneath his touch.

“Bloody hell, Harry! You’ve gone and upset her even more!” He whispered harshly. Harry quickly set his broom down and plopped himself down beside you, leaving you trapped between himself and Ron. The green-eyed boy rested his cheek against your lightly shaking back and managed to snake his arms around your torso.

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.” He told you genuinely. “Should we go and find Hermione?”

You only shook your head. Embarrassment quickly overtook you as you realised your were crying in front of your two best friends over George fucking Weasley.

“No. No, I’m okay. It’s fine,” you sat up and hastily wiped your tears away.

“It’s okay to be upset, Y/n,” Harry spoke softly, squeezing your middle in a short hug, getting mud from his quidditch practice all over you.

With a resolute shake of your head you stood up and faced the boys, who each looked at you with pity filled eyes, then you spoke as steadily as you could, “I’m not upset. He hasn’t upset me,” you weren’t fooling anyone, really. Your eyes were bloodshot, your cheeks and nose were red and your voice was slightly hoarse when you spoke. The boys entertained you anyway, nodding in agreement.

“I’m telling you this as his brother and your best mate; you can do better.” Ron told you honestly, he wasn’t lying either, you were the type of girl who could get any boy she wanted without lifting a finger. Well, not any boy—obviously— but that wasn’t anything to do with you. Ron had his suspicions in regards to why his brother acted like such a knob towards you, however he’d been thrown off his scent recently when the older ginger stopped being mean to you teasingly in favour of being just plain mean.

You gave Ron the best smile you could muster at his words, “You are absolutely right, Ronald.”

Harry snorted before making his way over to Ron’s trunk, he rifled through it for a few seconds before pulling out one of Ron’s jumpers. He casually tossed, what you recognised to be Ron’s Christmas jumper from Molly, over to you with a grin, “Put that on. I got muck all over you.”

You had plenty of your own Christmas jumpers made by Molly Weasley but they were all the way over in your own dorm. Besides, you liked stealing the ones made for the boys as they were usually far too big for you which made them extremely comfortable to wear.

So you happily pulled the maroon jumper over your head, the wool effectively covering your dirtied t-shirt.

“Oh yes, by all means, you two just work away.” Ron grunted sarcastically. In all honesty, he didn’t care if you stole every piece of fabric he owned, if it made you feel better, he couldn’t care less.

“Right,” you said, making your way to the door of the dorm room, “I think I’ll go for a walk before the sunsets, calm myself down a bit.”

The boys nodded, “See you at dinner?” Ron asked and you gave him a smile and a small nod of confirmation before you set off out of the Gryffindor common room.

Thankfully, you didn’t run into George on your way out. You walked peacefully through the gardens and behind the greenhouses, it was around five in the evening and the sun was beginning to stoop low behind the tree line. The days were beginning to take on a chill as October approached quickly, you’d gone out without grabbing a jacket and you couldn’t deny that you were beginning to feel the cold nipping at your skin despite Ron’s jumper. Pulling the sleeves further down your wrists you carried on, trudging forward through the fallen leaves of the garden, you weren’t ready to go back inside yet. Going back to the castle meant you’d have to look your problem in the face, literally. You settled on the fact that you’d rather endure the physical cold rather than the emotional coldness you were sure to receive from George at dinner.

When you’d reached the back of the third greenhouse you could faintly hear someone humming to themselves and a soft smile found your lips when you saw who it was. Neville sat on a chair in the greenhouse, right by a plant that you hadn’t a clue what it was called, seemingly humming the little tune for the plant in question. Despite his undeniable clumsiness, there was something about Neville Longbottom that soothed you greatly. He has a good soul and his heart is usually in the right place, even if his head is sometimes screwed on slightly loose.

Gently, trying not to startle him you knocked on the closed door of the greenhouse before you opened it and walked in, “Hi, Neville. Mind if I join you?”

Neville blushed slightly but nodded his head, “Course! There’s a spare chair just there,” he pointed nervously to the chair. Once you settled yourself beside him, he let himself relax slightly.

“What sort of plant is this?” You asked him curiously. You really liked plants but you weren’t the best at keeping them alive, Neville though, seemed to be something of a green thumb.

He beamed at your question and quickly began to explain everything about the plant before you. You didn’t absorb a lot of it but listening to Neville speak so freely, something he rarely got to do amidst the other Gryffindor boys, filled you with a sense of serenity. Between his voice and the light wind that blew against the glass building, you’d completely forgotten about your red-headed problem.

“—sorry, I’m probably boring you. My nan says I have a tendency to ramble.” He cut himself off, cheeks heating up as he rubbed the back of his neck bashfully.

With a small giggle you only shook your head at the brown haired boy, “You’re not boring me at all! I quite like listening to you speak,” you admitted although you felt a bit silly after saying it out loud. Neville seemed to grow even more flustered after the words left your lips.

His eyes searched your face for any sign that you were teasing him, but all he saw was your kind eyes and comforting smile. Not exactly sure about what to say to you, Neville made an observation, “You’re cold.”

You gave him a nonchalant shrug, “I’m okay.”

Completely unsatisfied with your answer, Neville shook his head in protest and shrugged off his jacket. He was used to spending a lot of time in the garden so he was usually sporting far more layers than necessary, just in case. “Here, wear this. You’ll catch a cold otherwise,” he fretted and you didn’t have the heart to turn his offer down, you didn’t want to turn it down either, you were absolutely freezing. Gratefully you accepted the jacket and wasted no time in pulling it on.

“Thank you, Neville,” he looked you over for a moment, you could tell he was debating with himself on whether or not to speak, after a long few seconds of his eyes running over you he spoke.

“You look nice- I, uh, the jacket. You look nice in the jacket- I mean, the jacket looks nice on you-“ another giggle left your lips and effectively put the boy’s fumbled ramble to an end.

“Again, thank you, Neville. You are unbelievably kind.” You told him sincerely, quite enjoying the blush that adorned his cheeks.

“We should probably head back to the castle for dinner now. It’s gotten dark,” Neville said, standing up after giving his plant a loving pat.

The walk back to the castle with Neville was nice. The pair of you chatted idly about school subjects and house drama, but you had to admit, you weren’t paying a huge amount of attention to the conversation.

“Thanks again for lending me your jacket,” you said sweetly, shrugging the jacket off as you reached the main hall of the castle.

Neville, who seemed to be in a perpetual state of bashfulness, took the jacket back gently, a rosy blush painting his features, “It was no problem, really.”

Neville had always been incredibly kindhearted, sometimes to his own detriment. He treated people with respect and never turned anyone away if they needed help with anything at all. He is sweet, honest, loyal and, whether you liked him or not, he is indisputably adorable. And you found yourself thinking about how entirely better your life would be if your heart had chosen Neville to have a romantic fondness towards.

After separating from Neville, you made your way towards the Great Hall. On your way you bumped into Fred Weasley, who surprisingly, wasn’t accompanied by his twin. He greeted you with a wide smile and, as he always did, he ruffled your hair.

“So! I have a proposition for you,” the look on his face as he spoke was nothing short of wicked, a pit of nerves began to form in your stomach with the way his eyes were lit up excitedly.

“What are you proposing?” You encouraged exhaustedly. Whatever it was would probably end with you running from Filch.

Fred lopped his long arm around your shoulder, effectively pulling you along with him as he walked in the opposite direction of the Great Hall. Any chance of you getting fed this evening had gone out the window the second Fred clapped eyes on you, you’d made your peace with it. “I’m glad you asked, princess- “ at the sound of the pet name you let out a guttural groan.

“Freddie, please, I’m not in the mood to help you make some poor girl jealous just so you can get a snog,” you whined weakly only for the boy to ruffle your hair and tug you closer to his side.

“Let me finish! As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” he paused to glare at you jokingly and you smiled apologetically, “I have a plan to make George stop acting like a prat.”

A disbelieving scoff left your lips, “Yeah that’s likely,” Fred laughed and pinched your cheek lightly before carrying on.

“Angelina told me that she heard you crying in the girls toilets the other night,” he informed you. Your eyes widened in shock and confusion, you didn’t think anyone was in there with you and you also couldn’t piece together what your moment of weakness had to do with Fred’s master plan. “And before you start, I know it’s because of George.”

“That’s ridiculous, Fred.” You lied, unconvincingly.

Fred laughed again, it was a gentle laugh that let you know he hadn’t come here to tease you but to help you, “I know it’s ridiculous and that’s exactly why I know you’ve been so down in the dumps the last few days.”

“Besides,” he started again when you remained silent, “Why else would Ron be giving his brother the silent treatment?”

“What does any of this have to do with your plan?” You asked, eyes sad and heart heavy for the second time that day. You’d only just managed to get the whole thing out of your mind, and yet, here it was again.

“Well I happen to know why George acts the way he does,” you met him with a raised eyebrow and a bored expression.

“Because he hates me, I know.” Fred’s lips grew into a wicked grin and he shook his head, coming to a stop in the middle of the hallway.

“That’s where you’re wrong. He doesn’t hate you,” he lowered his lips to hover right by your ear before he whispered quietly, “He loves you.”

With a roll of your eyes, you pushed the boy away, fixing him with a hard stare, “Come on, Fred. That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking!” He exclaimed desperately, “We were in potions making amortentia, yeah? And Slughorn called George up to tell the class what he smelled and do you know what he said?” Fred retold madly, knowing full well that this was possibly the only opening he’d get to make the two of you realise your own feelings. Fred was well aware that you developed a crush on George, he picked up on it the second you began looking crestfallen when hit with a snide remark from his twin. He knew long before now that George had loving feelings towards you too, but their recent potions class was the only hard evidence he had to support his theory.

You shrugged helplessly in response, and Fred grabbed your shoulders and looked down at you urgently, “He said it smelled of cloudberries, daisies and-this is a direct quote-‘summer breezes’,” you stared at him numbly, not exactly sure what to say as the description did match the perfume you’d been wearing regularly since you were thirteen.

“That’s you, Y/n!” Fred confirmed and you pulled your lips between your teeth before shaking your head in complete denial.

“Lots of girls wear that perfume-“ Fred cut you off, ruthlessly.

“Name one.” You racked your brain but you genuinely couldn’t name another person who wore the same perfume as you. “You can’t, can you? Because it’s your smell!”

“Ok fine! So it’s my smell, what exactly do you expect me to do with this information?” Fred rolled his eyes in exhaustion at you.

“Blimey, you’re as daft as he is sometimes, do you know that?” Fred ran his hands down his face in exasperation before looking at you softly, “I except you to come with me so we can drive him mental for a bit and if he gets nasty I’ll embarrass him because I’m an incredible brother.”

You let him lead you towards Gryffindor Tower all while complaining about how you were starving only for Fred to hush you each time you let out a hungered whine, “We can raid the kitchen later on, love,” he promised and you sighed in defeat, “That’s the spirit.”

When the pair of you entered the Gryffindor common room, George was already there, probably waiting for Fred to return it. He sat one one of the sofas that faced the fire, completely relaxed and you hated the fact that you thought he looked amazingly ethereal with the way the flames from the fire lit his skin in an orange glow.

He hadn’t noticed you yet and Fred took notice of this. The older twin subtly slid his hand into yours and intertwined your fingers with his before turning his head and shooting you a mischievous wink. Fred Weasley was a nightmare, but when he was on your side, he never failed to make you smile.

Accepting that whatever Fred was about to drag you into would result in nothing but chaos you took a deep breath and followed Fred over to the sofa.

“What is she doing here?” George practically seethed, despite the intensity of his glare, you didn’t miss the nervous look he shot in Fred’s direction. What you had missed, though, was how harshly he’d clenched his jaw upon noticing your intertwined hands.

You decided that tonight you’d play the game slightly differently, if what Fred was saying was true, it would make things all the more entertaining. So, instead of your usual menacing glare and ego-shattering insult you met George with an innocent smile, “Was just hanging out with Freddie, thought I’d come say hello,” you said, sitting in the middle of the two twins.

George stared at you suspiciously, “Hello. That all?”

“Hi. No, actually, I think I’ll sit with you for a while. If that’s okay?” Fred was smirking from his spot beside you as he watched George’s face contort.

“You’ve never wanted to sit with me before.” He told you, squinting his eyes and trying to decipher what you were up to. He couldn’t lie to himself, he definitely wouldn’t mind you staying so close to him for a while, however he’d also sooner die then let you think you had the upper hand.

His and your composure cracked simultaneously at your next sentence, your truthful and somewhat vulnerable mumble of, “Well, you’ve never given me a chance to.” He knew you were right so he didn’t say anymore, opting to shift his gaze to the roaring fire, trying his best not to let his mind linger on the fact that you were wearing his brother’s jumper. His nose perked up at the scent that drifted from your spot, unusually close to him. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d fancied you for a long time, but, there was also no denying that he’d done a perfect job of making you hate him. Yet, as much as he wanted to just cut the crap, tell you that he thinks you’re the most insufferably beautiful girl he’d ever seen and kiss you and never ever stop, his pride would never allow him to cave. Especially not when you challenged him so effortlessly.

“So how come you were headed to dinner so late anyway?” Fred piqued up, growing tired of the lack of hostility between yourself and his twin.

“Oh. I was sort of worked up earlier so I decided to go for a walk ‘round the greenhouses. I bumped into Neville and I suppose I just lost track of time,” you explained halfheartedly.

Fred let yet another smirk overtake his face, “Longbottom, eh?” He wiggled his eyebrows and you let out a short giggle while shaking your head, sure, it would’ve been a good topic to tease George with, however, Neville was simply too sweet to be used as a pawn.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s very sweet. But he’s just a friend,” George looked almost satisfied with that answer, his usual scowl making an appearance once again.

“He could do better.” It was a barefaced lie. Neville couldn’t do better than you. In fact, George was of the firm belief that nobody could do better than you.

“Of course he could, he’s quite the charmer,” you spoke wistfully, finally giving Fred the show he’d been hoping for, as you egged George on.

George pretended to think for a moment, “I’m sure he is. Personally I think you’d be more suited to Filch, although, I’ve heard his standards are quite high.”

You took the boy by surprise when you laughed, the airy giggle left your mouth had such a profound effect on George that he almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut. His heart was leaping and there were butterflies beginning to form in his stomach, he physically had to will himself not to stare at you in awe when your eyes turned to meet his. The glow of the fire only aided in showing him how gorgeous those stupid eyes of yours are. “Mmm, yeah I suppose I should lower my expectations,” you paused briefly and mimicked George’s earlier motion of pretending to mull over your options. Your next action had Fred practically howling with laughter.

“You’re available, aren’t you Georgie?” You’d asked in a mock sultry tone, leaning towards him and lightly brushing your hand down his arm. Loving the way he choked on air you got up from the sofa, not before shooting him a wink, and sauntered towards the portrait hole, “I’ll be in the kitchens. See ya later, sexy.” You directed the last part at George, who looked as though he’d been frozen in time as Fred’s laughter grew in volume.

Upon entering the kitchen, the house elves had fussed around you, handing you food at any given opportunity. You had finished eating a while ago, you were currently nursing a hot cup of tea while chatting away to one of the house elves, only to be interrupted by someone else entering the kitchen.

He set his sights on you and quickly moved to the seat across from you, a look of urgency on his face that reminded you of Fred, “Whatever he told you. It’s not true,” you raised an eyebrow, sipping your tea uncaringly.

“Mind elaborating?” You asked tiredly.

“Fred.”

“Thank you, George, very clear and helpful,” you grumbled sarcastically and the boy let out a huff.

“You were acting different. You know something. What did he tell you?” George demanded through gritted teeth and you only deflated against your chair. It always boggled your mind how everyone described George as the nicer of the twins.

Not answering, you decided to start asking your own questions, “Can I ask you something?”

“Seems like you’re going to no matter what I say,” he sighed out as an elf pottered up to him and handed him a cup full of hot tea. He took it gently and thanked the elf with such sincerity that you wished you hadn’t seen the exchange, simply because it stung to know he’d never treat you with that level of sincerity.

“Why do you hate me so much?” He sat frozen for a second. Your tone of voice took him by surprise. It was needy bordering on desperate, nothing like he’d ever heard you speak before, not to him anyway.

George took a sip of his tea and shrugged as if the question was a stupid one, “I don’t.” A cold, humourless laugh came from you in response, the kind of laugh that made his stomach drop.

“Bollox. I’m being serious, George. Tell me what it is about me that makes me so insufferable to you!” You exclaimed, heart rate increasing and tone raising in octaves as you felt yourself growing more upset by his reserved expression.

George let out a heavy sigh, the jig was about to be up. You were upset and merlin was he tired of pretending that he didn’t want you in every way, shape and form.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.” There was no trace of hesitance or uncertainty in your voice, at this point you didn’t care what the answer was you just had to know.

“Fine,” he said all too casually and you knew by his tone that he, as per usual, wasn’t taking you seriously. “I don’t hate you. The only insufferable thing about you is how annoyingly gorgeous-“ you cut him off right then, with a scoff of pure disbelief.

Shaking your head rapidly, you stood from your chair and all but stormed out of the kitchen. His footsteps began to echoed behind you a few corridors later, he would’ve caught up to you sooner had your response to his would be confession not left him completely immobile. He called your name but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Tears stung your eyes and you absolutely refused to let him know that he’d managed to bring you to the point of tears. Not that it was the first time.

“Bloody hell, Y/n! Hold on would you?” He called, finally getting close enough to reach out and grab your wrist. He spun you around to face him and quickly placed his hands on your upper arms to stop you from doing another runner. When he took you in he swore he’d never hate himself more than he did the moment he looked at you to see your eyes filled with tears, small drops escaping and carving a trail down your cheeks while you sniffed miserably.

“What?” You snapped, hostility the only thing you felt like offering the ginger in the moment. His brown eyes bored into yours with so much intensity but they held something you didn’t recognise. They looked sad, almost.

“I wasn’t making fun of you.” He stated honestly but you furrowed your eyebrows, your eyes set in a glare.

“Then what were you doing?” You croaked, letting your tears fall freely as the damage was already done. The sinking of your stomach and the tightening of your chest didn’t do a thing to ease your mind as George’s hands squeezed your arms.

He licked his lips quickly, he felt they’d become unbearably dry, and then slowly, he let his hands trail down your arms and took your smaller hands into his own. He hoped you were feeling the same electricity he was when he touched you.

“I’ve been a prick to you. You didn’t deserve it and I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere, but you second guessed him. For all you knew it was just some elaborate prank, Fred was probably in on it too.

When your gaze didn’t soften, he continued to speak, “So I understand why you wouldn’t believe me when I tell you that I don’t hate you. But I just-“ he cut himself off with a heavy sigh.

“You just what?” You squeaked when his eyes spent a moment too long observing your lips. You hardly had time to register the feeling of his hands leaving yours before they were cupping your cheeks instead. “What’re you doing?” You wondered, completely dazed by the way he stared at you. His warm hands holding your face causing your stomach to jolt in an entirely different sensation than before. As much as you wanted to push him away and tell him to shove his apology, you couldn’t help but take him in. His lips were parted ever so slightly and his cheeks were flushed, probably from chasing you through the castle, his hair was disheveled and merlin he looked like he wanted to kiss you.

Your question floated in the air, completely unanswered. Next thing you knew his lips were on yours. He kissed you as if you were oxygen and he’d just been drowning and you couldn’t help but move your lips harmonically against his too. Your hands clutched his wrists as he continued to cradle your cheeks. In all honesty you weren’t sure at what point he’d backed you against the wall, or at what point his tongue had entered your mouth or when exactly his hands had migrated to your hips, yours now tangled in his hair. His body was pressed flush against yours and the small groans he’d let out when you tugged at his hair or ran your tongue against his made you realise that you couldn’t care less if this was one big prank or joke. It was happening and that’s all you cared about.

Even as he reluctantly pulled away, he chased your lips with several shorter kisses before separating entirely. He rested his forehead against yours, his guard completely down now as he admired your swollen lips and heaving chest. The feeling of your fingers in his hair made it nearly impossible for him to keep his lips detached from yours, “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve thought about doing that.”

Your eyes searched his face for any sign that he was lying, when you found none you finally let yourself smile. A similar smile formed on George’s face, “I meant what I said earlier. I really do think you’re annoyingly gorgeous,” the boy silently praised himself when you let out a cute giggle.

“You’re quite cute too. When you’re not running that massive mouth of yours,” you teased although you weren’t really joking, to your surprise George let out a bellowing laugh before placing a fluttering kiss against your lips.

When he pulled away again he looked around the hallway, as if he only now realised where he was. Luckily nobody was wandering the halls since curfew was fast approaching and the unwelcoming cold that occupied the hallways left little reason for students or staff to be out and about. George slid his hand into yours again, this time intertwining your fingers with his. He gave you a hopeful glance and asked, “Do you wanna go somewhere?”

You nodded your head and let him tug you into one of the abandoned astronomy classrooms on the upper floor of the castle, Filch rarely ever patrolled up there which is why George decided on it. As well as that, since the classroom, which had been out of use for a good few years, had been used for astronomy the ceiling was bewitched to reflect the night sky.

George hadn’t come to this particular class in a while but thinking on his feet he remembered the cupboard at the back of the classroom used to hold blankets, he remembered when the classroom had been in use during his first year, students would be all but freezing during the winter, so they’d stocked the classroom with blankets to be brought out during the colder months.

He made his way over to the cupboard and grinned happily when his hand landed on a rather large woollen blanket. The material was scratchy but it would do for what he needed it for. He grabbed one more blanket from the dusty press before he made his way back over to you.

George suppressed a chuckle as he watched you, your face completely turned up, watching the stars on the ceiling with awe in your eyes. He busied himself with laying the wool blanket out on the bare floor, the room was devoid of tables and chairs so he didn’t have to worry about finding a space. Once he was finished, he plopped down on the blanket and expectantly patted the empty space beside him, “Come on then, sit down,” he urged and you finally tore your eyes away from the charmed ceiling.

A small laugh left your lips when you settled yourself down beside him, he wasted no time in covering the pair of you in the second blanket. With an exaggerated sigh he laid back and waited for you to do the same, he turned on his side to face you when you did. In contrast to earlier, George had an air of nervousness about him as he deftly took your hand and began playing with your fingers, not meeting your eyes. “Just out of curiosity,” he began quietly, making eye contact with you now, “What exactly did Fred tell you?”

His question forced a somewhat smug smirk to crawl onto your lips and you couldn’t help but take the opportunity to tease him. You leaned up on your elbows and twisted slightly so you could look down at him, trying not to waste too much time admiring the view, you answered him, “Oh, nothing really. Your lovely twin just happened to mention that you had a very eventful potions class the other day…” you trailed off, biting back a smile as he groaned.

“Mhm and what was it that he said you smelled from the amortentia?” You poked his cheek and he closed his eyes, a tiny smile growing on his face despite his blushing cheeks. “Cloudberries…oh! And daisies, now, what was the other thing? Let me think-“ you pretended to ponder before George cut you off by pulling you down on him and pressing his lips to yours in a kiss much softer than any of the others.

“Summer breezes,” he whispered against your lips before connecting them again, “It smelled like you,” and with that his hand snaked to the nape of your neck as he pressed his lips against yours, pouring all of his feelings into it, hoping it was enough. In all honesty, now that he’d felt what it was like to love you, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to go back to pretending to hate you.

Once he pulled away you were completely breathless, however, George seemed to have more to say. “I don’t want us to go back to the way we were,” absentmindedly you brushed his hair out of his eyes, stroking the red strands soothingly as he continued to confide in you, his voice, face and body completely vulnerable to you. Something about him trusting you with his feelings reassured you that his intentions were pure and banished any notion you possessed of the whole thing being a joke, “I didn’t like it, acting like that but you were always so unbothered that I felt like I had keep one upping you,” he confessed.

“You always gave me this feeling in my stomach whenever you’d come over to the Burrow with your parents when we were little and I didn’t understand it. I just thought that it must’ve meant I didn’t like you…” George seemed to get lost in his own mind as he gazed at you regretfully, his fingers trailed the length of your spine sofly, “By the time I realised, we were both older and I suppose I just thought you couldn’t feel the same ‘cause I made you hate me,” you hummed in acknowledgment, your fingers still working his hair, keeping it out of his eyes that looked at you so intently that you could’ve drowned in them and died happy.

“But then the other night after dinner Angie slapped me upside the head and talked my ear off about how out of order I’d been—obviously I agree with her! You weren’t even talking to me but Neville was complimenting you and I don’t know… just got possessive,” he muttered the last part, losing some confidence but regained it upon seeing the little smile on your lips. “Then Ron looked about ready to push me off the astronomy tower when I saw him this evening. Blimey, I knew it had to have something to do with you since Harry was snippy too.” You had to laugh at the exhausted look on his face when he recalled your two best friends.

Mockingly, you gave him a stern look and clicked your tongue, “Well, perhaps if you weren’t so mean to me all of this could’ve been avoided,” George groaned once again, feeling guilty he pulled you even closer and buried his face in your neck.

“M’sorry,” you carded your fingers through his hair, pressing a soft kiss to his head. Your lips against his head caused him to lift his face from the crook of your neck, “Forgive me?” He asked, a cute pout on his lips.

“I’ll think about it,” you teased, giggling at the offended look on his face. George let out a dissatisfied sigh, he pushed a strand of hair behind your ear before giving you a toothy smile.

“Don’t worry, love. I plan on making it up to you.”

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath. 

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin. 

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades. 

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars. 

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong. 

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead. 

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close. 

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings. 

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you. 

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on. 

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her. 

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out. 

A man. 

Device. 

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer- 

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang. 

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t. 

Can’t. 

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision… 

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward. 

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold. 

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands. 

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist. 

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out. 

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it. 

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you. 

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...” 

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks. 

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin. 

Oh, you think, numb. Huh. 

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

[weiying-lanzhan-fics]

Cry me a river by dancing_with_demons

Super sweet! Enjoyed the story a lot ❤️

Quotes:

Mo-furen's face morphed into one of anger and confusion.

“If not my son then who?” she demanded, her voice shaking.

Lan Wangji turned to the corner where Mo Xuanyu was hidden. Mo Xuanyu's heart started beating faster as their eyes met.

“Him”, said Lan Wangji, nodding towards Mo Xuanyu, “I wish to bring him with me to Cloud Recesses to study cultivation.”

“Him?  Lan er-gongzi you must be joking! He’s a lunatic! A servant! How can he be a cultivator!?”

Mo-furen was screaming by the end of her tirade. It made Mo Xuanyu flinch. But Lan Wangji's expression didn’t change. He remained calm and unflinching to Mo-furen's outburst.

“Last night, while chasing the walking corpse, I came across the forest in the east side of the village and had the privilege of watching Mo gongzi fight a horde of walking corpse. His golden core is quiet strong and with the right guidance, he would surely become a great cultivator. That’s why I want to bring him to Gusu with me, to help him cultivate his golden core.”

————

It’s been 3 months since Wangji brought back Mo Xuanyu to Cloud Recesses for studies. At first, it had surprised everyone, including Lan Qiren. But as the days went by, they observed that Mo Xuanyu was really a talented young man. His sword forms, though a bit unorthodox, was good. He could hold his own and was a fast learner. Currently, he was picking up the GusuLan sword style pretty quickly which had left the junior class instructor stunned and happy. He was also pretty intelligent and had a thirst for knowledge. When not practicing sword forms or attending classes with other disciples, one could find him in the Library Pavilion, devouring book after book. He also tormented Lan Qiren with his endless questions, which, Lan Qiren wouldn’t admit out loud, was endearing to him. The most surprising thing of it all was his golden core. It was strong, stronger than any average cultivator, let alone someone who wasn’t a cultivator himself. When asked how his core grew this strong, Mo Xuanyu gave an embarrassed smile and said his mother had told him to meditate a lot in order to develop his golden core and since Mo-furen starved him a lot, he meditated in order to avoid the hunger pangs. Lan Qiren had gripped his teacup so hard that it had cracked.

NR (I would rate T), 18k

Summary:

Objectively, he knew he wasn’t meant for the finer things in life. He was a servant. Servants weren’t meant for finer things.

So he knew when he'd first laid his eyes on Lan Wangji that the other man was practically untouchable for him.

...

Or, the one where Wei Ying loses his early childhood memories due to severe illness and is adopted by the Mo family when he's very young. Ten years later, Mo Xuanyu meets Lan Wangji and falls in love with him. Lan Wangji who is already betrothed to Wei Ying.

[loneberry]

panta rhei

I did start to tear up, in the sound bath, on the full moon. I had seen the great wave slowly folding over everyone I love, melting their flesh as it does when time becomes an acidic solution that dissolves the skin. The water keeps swelling mindlessly as it strips my loved ones of everything but the bones. With the backwash the heaving liquid withdraws its cold malice. It was the same wave that Bernard proudly pitched himself against at the end of Woolf’s The Waves. The vision faded and my attention turned quickly to a sensation of pain radiating from my lower back. It was not a kundalini bolt of energy shooting up through my core. No. It was simply my agitated sciatica.

*

Again, I see the wave of time, as I am walking by the sea at sunset, thoughts drifting from the light limned pile of beached seaweed, the coronation of the kelp, I think, what a strange coiled sentience. Again, the Pacific sand crabs perform their synchronized dance with the ebb and flow of the sea, it is the inconspicuous mysticism of the swash zone, that moving border between land and water. A seagull plucks a sand crab and swallows it. A dog runs into the sunset. Nearby a Rastafarian is waking from a nap, with both hands he holds his guitar in front of him as he slowly rises. Kites of all kinds are flying high in the sky: two birds, a jellyfish, and a shark. The woman emerging from the sea appears mythic, like a goddess that parts the spume while a low mist drifts across the surface of the water. Another dips her feet in the water, turns back, her white dress blowing in the wind. I smile to myself as I catch another trying to photograph the antennae of the sand crabs and the patterned dance of light refracted by the ripples. How happy everyone looks, except a little girl with a sourpuss face, but upon closer scrutiny, that sulky mood may be partly feigned, for she seems to be playing a game with herself, running up to the water, then shrieking when it catches her feet. Two children are dragging boogie boards behind them. How many potent memories are being formed in the minds of children at precisely this second? Will they dream, decades from now, of that soft golden sun over Venice Beach, the buckets of sand and salty hair?

Closeup of the sand crab feelers

All the faces, how beautiful they look to me. Then in my mind God is turning the dial of time, all the people on the beach fade into non-being, there’s just the constancy of the sea, when all of us are gone, and we will be gone, one day, the waves will keep rolling in, until they don’t. For a second, we’ve all died, and I’m an angel floating above it all. I cry thinking about that day, when all who are on the beach are dead. But we were here. On this gentle day, this day that will always have been, we lived this sun to the last drop, then turned, and trundled toward the night.

The mood of the sea changes at twilight. The water seems somehow heavier. I remember the dream from this morning, all being flowing toward the sea, here we will all end, in the place that does not end. I woke with my mind saturated with the infinity of the sea. As I’m walking with my feet in the water, I remember, not long after C’s suicide, visiting her mother in Ashfield, MA. The mother was drunk and beset with grief. Between stories of her dead child, the tears would come on in waves. She told me a story about how, when C was 6 or so, they were flying together on an airplane. C looked out the window, at the river far below, and said “all flows toward the ocean.” In that moment her mother knew she had a child of staggering intelligence. Did C know that little bits of her, too, would flow from the French King Bridge, down the Connecticut River, to the Long Island Sound estuary, where her dematerialized being would meet the Atlantic Ocean?

A quote from Paul Bowles’s Sheltering Sky, a book I read over a decade ago, comes on my headphones. It's a sound clip from the Bertolucci film adaptation, which appears at the beginning of the Ryuichi Sakamoto song "fullmoon."

“Because we don’t know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless.” ― Paul Bowles

I remember my strange dreams of the moon, which keep recurring lately: the orange harvest moon, the hyperreal moon, the moon whose surface radiates a mystery hidden in its craters, the obscure chiaroscuro of the dream, its nooks and crannies. The moon grows to eclipse the sun, then shrinks suddenly—I had the feeling I had to catch everything before it disappeared. The moon winks. Will other’s believe I saw the moon of expanded dimensions? It may be an optical illusion, some mysterious alignment of Earth, moon, and sun. It may be a simulation of the moon, lasers from Disney World that paint the night sky. Now the moon is a xeroxed picture of a moon, cut out and pasted on a black canvas. I’m unsettled by the universe’s sudden disorder, the wild instability of the cosmos, which mocks me like a shapeshifting trickster who appears on a peyote trip, mischievously guiding me through the kaleidoscopic confusion.

How many times will you watch the moon flicker in a dream?

[tarithenurse]

To the point - 1

Pairing: au!Satoru Gojō x fem!reader Content: Incorrect tattoo talk, smut (fem receiving, praise kink, slight pain kink, more), no proofing. A/N: See? I told you I was really writing it – enjoy some Gojō!au tattoo artist.

1. To the Point

You had done your research before finally settling on an idea for the design of the tattoo and the placing on your body. Then the problem had been the choice of studio which inevitable brought you to ”Gojo’s Prick” – a name that put you off to the point that it only was because of the good reviews that you went in at all. And to make it worse, the guy wore sunglasses indoors! You had always preferred to see people in the eyes. Still, you explained the idea simply to see how he would react to it.

Good thing you did.

Half an hour later, the silver-blond Satoru Gojō had turned your clumsy sketch into a masterpiece. And the man himself? Charming, witty, intelligent. Sure, he didn’t sell himself short but honestly the self-confidence was well-earned.

That night, you’d dreamt of him and you woke with a dissatisfying emptiness soaking your panties.

Cold, hard logic was the only thing that kept your urges at bay the next few days. “It’ll never happen”, was a recurring thought along with “I don’t know him! I can’t just -!”

...

Considering your state of mind since the last meeting, you feel rather proud that you haven’t blushed or forgotten to answer Gojō due to a mental short-circuiting. It also helps that his assistant (a practically minded girl) is the one to help placing the trace for the tattoo around your left thigh. As you settle into the chair with a leg resting in a sort of cradle, she makes sure everything is ready.

As long as she’s here, I’ll be fine.

“Go’!” The assistant pokes her head into the backroom to speak with her boss and you can’t hear much of what they say, but the meaning becomes clear as she bids you goodbye with a wave, grabs her purse, and leaves the studio (barely pausing to turn the Open/Closed sign on the way).

Of course...fuck. Breathing deeply, you try to steady the pounding of your heart but the attempt is thwarted the instant Gojō appears, pulling the curtain to the little room shut and taking his place next to you. He already has explained to you once how it works, but he begins to do so again just to be refresh your memory. Probably. You wouldn’t know. Honestly, you don’t even really listen – not to the words and their meanings, at least, but just his voice. The man could recite Shakespeare, he could quote the ingredients list on a shampoo...and it would be magic. There’s a playful drawl to his voice that makes your heart beat faster. As if cradled by the summer sun but the heat is made bearable by the ocean’s cool, you bask in the lilts and purrs this man dishes out as he calmly pulls on nitrile gloves before grabbing the tool of his trade.

Somehow, you manage to swallow the gulp when his hands come to rest on your thigh, and as the needles dig break through your skin, the hiss is minimal. It hurts. It hurts differently than you imagined, almost like a deep itch or the satisfying pain from picking at a wound. But more intense and deliciously contrasted by the warm hand cradling your thigh. Gojō’s fingertips dig slightly into the inside of your left leg, still gentle and so close to your crotch that your thoughts are brought back to the daydreams you’ve tried so hard to suppress.

“It’ll be more sensitive when I get to the inside,” Gojō purrs, “so just tell me if you need a break.”

It takes you a moment too long to realize what he’s talking about. Even longer before you can nod and force out something resembling an assurance that you're fine. And, oh boy, you are fine even (or especially) with your clit softly aching.

Pausing for just a moment, Gojō scrutinizes you over the rim of his glasses. Oh. His eyes are like brilliant cut aquamarines framed by snowy lashes. Now heat is rising in your face as well, cheeks burning as you try to avoid the gaze and the growing smirk.

“I’ve no doubt you’re fine -” the instrument bites into your thigh, but his thumb circles distractingly along the flesh nearby -“but I’d like to make sure you’re doing better than that.”

“Please,” you gasp.

And he does. Never losing his attention to the work itself, Gojō smooths away any sting with tender strokes, little kisses or kitten licks, or praises.

“You’re taking it so well.”

His words make your breath hitch. Or maybe it’s the sweet pain on your inner thigh? The artist has repositioned himself more than once, and right now he’s sitting between your legs with the free elbow resting on your hip (wrist weighing down on your mound less than a centimetre from where you need the pressure), allowing his fingers to dig into the most sensitive part of your thigh. Every vibration from Gojō’s tool echoes through both of your bodies and into your core as a faintly whispered promise.

“Just a little bit more,” he spurs you on.

You know he’s right. Saving this part for last, the outline is nearly complete and he’ll start filling in the tattoo at the next session. A pout forms unbidden on your lips, immediately detected by the crystalline gaze.

The first stroke is so subtle, you almost think you imagined it until you notice Gojō’s smirk. Then he does it again: fingers (hand) curled to ensure he can trace the wet line of your folds through your panties. It makes you whimper, silently begging for more.

“Seems like you might be ready then,” he purrs, “and you’ve been such a good girl, you deserve a treat.”

“Ple-ease?” Dizzy with want, you know you’ll do anything at this point.

Pain and pleasure mingles into an eternity that ends too soon. You’re barely coherent as he wraps and tapes your thigh to shield the tattoo, long hands cradling and stroking your thigh more than what would be appropriate under normal circumstances – but of course you don’t object even as fingers stray upwards, slipping under your panties.

“You’ve done so well, princess.”

Gojō’s head dips, lips pushing against the more-than-damp fabric to place a kiss on your clit. One of his thumbs strokes through your folds repeatedly, ending each drifting motion upwards with an added pressure to where his lips still linger.

“Please, Go-ojō,” you mewl.

“Begging so prettily...” he breathes against your skin, “tell me what you want.”

Words don’t come easily. The best you can do is to lift your hips towards him, simply asking for more. More.

And he gives it to you.

Slipping your panties down and off, the artist gets to work on you with an intensity that has you keening and gasping his name. His tongue spells out promises over the entrance that you are too dizzy with need to decipher but somehow still understand.

“That’s it,” Gojō kisses the praise onto your clit, “come on...come for me.”

Finger slip inside and your core, feeding the pulsing constrictions as he finds the right spot and the combination with his hungry lapping and sucking on your clit is too much. Free falling into blissful ecstasy, you’re hardly aware how he uses an arm to pin your pelvis down – all you know is how his repeated caresses keeps you floating longer than ever as you gasp for air, each breath used to moan or cry out his name.

“So perfect.” His kisses have moved to your hips. “Good girl.” You whimper as he withdraw his fingers, watching him through a haze as he licks them clean. “If you’re just as sweet next time -” a last kiss to your pussy sends shivers through your body -”then you’ll get even more. Okay?”

Of course you agree. You’ll always be good for Gojō.